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He ran through the airport, not caring who or what he ran into. Greg Lestrade needed this vacation, badly. Too much work, too much Sherlock.
He hadn’t been able to afford much more than Italy for a couple days, but it was as good as it got, Greg was aware of that. With a coppers pay, this was more than generous.
The woman waiting at the gate nodded at him, took his boarding pass, let him on, and he was relieved. As he sat down in the too small airplane seat, he let his head fall backwards, and awoke only to the sound of other passengers getting off the plane.
Having not yet checked into the hotel, not yet the time, he had only put his bags there for safekeeping, and then went for a stroll through the streets of Italy. In shorts, a t-shirt, and sunglasses, he looked very much like your average tourist, but he knew that the silver hair and charming smile turned more than a few heads. Even in his fifties, he still was damningly attractive.
But he didn’t need a bedwarmer, a lover, a temporary satisfaction. He didn’t need anything besides some free time, strolling about, not chasing killers or being insulted by Sherlock.
He looked into the shops, handmade goods, food, everything the heart could desire could be found. As he wandered into a tea shop, he thought he had truly struck gold. But as he looked at the tins, and then smelled an Earl Grey-blend, he felt … Uneasy. Uncomfortable. Sad.
This was what Mycroft Holmes, the elder Holmes, always smelled of. Sophisticated, truly, with a lingering undertone, not that Greg still remembered.
Only that he did. He remembered the ginger, the way he felt against Greg when he was naked, the touch that set fire to him, or just by looking at him; that worked, too. He remembered his lips, so soft to the touch, and so demanding when he was in the mood, and Greg wanted to curl into a ball and scream.
He remembered holding the younger man, naked under the sheets, and Mycroft would curl into him and sigh, lay his head in the crook of Gregs neck, and their fingers would be intertwined as they lie and watch the sunrise.
Greg forced himself to forget, and with misty eyes he left the shop.
Greg felt more like himself when he got back to the hotel, smiling at the man sitting behind the desk. He looked flustered as he proceeded to check Greg into the room.
“Sorry, Mister Lestrade, looks like we’ve double-booked that room,” he sounded apologetic, but Greg couldn’t help but want to curse.
Silence fell as the man checked their database, only to look up with apologetic eyes.
“I’m sorry, sir, we have no other rooms available.”
Greg sighed as he asked who the other person he’d apparently be sharing a room with was. The man looked at the screen.
“A Mister Mycroft Holmes, it seems.”
Greg’s blood froze.
The elevator ride to the room seemed both too quick and too slow. Was Mycroft already there? Would he leave the second he saw Greg? They didn’t end on such good terms, Greg particularly remembered shouting at him “Were you always like this or did you have to practice being this much of an asshole?” after Mycroft had been, well, an asshole. He remembered his words leading to this: “I was just using you”. Mycroft had said that, look of ice on his face, and Greg had believed him, yet not wanted to at the same time.
But what did it matter?
It was over, and they would have to act like adults.
Mycroft sat, head in hands, on the double bed of the double-booked room. Anthea stood in front of him, phone in her hands.
“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” he asked her, and her lack of answer proved affirmative, “Get me out of here,” he pleaded.
This made her look up and answer.
“Not happening. You’ve been miserable and quite insufferable since you left him. You have to talk to him, and you’re not leaving until you do. I will make sure of it, believe me,” she threatened and Mycroft lifted his head to look at her.
“You do know that I’m your boss, don’t you?”
“My boss is the Majesty, and you do know that you love him, don’t you?”
The look the elder Holmes gave her made her exit the suite, but instead of her, a new face entered.
“Lestrade,” Mycroft stood up and nodded at the DI.
Greg’s breath hitched. Mycroft looked nothing like he used to. This version of him was gaunt, pale, thin, with bags under his eyes and sorrow in the lines of his face.
“Mycroft,” he whispered and suppressed the urge to take him and hold him.
Neither knew what to do from there, only that it was awkward, Mycroft looking at Greg and seeing perfection, Greg looking at Mycroft and seeing the love of his life.
Greg nodded and went to put his bag on the chair at the end of the room.
“How have you been?” Mycroft finally asked as Greg unpacked.
The air stood still as Greg slowly turned around and looked at the ginger, who still stood by the bed, not having moved an inch.
“How do you think I’ve been?”
This made Mycroft shut up, but Greg continued.
“My sister had to goddamn break into my apartment and throw away the sheets on my bed because I haven’t been able to sleep there since you left. I got the vacation days for this vacation because I overworked myself because nothing else made sense. I got black-out drunk too often, kissing strangers, pretending they were you. How do you think I’ve been?”
Mycroft stood perfectly still. Seconds passed, anger in the air like electricity.
“I don’t know how to love you,” Mycroft finally said, tried to move closer, but Greg took a step back.
“I’m not some toy you can just play with when you please, Holmes! I may love you, but I’m not going to come crawling back to you just to get hurt again!”
Mycroft fumbled with his fingers, looked into the warm eyes of the Detective Inspector.
“Greg, I hope you understand that I am not kidding. The part of me that is you will never die, and believe me, I have indeed tried to kill it. You seem to be embedded in me, and I cannot get rid of you. I long for you every day,” Mycroft whispered, “I do love you, and I am not playing with you, I assure you.”
This time, Greg stood still as his face changed from anger to a softer smile and walked, slowly, step for step, back to Mycroft til he stood in front of the man.
Mycroft stood deadly still as Greg lifted a hand to his cheek, and sighed with close eyes leaning into the touch.
“I don’t know if I can trust you,” Greg said.
Mycroft pulled back, but was held in place by Gregory’s hand taking his.
“But kiss me, and we’ll find out,” Greg finished.
Mycroft lifted both eyebrows, trying to deduce the sincerity of this request, but found no lie, no toying around as he moved closer to the great love of his life, and as they were mere centimetres apart, Greg crashed his lips into Mycroft’s, Mycroft revelling in the feeling of the warmth he’d longed for.
“You do love me?” Greg asked between kisses.
“Always have, always will,” Mycroft answered, his answer accepted as Greg heated up the kiss, leaning them down on the bed.
That night they made love twice, and Greg held Mycroft in his arms, caressing his arm, kissing his temple, watching the sunrise with the man he loved.
And they both knew right then that they’d always remember each other this way.