Work Text:
Greg doesn’t handle silence well so when he reports in to Mycroft about Sherlock’s whereabouts he hopes the black car takes him anywhere else to meet the man but his luck is unfounded. The Diogenes Club looms above him and he silently makes his way downstairs to Mycroft’s office, ignoring the other men in the club just as well as they ignore him.
“Ah, Greg,” Mycroft calls out without looking away from his laptop. Greg doesn’t try to catch a view of the screen. There’s no telling what confidential information is there and Greg has no love of Mycroft’s “sessions” on keeping confidentiality. He still has nightmares from the last time.
“We’re still looking, all of us,” Greg says. Mycroft just nods.
“Have you searched in all the usual places?”
“Parliament Hill, Camden Lock and Dagmar Court, those are the only ones I know.”
“Five known bolt holes,” Mycroft adds. “There’s the blind greenhouse in Kew Gardens and the leaning tomb in Hampstead Cemetery.”
“Right,” Greg nods and starts to head out when Mycroft shoos him away.
Right, he thinks. I may be a lowly DI but it’s not like this man is actually king of the world. He hesitates going out the door.
“Mycroft…” The continuous typing stops for a moment, before continuing. Greg has yet to turn around.
Sometimes the man’s uncaring face is too much for the DI to handle without going into a bit of a strop.
“About last night,” Greg starts but is interrupted.
“I thought we agreed last night would never happen again and in return you would never speak of it. Shall we renegotiate?”
Greg huffed in irritation. This man, he’s insufferable. And yet, Greg never did seem able to put him away in the box Mycroft was determined to stay in.
Greg turns around and heads back to the desk. Mycroft stops typing this time and heaves a great sigh, sure to show how put-upon he finds Greg’s confrontation.
“Greg, my brother is missing, wounded, and most likely bleeding internally,” Mycroft starts. “I have countries to monitor, an apparent shooter to find, and Great Britain to run in the meantime.”
“No, I know,” Greg says, raising his hands. “But a little…notice wouldn’t go amiss. You could at least…at least look at me!”
Mycroft gives him a look and Greg hates those looks.
“My dear,” Mycroft says and then stops himself. Greg perks up a bit at the endearment, so little spoken.
“You know my work takes from that which I cannot afford to freely or often give. We discussed this. The only time I’ve ever even been to your work was before we became truly acquainted because my brother overdosed. I’m not a…personable man.”
Mycroft looked uncomfortable even saying all this, and Greg knows he isn’t used to talking about…anything outside of work but he encourages it all the same.
“When this is all over,” Greg ignores another look, “when the crisis with your brother and his shooter is over, maybe we can…”
Mycroft stares and then stands and walks around the desk, eyes never leaving Greg’s. His hands go to adjust Greg’s jacket, then smooth down the planes of his chest. Greg almost stops breathing; he knows Mycroft doesn’t indulge in intimacy, especially not during work hours.
“Maybe we can.”