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They were both circumspect, quiet men--each in different ways. This was one of the things that drew them together. They knew how to express themselves succinctly--with an arched eyebrow, folded arms, raised chin, lowered chin, a widened stance, an umbrella tap, a barely noticeable grin. In short, they omitted needless words.
Mycroft chose his words carefully by absolute necessity. Each syllable that passed his lips was considered; precise; calculated to achieve a particular goal, to sway a dictator, to avert a crisis. And Greg was what used to be called the "strong, silent type." More Gregory Peck than Gary Cooper, perhaps, because he could give a rousing speech when he needed to. But more often he liked to nod and listen and offer an occasional "good work" or a pat on the shoulder when required.
Their union was unofficial, uncelebrated. Best to be discreet for safety's sake. They kept their furniture and books in separate flats, and rarely mentioned their partnership to the diplomatic corps or the Yarders. But anyone who saw Mycroft's eyes dance when he answered a call from the D.I., or watched Greg's grin and his quickening step as he walked towards a certain long black car knew the truth of it.
They'd been together for nearly four years before either of them decided it was time to say those words, that phrase.
Mycroft said it first, in a moment of fear, without planning or rehearsal. He didn't say it in bed, as prologue or epilogue to a night of passion, as he might have preferred. Instead, he was slightly disheveled, in a cream-coloured dressing gown, half-awake, standing in Lestrade's kitchen, watching him pick up his coat, keys, mobile, and stab vest, on the way out the door. The call had come at 3 a.m. The suspect was trapped with a hostage and a room full of explosives. They needed Lestrade to go in as negotiator.
"I love you," whispered Mycroft, holding tight to the kettle, not daring to cross the space between them for a kiss because that might seem like "goodbye," rather than "good luck."
Greg smiled. "See you for dinner. Angelo's, okay?"
A few days later, as Mycroft drove through London in the long black car, he realized Greg had never really responded to his declaration, such as it was. He knew that Greg felt the same, of course. Knew it in his bones, to say nothing of his heart. But he found himself thinking--to his surprise--that it might be nice to hear the sound of those words anyway. Unnecessary words, but still . . .Was that a sign of weakness? Was he reading too much Jane Austen on all those long flights? He put it out of his mind--mostly--as the car stopped in front of his offices.
And then it began.
As he handed Mycroft his briefcase, Carlos said, "He loves you, sir," tipped his hat, got in the car and drove away, beaming in the rearview mirror.
The concierge at the front desk of the building nodded as usual, then said crisply, "He loves you, Mr. Holmes."
In the lift the young man who delivered the newspapers to each office so promptly at half nine each morning, turned a distressing shade of pink and sputtered, "Um. He . . .he . . . l-, l-, loves y-you."
Anthea looked up from her BlackBerry to say, "He loves you," then improvised, "Very much, it seems."
For the rest of the day, Mycroft couldn't pass more than fifteen minutes without encountering another declaration.
Kittens popped up on his computer screen to sing a high-pitched, "He loves you, Mycroft" song. When he stepped across the street to the coffee shop late in the morning, the barista drew a frothy, milky white heart in the middle of his cappuccino and announced loudly, "He loves you!" The silly girl who delivered his lunch giggled uncontrollably before handing him a sandwich with o's and x's drawn all over the paper wrapper, squealing, "He loves you! That is so beyond adorable! You are so lucky! He totally loves you." As he walked through the park in the afternoon, an elderly woman feeding the ducks and swans stopped him. She searched her handbag and produced a sky blue linen pocket square, on which were embroidered--in tiny, red stitching--the words, "He Loves You."
There were three messages on his answering service when he returned to work.
1. John Watson. Sherlock screeching on the violin in the background. "Hi Mycroft. I . . . um, don't know if you've caught on to this yet--well, of course you probably have. Uh. I'm just supposed to call and say that he loves you. And yeah, the he--well, you probably know who that is. Not Sherlock. Of course. So it's . . ." Sherlock's voice carried over John's at this point. "Put down that phone, you idiot. I cannot believe you're actually doing that. It's the most childish . . ." Click.
2. Sally Donovan. "He loves you like mad, you tosser. Hope like hell you appreciate it."
3. Someone--perhaps his old friend Helen--who sounded a great deal like Her Majesty. "We are pleased to inform you that he loves you."
By the time he got home, having seen a cinema marquee that yesterday had advertised XMen Conquer the Planet of the Apes, now announcing, He Loves You, Mycroft, and having opened the Financial Times to a full-page ad announcing the same news, Mycroft felt positively inebriated by affection.
He walked into Greg's flat, unsure of just how he should react. What could he possibly say in response to this theatre of the absurd that had been the past ten hours of his life?
Greg was in his sweatshirt and jeans, lounging on the sofa, reading the newspaper and half-watching Strictly Come Dancing. Mycroft poured himself a glass of wine, sniffed the lamb stew bubbling on the stovetop, and kissed Greg on the top of his head before sitting down next to him to critique the very sloppy fox trot on the screen.
Greg glanced up from the football scores, jutted his chin up and forward, and asked with a half-grin, "Good day, My?"
Mycroft lowered his chin, closed his eyes, and settled more comfortably into Greg's side. "Yes, indeed. Too good for words."