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He opened the door to the hospital room quietly, not wanting to disturb the patient. When he entered, he could see Sherlock, clearly knocked out on morphine or something of the sort, and Mycroft sitting on a chair next to the bedframe. How he got here first was beyond Greg, considering he had followed the ambulance and then entered as soon as the staff allowed him to. Anyways, he could tell immediatly that Mycroft hadn’t noticed him yet. There was worry evident on his face, fear even, about the possibility of losing Sherlock. Two bullets had missed his heart and his splenic respectively by millimetres only.
Greg took in the scene in seconds, really, before Mycroft noticed his figure in the doorframe. The worried look on his face was replaced by one of indifference in less than a second, as if it had never been there. But Greg knew he hadn’t imagined it. „Well, I suppose he’ll come through this. Eventually.“ He stood up from his chair. „I think I’ll have to go back to work now.“ Greg wanted to protest that Mycroft could stay, but before he could say anything, the man had hurried past him and left.
They were sitting in his office, discussing Sherlock’s latest shenanigans when there was a sharp knock on the door. „Excuse me, sir, but the prime minister has just announced that he had no idea what was going on and that he was not involved with the party.“ Greg wasn’t exactly sure what she was talking about, but he had an inkling. Mycroft however seemed to know precisely what she was referring to. „When?“ Though his tone was fairly neutral, if a little sharp, Greg could see the fury in Mycroft’s eyes. „About ten minutes ago. And… BBC sent a live cast.“ It appeared to Greg that Mycroft had a few very selected cursewords on his tongue, but after taking a look at his guest he seemed to think better of it. „How… unfortunate.“ If his assistant was surprised by the underwhelming reaction, she didn’t show it. „Detective Inspector, I’m sorry we’ll have to close things up so soon, but this needs my immediate attention.“ Nothing in his tone showed the anger he was still feeling. In fact, Greg only noticed because of his slightly clenched jaw and the meticulously thighter grip on his pen. „Sure, no problem. I should probably go back to work as well…“
Their next meeting was over dinner in a restaurant that Greg had suggested. It had newly opened and was somewhat experimental, claiming to give new twists to traditional British cuisine meals. Mycroft wouldn’t have chosen that himself – there was nothing wrong with traditional British dinners the way they were, thank you very much, that’s why they were traditional – but he was famished and his usual dining places would have required reservations, which he hadn’t made. Not quite sure what that „new twists“ involved he ordered the most simple option – fish and chips. Greg choose the Sheperd’s Pie.
When their dinner arrived 20 minutes later Mycroft had a hard time veiling his disgust. Not that it looked bad – it was arranged rather beautifully. The fish had been cut into stripes that formed a half-circle and in its mid there were the chips – if that’s what you wanted to call them. The „chips“ were cut into tiny squares and mixed with tomatos, cucumbers and carrots that had been diced. All in all the sight reminded him more of a potato salad than of chips. That meant that either the vegetables were now warm or the „chips“ were cold – neither option sounded all that appealing. Worse than that, Mycroft disliked tomatoes. Hated them, really.
It took him a moment to remember he had company. By then it was too late, of course. Greg had seen the disgusted look on his face. „What’s wrong?“ Mycroft thought about telling him, for a moment, but decided against it. His face was back to neutral as he spoke. „Nothing. Well, bon appetite!“ But Greg wasn’t deceived so easily. „We can switch meals, if you like“ he suggested. It sounded tempting. After all Greg’s pie looked rather normal… No. He was a grown man. „No need“ he said, taking the first fork-full, focusing very hard not to cringe at the taste.
They were sitting together in a club Mycroft had chosen. As could be expected, it was very chique, classical music being perfomed live in the backround, fancy cocktails and not as much of a crowd as in Greg’s usual places. They had been talking about this and that, exchanging interests and opinions. Just now, Greg was finishing a funny story from his time as a Constable about a naked car thief who had thought he was invisible because he had bathed in citrus juice. „Quite handsome, if I’m being honest, all tall and slender“ he reminisced. „But with such a dim wit, not quite what I’d be looking for.“ Having been lost in the story he now looked at the man oposite him for the first time in quite a while, and was pleasantly surprised. There he was, Mycroft Holmes, the ice man himself, smiling like a schoolboy and blushing like a peony. Greg was immediatly addicted to the expression. Mycroft, however, seemed to realize the face he was making and instantly, the smile fell. „I have to go. Apologies, Gregory.“ He put the money for his drinks on the table and just like that, he was gone.
Greg entered the Diogenes and went straight to Mycroft’s private room. The elder Holmes had given him permission to come as he pleases a while ago and had informed the staff, so they wouldn’t interfere. When he went through the door however, he could hear quiet sobs. „Mycroft?“ The man looked up at him, startled. He was lying on the couch in a fetal position and his eyes were red from crying. „Leave“ he ordered, his voice surprisingly strong and even for someone who had been crying three seconds ago. Greg ignored his order and stepped closer. „What’s wrong?“ Mycroft sat up. „I said, leave.“ Greg remained. „I won’t.“ Seeing the stoic look on Mycroft’s face he tried a softer tone. „Please don’t shut me out. I want to help you.“ When Mycroft didn’t react, he added: „I can’t stand to see you in pain.“ Mycroft swallowed. „Then you won’t. You can leave now, we can pretend that never happened.“ Greg shook his head. „That won’t solve your problem. Let me rephrase that: I want to help you until you’re not in pain anymore.“ Greg looked at him tenderly, but that seemed to be too much for Mycroft. He closed his eyes. „I have made an unwise decision“ he whispered.
„Unwise how?“ Greg asked carefully. Mycroft didn’t answer. „Has anyone died?“ Mycroft shook his head. „Is the world peace at risk?“ Mycroft huffed a little, as if world peace was a funny idea, but shook his head. „Is Sherlock in danger?“ Mycroft wanted to shake his head again, but thought better of it. „Well, not more than usual and not because of this.“ Greg smiled. „Than it can’t be that bad, can it?“ he hoped to cheer him up. But Mycroft only slumped further. „That’s very you. Asking about others and not even thinking about youself…“
„What?“ Greg was puzzled for a moment. „Does that mean it would affect me? Well, now you definitely have to tell me.“ Mycroft sat still for a long moment. „I have fallen in love, Gregory“ he finally whispered.
Greg was not prepared for the pang of jealousy that hit him at these words. It took him a moment to remind himself that this was about Mycroft, not himself. „That’s no reason to cry“ he said, trying to sound cheerful. He swallowed. „Who… who is the lucky one?“ At that, Mycroft seemed bewildered. He looked at him, really looked, for the first time this evening and Greg could feel that he seemed to be deducing something. Then, coming to a conclusion, his eyes widened in awe. „Gregory… May I kiss you?“ It took a moment for Greg to register the words, then another to connect the dots. When he did, he leaned foreward, pressing his lips onto Mycroft’s, whispering into the kiss: „I love you, too.“