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He'd told Uncle Greg it was too hot to go outside in Florida in July, especially at lunchtime. He loved Uncle Greg, but Uncle Greg was silly.
He'd said, “Wills, you spend too much time on the computer reading stories and learning math for a 4-year-old. You gotta be a kid sometimes. C'mon. We're goin’ out. Just us guys.” He’d tickled Wills, who pretended he wasn’t ticklish at all, until he couldn’t hold out any longer and fell giggling to the floor.
Greg swept Wills up and over his head. “That will teach you to think you can beat me, young man.” Wills’ red curls bounced as Greg wiggled him over his shoulder and out the front door.
When they’d driven up, Greg had given a silent cheer for an empty playground. It didn’t take them long to realize why. Although the equipment was partially shaded by trees, the sun baked the plastic of the swings and slide. Uncle Greg and Wills climbed the rock wall and tried to cross the monkey bars (which were too hot on their hands), but when the slide burned Wills’ legs as he skidded down, Greg ended the playdate.
“Hmmm. Maybe you were right,” Greg said, kissing the back of Wills’ legs to make the boo-boo better. “I think we need to cool off. What’s the answer to all things?”
“Ice cream!” Wills jumped and punched the air, curls bouncing and glasses slipping to the end of his nose. He pushed them up with one finger.
“What are we not going to tell Poppy?”
“That we had ice cream for lunch!” Wills squealed as Greg tickled him again. Eventually, one of them would spill the secret; nine out of 10 times it was Greg who caved first.
Which was how they ended up sitting in front of Jeremiah’s Italian Ice with the summer sun beating down on Wills as he swung his feet back-and-forth, deep in thought. The ice cream cone looked huge in his tiny hands. When Wills removed one hand to swipe at a sweaty curl on his forehead, Greg thought the cone would tip onto the sidewalk.
Wills took a tiny lick of the ice cream, melting faster than he’d ever eat it. Too much like his Daddy, Greg thought.
“Uncle Greg, you live with Uncle Mycroft, right?” Tiny chocolate rivers flowed down the cone and onto Wills’ new shirt.
“You know that, silly. You’ve been to our home.” Greg turned his water bottle over into a napkin and dabbed at the spot. Neither of Wills’ dads would be too upset with the mess, but he’d hear it from Mycroft. He could be so persnickety about clothing.
“Belle is your daughter, right?” Wills tongue flicked at the ice cream again. He didn’t like it so much. It was too cold in his mouth and it made his head hurt. But grown-ups always thought it was a big treat. They never understood that a big treat was when the new National Geographic came. And not the stupid, kid version someone got them.
Greg glanced at Wills, who was still focused on the ice cream, little furrows on his forehead. I love this kid. Greg's heart swelled with it.
“So, who's tummy did Belle grow in? Yours or Uncle Mycroft’s?” He looked at Greg with the same Caribbean-blue eyes as his daddy, so serious and innocent.
Greg snorted, picturing Mycroft in his three-piece suit, back curved and belly full with a child. Before he’d have to explain to Wills, Greg decided to explain. “Have you met Miss Jennifer?”
Wills nodded his head yes, and the curls drooped back onto his forehead.
“She's Belle’s mama.” Please don’t ask more questions. Please. Please. But in the end, William was absolutely the child of two men who were intelligent and tenacious. He knew the child was rooting out an answer; Greg just wasn’t smart enough to figure out the question.
“Like Auntie Honey? And how we grew from tiny beans in her tummy for Daddy and Poppy?”
Lestrade dipped his spoon in his cup of gelato, using the time to form an answer. No matter how brilliant Wills was, he was still a child and didn’t need to know every detail. He turned the spoon over and licked off the last streaks of gelato. “A long time ago, Miss Jen and I were married. Like your dads. Like Auntie Honey and Uncle Matt.”
Wills nodded, refocused on the chocolate ice cream running down the cone and how the wrapper on the bottom of the cone absorbed it, turning the paper brown.
“Can I help you with your cone?” Taking it gently from the tiny hands, Greg swirled his tongue around the side, licking the drips and then the ice cream, stealing most of it.
Wills pushed his glasses back into place and smiled at Greg. It was cute how Uncle Greg thought I didn’t realize what he'd done.
“May I ask you another question?” Wills wiggled the triangular paper until he’d removed it from his sugar cone.
Greg took a deep breath and nodded.
“You like Uncle Mycroft, but you used to like Miss Jen, even though she’s a girl? Is that okay?”
“A person loves who they love, Wills. It's not always a choice.” Dear God. Ask your dads. Ask your dads. Not me.
Wills thought about that, and then he turned to Greg, handing him the rest of his ice cream. “Are you and Uncle Mycroft married?”
“No.” Greg breathed a sigh of relief. That could have been much, much worse.
“Then that's what he meant.” Wills looked down at his Pterodactyls Rock! shirt that was polka-dotted with ice cream. (He’d told his Daddy that they’re Pterosaurs not Pterodactyls and they both agreed they would write the manufacturer.)
“Wait. What? Who meant what?” Greg splashed more water onto another napkin and wiped Wills’ mouth and fingers.
“Please, Uncle Greg. You should try to follow the conversation.” Wills sighed a deep, heavy sigh. “Uncle Mycroft was talking to Poppy last week. I didn't understand all the words,” he said, apologizing. “He was talking about a¬—” Wills scrunched up his face trying to remember the right words. “—A mattress-monial ceremony, and he was going to ask for someone's hand. But he already has two hands, Uncle Greg. Why would he need another one? Do you think the person is zombie? Does Uncle Mycroft have a collection? You know we are not allowed in your bedroom when we go to your house. Is it because he keeps his zombie parts collection in there?”
Excited for the first time since he left his computer, Wills proceeded to describe Mycroft’s zombie collection in detail. Which body parts he had, where he kept them, what he did with them. Greg stop listening; instead he pictured Mycroft on one knee in front of Greg, pulling a Tiffany’s box from the small pocket of his waistcoat.
“Yes.” Greg surprised himself when he said the word out loud. But at that moment, his vision of the rest of their lives crystalized. They’d be married for the world to know that they were devoted to each other. Til death do them part. Greg laughed as the thought grew. When Mycroft asked, Greg would probably blubber out a yes.
Lost in thought, Greg dropped Wills at home. John greeted them and asked Greg what they’d done. In response, apologized vaguely for the brown spots on the new T-shirt and left the house.
“I wonder what’s up with him,” John asked as he stripped the shirt off Wills. “Was he like that the whole time?”
“No, Poppy. We had a good time. I guess he’s just thinking about big things.”
~*~
When Greg walked in the door of their home, Mycroft called out for him. “Gregory, would you come in here? I need your help.”
This is it! Greg decided he’d act completely surprised. He didn’t want anyone to be angry at the little guy for spilling the secret. If he couldn’t stop grinning like a fool, Mycroft would know he knew.
Mycroft wore his tailored jeans and a polo shirt, streaked with dust. Every few months, he threw open the windows in their bedroom and dusted the walls and baseboards. Even the shelves inside their closet. A dust-streaked Mycroft was fucking hot. Maybe he could convince Mycroft to stop for a bit and—
“Would you mind helping me carry this mattress to the corner for trash removal?” Mycroft asked, wiping the dust from his shirt front.
Greg’s smile stayed plastered on, while his brain processed Mycroft’s request. Nope. Didn’t compute. “What?”
“It's time for the ceremonial mattress changing. The new one is coming this afternoon. For some reason, they don’t haul away the old mattress.” Mycroft rolled his eyes, explaining what he thought of that policy.
Greg couldn’t make any sense of the conversation. “I thought you were—aren’t you—Oh, shit.” The “mattress-monial ceremony” was exactly that. A ceremonial changing of the mattress. Greg’s stomach dropped with a splat. Wills had said it, and he’d run with the thought that Mycroft was going to propose, and now—Greg felt ill that what he’d envisioned was gone.
Mycroft attempted to wrangle the king-sized mattress again. “Gregory. If you don't want to help, John said he would be available. You should know, however, that you are making no sense. Perhaps the sun was too strong when you were out with William Patrick.”
The one knee. The proposal. A wedding pronouncing their love to the world. More than that—their commitment to their relationship until they died. All gone. “No. I'm not doing this.”
“It’s just a mattress, Gregory—”
“No. Mycroft Holmes, I love you.” Greg dropped to one knee in front of Mycroft and took his left hand in his. “I love you with all that I am. I want to spend the rest of my life with you no matter how long.”
Mycroft stood dumbfounded, his mouth literally hanging open.
“Marry me. I want to declare in front of God and our friends that I will love you forever.” Greg’s laughter bubbled up, and he wiped the tears that welled in the corner of his eyes.
A ring. He needed a ring.
Greg reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out the chocolate-speckled paper that had covered Wills cone. Greg tore the wrapper, leaving a paper ring.
“Mycroft Sherrinford Holmes. Will you marry me? I know we never talked about it, but I thought—”
Mycroft pulled Greg up to standing. “I have no idea what you’re talking about but yes. Yes, I will marry you because you are a ridiculous man, and I love you.” Mycroft kissed Greg sweet and slow until they were light-headed and needed to breathe.
Greg slipped the paper ring on Mycroft's finger. “I'll get a better one.”
Mycroft gasped. “Don’t you dare. This is perfect.” He held out his left hand to admire his new speckled engagement ring.
Greg slid the mattress back to its frame and they celebrated their engagement the best way they knew how. Then they dragged it to the curb for the trash collectors.
Greg called Anabelle to share their news. When she’d moved back after college, Anabelle rented an apartment near Stetson University where she worked.
A man answered Anabelle’s phone. “Hey Uncle Greg. What’s new?”
“Sean?” Greg covered the phone and mouthed to Mycroft, What the hell is Sean Hudson doing with my daughter?
“Probably the same thing we were just doing.” Mycroft smirked and raised an eyebrow.
Shut the fuck up! Greg whispered. He’d get to the bottom of this later.
Anabelle squee’d so loud that Greg had to pull the phone away from his ear. Then she insisted on speaking to her new dad. Mycroft grudgingly agreed, but Greg saw the happiness in his smile and eyes.
While Anabelle quizzed her dads about their plans, Mycroft nudged Greg toward the car and connected the call through the Bluetooth, so they could both hear Belle. As they drove to Sherlock and John’s, Anabelle described in specific detail how absolutely adorable the triplets would be in the wedding party.
“Speaking of wedding party.” Greg cleared his throat. “What was Sean Hudson doing with you today?”
“I had the day off, and he came to hang out with me. He’s not 12 anymore, Dad. He just turned 20.”
“Are you two dating?” Greg’s stomach flipflopped. Those two had known each other for 8 years. How had that much time passed? But friends make the best lovers, he thought then added Ewwww that’s my daughter!
“Gotta go, Dad. Love you both!” Anabelle hurried off the phone.
“I’ve warned you before, Gregory.” Mycroft smiled as he turned into Sherlock’s driveway. “If you insist on prying, she is going to shut you out every time.”
Greg sighed and nodded. “Remember your own advice now that she’s your daughter now, too.”
“She was already my daughter.” His voice was full of fondness and love that Greg melted.
Bea opened the door and squealed. She forgot to turn around when she shouted, “My favorite uncles are here!”
John came from the kitchen, hands sudsy from washing dishes, and listened to their news. He hugged them both with hardy slaps on the back. However, Sherlock sat in his chair with his finger steepled at his chin.
“William Patrick. Come here, please.” Sherlock’s voice sounded stern and possibly angry.
Wills trudged into the living room, dragging a stuffed owl and his blanket behind him. His eyes were wide and innocent.
Sherlock wasn’t buying his act.
“What do you want to tell me?” Sherlock asked, but Wills remained silent.
Sherlock pointed to Uncle Mycroft and Uncle Greg. “Did you do this?”
Wills’ lower lip trembled as he hugged his owl toward him. “I had to, Daddy. Uncle Mycroft told you Uncle Greg would never agree to marry him. And Poppy says I have to use my brain for good instead of evil. So I—”
Greg knelt down to be on Wills’ eye-level. “Come here, you.” He crooked his finger and motioned for him to come closer. “You told me about the mattress-monial ceremony, which was a real thing, but I jumped to the conclusion that Mycroft was going to propose. Is that correct?”
Greg’s Principal Lestrade voice scared Wills, who hid his face in his owl as he nodded.
“Well, thank you, honey.” Greg pulled him in for a hug and blew a raspberry into Wills’ neck and broke down laughing.
Wills was very confused. Grown-ups were silly.
“I love Uncle Mycroft very much, but I didn’t know how much I wanted to marry him until you tricked me.” Greg kissed Wills’ cheek and said, “Every groom needs a best man. Would you be mine?”
Wills nodded and smiled. Whew. He wasn’t in trouble. “You know why I tricked you, Uncle Greg? Because a person loves who they love. And it’s not always a choice.”