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Greg steps onto the pavement, breathing in the cold night air. His hand slips inside his coat pocket, and it takes him a few moments to realise he won’t find what he’s looking for. He left the pack of cigarettes on the counter this morning, congratulating himself on starting his New Year’s resolution early.
He hasn’t felt the need to light a cigarette – hasn’t had time to even think of anything outside the job – not until now. Rain falls all around him, painting the world in streaks of grey. If he doesn’t go back in soon, he’ll be soaked through.
He looks over his shoulder, staring at the staircase leading up to 221B. Snatches of conversation and laughter carry over to the open air, the odd violin air, followed by enthusiastic applause. Greg wonders half-heartedly if he could sneak away without anyone noticing. He has spent so much time working these past few days, that he can barely carry a conversation – his smile feels rusty, his voice gruff with lack of use.
These past few years, he had looked forward to these gatherings on New Year’s Eve. He could always count on Mrs Hudson’s famous punch, and on the adorable decorations Rosie put everywhere – two years ago, she had become enamoured of glitter and had never really grown out of it.
But this year, nothing is right. He chugged the punch too fast and only felt light-headed instead of merry, the fairy lights gave him a headache, and the music turned into a blur of empty words.
The rain gets heavier, and Greg takes shelter under Speedy’s awning. Outside, London is holding its breath, waiting for the year to be over. Far away, crowds are gathering in Westminster, their heads raised to the sky. Baker Street is empty – even the wind has faded away to a whisper. Greg reaches up, his restless hands fiddling with his collar. Droplets of water run down his neck.
A familiar black car silently slides up toward him. As it smoothly skips to a stop, time slows – here is the moment Greg has been hoping for since January. His heartbeat quietens but doesn’t stop – doesn’t break.
Mycroft steps out. Blue suit, grey tie, black umbrella.
He locks eyes with Greg, and his immaculate countenance cracks. It’s only for a moment – blue eyes almost translucent in the half-light, shining with an untold emotion – but it’s enough to keep Greg’s feet rooted on the ground. Mycroft’s white hands, clenched around his umbrella, are still shaking – and Greg notices, helpless to it, that same magnetic pull that tugs behind his sternum.
Mycroft takes two steps forward, stumbling like a starved man drawing nearer the tempting aromas of a feast. Then he falters, something like uncertainty crossing his face.
“Gr—Detective Inspector.” Mycroft bows his head, formally, his hands clasped behind his back like a Victorian gentleman in a ballroom.
From where he stands, the purple smudges under Mycroft’s eyes are visible. Greg pushes his hands deeper in his pockets, for fear he’ll do something foolish like reach out. He tries not to wonder if Mycroft remembers to sleep if he’s taking care of himself. It’s none of his business – not anymore.
“I didn’t know you’d been invited,” Greg blurts out.
Mycroft flinches. “Well, I—” His hand wavers in the air for a moment, before gracelessly falling back at his side. “I wasn’t sure I’d come.”
“Rosie will be delighted.” Too energised by the excitement of the day, Rosie had refused to sleep, stating that she was waiting for her uncle. In the last hour, she had gradually fallen asleep, her little head coming to rest on her stuffed bee.
A brief smile stretches Mycroft’s lips. He brings two fingers to his mouth as if surprised by the gesture.
“I apologise for barging in on your celebration.”
“Don’t, please.” Greg sighs. “You should start the new year with your family.”
Their eyes meet, lock. There’s something in that grey gaze, something that says You’re family, too. Or perhaps Greg is letting the magic of the evening get to him, seeing things that aren’t there.
“Gregory…” Mycroft breathes – his voice cracks on the last syllable. “I fear I’ve been an unforgivable fool.”
It’s too much. Greg looks away, breaks the connection. Under his feet, a puddle is forming – smooth like the surface of a lake, reflecting the red awning above like a dark mirror. In the silence, the ghost of another conversation – one that took place on that same pavement, twenty minutes before midnight – echoes around them.
What did I do wrong?
Nothing, Gregory. Can we go back inside now?
Then why can’t you look at me in the eye?
Then it fades away, swallowed by the night.
Greg’s heart aches, begs for an answer, but his mouth can’t form words. He hasn’t allowed himself to hope for this moment, because he knows that once Mycroft makes a decision, he never changes his mind. He calculates, makes plans, structures his life like a chess game. He allowed Greg in for a few months, then he pulled away – got bored of the rough copper who can’t tell a Rembrandt from a Vermeer, who only owns one suit, whose musical tastes don’t cover classical orchestra pieces.
The darkness has taken a dark blue quality, reflecting the light of street lamps.
“I became afraid of the depth of my… affections toward you, and I acted like a coward. I pushed you away, shutting you out, using my endless work as an excuse. It was despicable, and it took losing you to realise it. I’m truly sorry, I…” Mycroft stopped, abruptly, his face pale and drawn. “I didn’t wish to burden you with all this, I just… I missed you.”
Perhaps it’s because there are only a few minutes left of this terrible, awful year – and Greg is so tired of nursing his broken heart. Perhaps it’s because the rain has stopped, the stars are shining down like haloes of light, and the city seems to be keeping quiet for the two of them. Or perhaps it’s because of the patch of skin under Mycroft’s jaw where his pulse is jumping, and the way his eyes are locked on Greg’s, no longer flicking away.
“I missed you too.”
There hasn’t been snow this year, only rain pouring from the clouds above. But as the clocks slowly tick to midnight, fresh snowflakes slowly, slowly fall from the sky. One of them lands on Greg’s cheek, blooming like a cold flower on his skin. Mycroft’s fingers brush it away – and fireworks burst under Greg’s skin.