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Hand raised to knock on the intimidatingly large door of the intimidatingly large house in front of him, Greg hesitated. ’I’m afraid I need to cancel dinner tonight. Something of an awful day and I’m unfit for decent company,’ Mycroft’s text message had read. One of the many lessons that Greg had learned in his long acquaintance with the Holmes boys, however, was that they tended to say exactly what they meant, and Mycroft had categorically not said ‘I don’t want your company’. Greg mentally reread the message for the thousandth time, finding himself as convinced that ambushing Mycroft at home was the right course of action as he’d been when he’d bartered unfettered access to three cases in exchange for Mycroft’s address from Sherlock.
The door knocker was an ornate, heavy metal thing that made a very satisfying sound when it struck the plate. The sound resonated loudly in the quiet evening air as Greg knocked three times, followed by a quick blast on the old-fashioned door bell in the name of thoroughness. Better safe than sorry, after all. Greg glanced at his watch and allowed a minute to pass before reaching for the knocker again, just in time for the door to creak open on its massive hinges.
Greg didn’t know why he expected Mycroft Holmes, the poshest man in the known universe, to answer his own front door, but the man in a very butler-ish suit came as a surprise. There was barely a line on his face, but his grey Afro hair had thinned to the point that his head seemed to be more scalp than hair, and his close-cropped beard was uniformly grey. Greg, though, knew better than to write off a person based on age, and anyone who worked for Mycroft could doubtlessly kill him with little more than an A4 notebook and get away scot-free. “Greg Lestrade. Mycroft’s boyfriend,” Greg said, brandishing the bag of Chinese takeaway like he would his police warrant card before the butler had the chance to turn him away.
“I brought him dinner,” he continued, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. ‘Boyfriend’ was a bit of a stretch given that they’d barely shared more than a clumsy drunken kiss in the six months since the events at Sherrinford. Before that, though, in the aftermath of Sherlock’s return from the not-dead and disaster that had been John and Mary…well, Greg truly believed that they’d been well on their way towards a real relationship. Between Greg’s painfully slow acceptance of his sexuality and the seemingly never ending series of walls Mycroft had built around himself, it had surely been the slowest moving relationship in the history of gay men, but it had suited them somehow. They had barely reached second base, but there had been warmth, affection, and they had very definitely been on their way to something beautiful. Whether anyone else would recognise it as a relationship, however, was another question entirely, especially when the butler seemed totally unmoved. Greg gave the bag a desperate little shake, hoping that the intelligence from Sherlock was on the money. “It’s from Reigate Square, his favourite.”
The butler’s dark gaze turned briefly interrogatory before settling into something just on the promising side of curiosity. “Mr Holmes is not expecting visitors.”
“I’m one visitor, and I'm worried about him.” The butler showed no inclination to let Greg in, but he stood his ground. “He was going to be having dinner with me anyway, so I know he hasn’t got anything else planned, and his message said that he’s unfit for company, not that he doesn’t want it. If he didn’t want to see me he’d have said so.”
“Very good, sir,” the butler said after a long, intense moment, and stepped aside, gesturing Greg into the house with a sweep of his left arm. Not quite believing his luck, Greg stepped into the house as the door closed behind him with a particularly loud creak. Immediately inside the door was a wall of security glass with a central door and palm reader, with the rest of the house visible through the glass. With one last interrogatory look at Greg, the old man pressed his hand against the palm reader and gestured Greg through with a sweep of his arm. The hall he stepped into was positively cavernous, with parquet flooring, high ceilings, elegant cornicing, and the kind of old world charm that was synonymous with Mycroft Holmes. “Down there, third door on the left.”
“Thanks,” Greg said, following the butler’s arm and finding himself walking past a grand staircase and down a painting-lined corridor, the sound of his shoes hitting the solid wood floor almost painfully loud in the hushed silence of the old house. By the time he was halfway there, Greg was absolutely convinced that the portraits’ eyes were following him and he picked up his pace, the sound of his increasingly urgent footfalls echoing loudly around him. A large picture window at the end of the corridor bathed the area in moonlight and cast shadows that spooked Greg more than he would admit. ‘Of course his house is like something out of a horror film. Why wouldn’t it be?’ Greg mentally heckled as he passed a statue that seemed to loom out of an alcove as he approached it. The size of the house meant that getting to the third door on the left took longer than felt entirely reasonable, and Greg’s pace picked up yet again when the floor audibly creaked behind him as he passed a suit of armour that he’d swear turned to follow him. Too keen to get out of the corridor for manners, Greg rapped on the door once and then entered the room without waiting for a response.
“Please tell me your house isn’t actually haunted,” he said in greeting, closing the door behind him with a creak.
Mycroft was sitting in a wingback armchair in front of a grand fireplace, a traditional crystal tumbler more than half filled with amber liquid clutched in his left hand, and the decanter sitting beside an antique-looking gun on a small side table. “What on earth are you doing here?” Mycroft asked instead, a deep frown creasing his face. The light from the fire blazing in the corner only deepened the creases on Mycroft’s face, making him look older and more exhausted than Greg had seen him since the events at Sherrinford.
“Dinner,” Greg replied, holding up the bag of Chinese takeaway. “We’re having it together.”
“What about my message did you not understand?” Mycroft snapped waspishly, but notably without telling Greg to leave.
“Absolutely nothing. You said you’re ‘unfit for decent company’, not that you didn’t want company.” Greg sat in the chair opposite Mycroft’s and settled the bag in his lap, not wanting to damage the antique table between them with the heat of the takeaway containers. “Also, for the record, you’re seriously underestimating my ability to be indecent company.”
The glare Mycroft levelled would have made other men quail in fear, but Greg knew better. If Mycroft truly wanted him gone, his response would have been much more forthright. “Travers will be joining the proverbial dole queue for this,” Mycroft replied huffily, just in time the man to enter the room pushing a trolley with plates, glasses, cutlery, a carafe of water, and a bottle of red wine.
“Very good, sir,” Travers said blandly, with a definite twinkle in his deep brown eyes and seemingly impervious to the vicious glare Mycroft was directing in his direction.
Greg watched as Travers turned and left the room, fighting to keep a smile off his face. “So, creepy house, glare that could freeze most people at ten paces, and butler as scared of you as the average cat is of a mouse.”
Mycroft huffed dramatically and got up to collect plates and cutlery from the trolley. “I’m his employer, not his enemy.” He deposited two plates, cutlery, wine glasses, and the bottle of wine on the table. “Please tell me you didn’t allow Sherlock to extract too high a price in exchange for my address.”
“Nah, all good on that front.” Greg opened the bottle of wine and poured them each a drink. “Honestly, he barely even haggled with me, so I think he’s glad I asked.” He took the plastic boxes Mycroft handed them and set them on the plates, carefully considering whether to press for details. Much of Mycroft’s work was beyond top secret and he could rarely share anything, even when his job was driving him to the brink of collapse. Greg was wary of ever seeming like he was trying to glean insights into state secrets, but sometimes it was necessary to give Mycroft a gentle push to open up about those things that he could share. He knew it wasn’t a new Sherlockian disaster again because the younger man had been with Greg on a case for much of the week, and he was seeming more settled than Greg had known him since he had dragged the family’s proverbial skeletons out of the closet. When it became clear that Mycroft was not going to start a conversation, Greg asked, “Can you tell me what happened?”
“My bloody mother happened,” Mycroft sighed dejectedly after a moment of indecision. Even in the dim light of the flickering firelight, Greg could see the dullness of Mycroft’s usually sharp grey eyes. “You remember me telling you about the production she made of forgiving me for my part in Eurus’s incarceration?”
“Course I do.” That period of time was not one that Greg was ever likely to forget. Mycroft had been an absolute wreck after the situation with his sister had turned critical. It had taken months of self-recrimination and punishment before he had started letting Greg in again, and the whole process had been set back by the other man’s parents repeatedly. The day mother Holmes had uttered the words ‘we forgive you’ was the day Greg saw Mycroft cry for the first – and so far only – time, and Greg had hated the woman for making Mycroft believe that he actually needed forgiveness in the first place. Greg had tried again and again to get Mycroft to believe that he had nothing to apologise for; it never had any real impact on the man’s guilt and only ever seemed to serve to wind him up. “Has she changed her mind?”
“Quite the opposite. As you know, I was removed from the line of command that oversees Eurus’s care, and Uncle Rudy’s recommendations for how she is treated and managed have been completely disregarded. She is diagnosed with multiple personality disorders, including one only described and named after various clinicians assessed her. The new clinical team - at my parents’ insistence - have been attempting to treat her as a hyper-intelligent but otherwise routine forensic psychiatric patient.”
Getting the feeling that he was going to need it, Greg picked up his glass of wine and pushed Mycroft’s close enough that it nudged his friend’s hand.
Mycroft sighed despondently, the weight of whatever had happened almost visibly hanging on his shoulders. “According to Mummy, Eurus has had an…unsettled weekend, but instead of quarantining her pending further assessment, they continued with her new treatment plan. The unit’s staff are trying to unpick what happened, but yesterday it culminated in her killing three other patients, a psychiatric nurse, an occupational therapist, a therapy assistant, and the three security personnel assigned to the group. She was the only living person in the room by the time a second security team got there, and it seems that she has done nothing other than hum to herself since she was returned to a maximum-security cell. This is, of course, in addition to the two suicide attempts and an out-of-character domestic abuse incident between a senior psychiatrist and her fiance in the first month of the new regime. The hospital’s chief executive called Mummy last night and invited her and Father to a multidisciplinary team meeting on Monday to ‘discuss lessons learned and next steps’.”
”Jesus,,”Greg breathed, appalled, and reached across the table to take hold of Mycroft’s right hand. “Please tell me your mum doesn’t think this is your fault.”
“I don’t believe so, but it is hard to tell with her. She has never been the most rational person when it comes to her children.” Mycroft picked up his wine with his free hand and sipped, visibly collecting his thoughts. “She and Father were the parties pushing for Eurus to be ‘reintegrated into society’, convinced that Uncle Rudy indoctrinated me into believing Eurus was a monster. I think her eventual ‘forgiveness’ was actually pity for what she perceived to be me having been ‘conditioned’ by Uncle Rudy, making me ‘innocent’ of artifice and deception. I am ‘very limited’, after all,” Mycroft continued drily.
“Well, the hens are well and truly coming home to roost now, aren’t they? It’s not like you didn’t warn her. Hell, even Sherlock tried to tell her,” Greg said as he re-filled Mycroft’s glass, the memory of Sherlock’s week-long sulk because Mummy Holmes had had the audacity to disagree with him. As far as Greg could tell, Sherlock had been her favourite since the three of them had been children, and she had a very problematic blind-spot where he was concerned. “What does she expect you to do about it exactly?”
“She seems to be under the misapprehension that I can simply walk into that meeting on her behalf and order the reinstatement of the measures put in place to prevent incidents like this.” A dark shadow crossed Mycroft’s expression and he drained the wine from his glass. “She is angry that I’m no longer able to influence management of Eurus, and that the measures put in place by Uncle Rudy have been disregarded. I refrained from pointing out that she wanted the ‘draconian and unethical treatment’ to be stopped, but did remind her that my mismanagement of Eurus led to several deaths. She wouldn’t listen.” Mycroft sighed, a weary, pained sound that made Greg’s heart ache. “Mummy now seems to think that decision was an overreaction and intends to use her influence in certain circles to petition for my reinstatement as Eurus’s keeper. Apparently, she now believes that only one of the family can effectively manage ‘dear Eurus’. I’d be lying if I said that my sister being kept under impenetrable lock and key wouldn’t be a massive relief, but direct responsibility for her - let alone the harm she does - is the very last thing I want.”
An odd combination of relief and fear coloured Mycroft’s voice, the dark circles under his eyes clashing horribly with the pallor of his face. Greg could practically see the sleepless night Mycroft had had after that call from his mother and wanted nothing more than to see Mycroft fed, watered, and tucked safely into bed. “No-one’s going to listen to her,” he said, subconsciously using the tone he usually reserved for traumatised victims or witnesses. “It’ll be obvious that this is some sort of embarrassment and guilt-driven move because she insisted that Eurus be given more freedom, and that she’s now trying to push the responsibility back onto you because it was a massive fuck up. We sometimes see it with families campaigning for their ‘innocent’ child or spouse or parent to be released from prison, and then when they re-offend on release it’s suddenly the justice system’s fault for not being rigorous enough in managing the risks.”
Mycroft shook his head. “I don’t think you realise quite how much influence Mummy has. She was a bit too young to be involved in codebreaking at Bletchley, but she has been up to her neck in that world since the Cold War. The security and intelligence services often plant agents in universities, and she was one of them. Academic mathematician by day, intelligence agent by night,” Mycroft said wryly.
“Many of the people she was teaching in the sixties and seventies are now in the very upper echelons of the government, civil service, and academia. Trust me: if she truly wants this to happen, nothing will stop her.”
“So, you told her ‘no’ because you made some serious mistakes which had even more serious consequences, right?” Greg said, not attempting to convince Mycroft that Eurus had probably been manipulating him as much as she had been everyone else who had contact with her again. It wasn’t a battle he had come close to winning at any point during the last six months, and now was not the right time to try again. When Mycroft nodded his agreement, Greg continued, “I’m assuming she weighed up the mostly calm thirty-odd years with Rudy and then you at the helm against how many Eurus harmed or killed in the few months since the new arrangement she insisted on started and came to the logical conclusion. So, how about you try for something other than logic? You’re not going to convince a mathematician that twelve deaths in just over six months is okay, so don’t even try to.”
Greg paused to drink and squeezed Mycroft’s hand again. “Be honest with her about the impact on you. Tell her exactly how scared you are of your sister. Tell her how much the damage Eurus’s behaviour caused over the years weighs on your conscience. Remind her that you did what you did because you felt you had no choice, and don’t want to be put back in that same impossible position again. Tell her about the sleepless nights, anxiety and depression, and high blood pressure. If you haven’t already, open up about how you’ve avoided getting too close to people to keep another partner out of Eurus’s crosshairs and how isolated that’s left you. Make this about her son’s wellbeing and not a question of what ratio of Eurus-induced deaths to months is acceptable. If she still thinks putting you back in that position is the right move, then you’ll need to have a very serious think about your relationship with your mum moving forward.”
“I —” Mycroft started before shaking his head. “We don’t usually discuss such things.”
“Yeah, I gathered that much when it took you ten years to believe I genuinely wanted to know how your day had been. Your family has really fucking done one on your self-esteem,” Greg said, fighting the urge to tell Mycroft exactly what he would like to say to the Holmes parents if he ever got the opportunity. “I’m not expecting miracles, but starting to open up to her on a more personal level isn’t going to hurt. If she’s daft enough to think Sherlock’s the grown-up one, then she’s daft enough to believe that bullshit about you not doing emotions. She obviously hasn’t got a clue about any of her kids, so I doubt she’s actually considered the human side of her proposal. Not for you, anyway.” Mycroft looked uncertain rather than sceptical, so Greg pressed his advantage. “Failing anything else, try telling her that you couldn’t possibly match her level of ability, and suggest that she should use that influence of hers to take control and put your sister back in lockdown herself.”
Mycroft inclined his head. “I don’t suppose it could damage my relationship with her more than other approaches have,” he conceded. “In the spirit of being more open with emotional matters, I hope you understand that my fear of Eurus, the fear that she would hurt you purely to hurt me is the reason for me not inviting you into my home. I was always wary of making you too obvious a target, but Sherlock and John’s incursion only heightened that fear. I have ‘beefed up’ my security, but with the situation with Eurus unresolved, I just couldn’t take the risk of making you more of a target than you already were.”
“Yeah, I suspected as much when we regressed from, well, our weird version of dating back to polite dinners in posh restaurants right after it all cracked off. I also know that you’re knackered and really should eat something,” Greg said, gesturing at their neglected and rapidly cooling takeaway.
“I’m afraid I don’t feel up to anything heavy,” Mycroft replied, casting a guilty glance at the food. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to apologise for. We’ll stick this in the fridge for tomorrow, but you’re eating something before I get out of your hair.”
“Toast, then,” Mycroft said as he stood from the chair, his knees cracking in protest. “Join me.”
“As long as it’s slathered in butter and jam,” Greg agreed, standing with his own symphony of cracking joints. He quickly re-bagged the containers of Chinese food, loaded everything onto the trolley, and pushed it in the direction of the door. “We’ll work out the rest tomorrow, but I’m telling you now that I’m not walking away and leaving you on your own. I understand that she’s dangerous, but she didn’t come after me when she had the opportunity - lots of opportunities - and I’m a grown man who can decide if he thinks a risk is worth taking. Honestly, if even I knew you still wanted something with me, do you think she was fooled by you pulling up the proverbial drawbridge on me?”
“You make a fair point, Detective Inspector. Unfortunately, deep-seated anxiety is rarely rational.” Mycroft gave Greg a tired smile and reached out for his free hand, a move he hadn’t made since dinner the night before Sherlock and John had invaded his home. Fingers entwined, Greg followed Mycroft out of the drawing room and into the corridor, carefully pushing the laden trolley ahead of them. The paintings and statues looked no less creepy now than they had on the way in, but Mycroft barely seemed to register it until Greg twitched violently at a particularly close sound. “No, it’s not actually haunted,” Mycroft said, patently amused, “but it amused me to imagine would-be intruders scared out of my home by non-existent ghosts. The picture frames,” he continued, gesturing at the artwork-lined wall, “are a centimetre deeper than the standard frames of their size so that they cast deeper, darker shadows. There are also sensors which trigger a series of sounds embedded in the floorboards, vents that will release a subtle cold draught, and the vases and statues are on bases that rotate slightly, making the shadows move.”
“Sounds like footsteps and creaking floorboards that seem to follow you down the corridor, you mean?” Greg asked, recalling his walk from the main hall to the sitting room. “I assume you could tell the difference between my footsteps walking down the corridor and the sound effects?”
“Of course. I have an eidetic memory, hypersensitive senses, and created the sound effects personally; I would recognise any deviation from the ‘soundtrack’ instantly,” Mycroft replied lightly. “It also serves as an intruder alert system. Had I not recognised your footfalls, you would have been met with the barrel of a gun.”
“So that’s where Sherlock got his liking for permanently creaky doors from,” Greg replied, amusement colouring his voice. “And you get to create a proper ‘haunted house’, too.”
“Precisely. I’ve always enjoyed horror classic horror and ghost stories, so why not? It’s my house.”
“That might just be the cutest thing I’ve heard in the last five years,” Greg said as they reached the kitchen. It was a large room with an island that wasn’t much smaller than the kitchen in Greg’s tiny flat, and its modernity seemed almost garish in contrast to the traditional charm of the other rooms Greg had seen. Gone were the rich woods and elegant décor and in were granite worktops, bland grey wallpaper, and high-end appliances.
Mycroft huffed a laugh. “Yes, well. Strictly between us, of course.” He released Greg’s hand and crossed the kitchen. “White or wholemeal?”
“Whatever you’re having is fine.” Greg watched as Mycroft pottered around the kitchen, gathering supplies. The toaster itself was kept tidily out of sight in its own cupboard, and there was an actual butter dish on the island. Greg hadn’t seen a butter dish since his mother had done away with hers in the early noughties, but it was somehow completely at home in the kitchen of Mycroft Holmes, perhaps one of the most traditional men in London.
The black cloud that had been hovering over the other man seemed a little lighter than it had as he bustled around his kitchen, but Greg knew it would not truly dissipate until Mycroft had come to an agreement with his mother. Mycroft’s movements as he loaded the toaster and arranged butter and plates next to the appliance were deft and efficient. All of Mycroft’s movements were deft, so that wasn’t a surprise, but what did come as a surprise was Mycroft crossing the kitchen to kiss him. It was a sweet, quick kiss, and Greg was delighted. Between Mycroft’s hatred of the noise and people that inevitably went with hotels, and Greg’s flat being a security nightmare, their only real physical intimacy had happened in Mycroft’s office, his room at his club, and that one time Mycroft’s hand had ghosted over Greg’s crotch in the back of one of the sleek black cars. “We don’t do nearly enough of that, you know.”
“I apologise. I’ve made something of a hash of this whole thing, haven’t I?”
“No, none of that,” Greg replied sharply. “Between your parents and your siblings I’m surprised you’re not a gibbering wreck. I sure as hell would be.” He smiled, giving Mycroft an exaggeratedly hopeful look. “I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to another kiss, when the mood strikes.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Mycroft said, something of his usual dry tone starting to creep back into his voice. “My sister remains a significant threat and my mother is impossible. I can’t promise that this is going to be easy.”
“Not gonna lie: your sister scares me more than your mum. Don’t get me wrong, I’d like to lock your mum in a room with a swarm of seriously pissed off wasps for the way she’s treated you, but you’ve never mentioned her having a murderous streak.” Greg looked up at Mycroft, still finding an odd pleasure in being with a partner taller than him after twenty years married to a woman. “But, if you’re trying to put me off by saying it’s too dangerous to be around you, it’s not working.”
“Well, in that case,” Mycroft said, some of the tension in the set of his shoulders easing a little. The younger man settled his hands on Greg’s waist and claimed another kiss, teasing Greg with an occasional barely there flick of his tongue.
The kiss stretched out for long moments and Greg revelled in the intimacy of it. He raised a hand to Mycroft’s face, enjoying the sensation of the reddish stubble against his skin. “I thought I’d done something wrong. You know, blown my chance. I really should have guessed how much of it was about your sister. It’s not like I didn’t see what a mess everything was after that night, and that was definitely when the whole shutting me out thing started.”
“You did absolutely nothing wrong,” Mycroft replied awkwardly. “I would rather she hadn’t killed again, but it was inevitable that Eurus would do something to lose her relative freedom; if I’d done the responsible thing and said something, instead of stringing you along indefinitely, you would not have been left doubting this – or me.” Mycroft stroked Greg’s cheek and kissed him tenderly. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, I’m glad that’s cleared up.” The toaster popped the first round of toast up, breaking the moment, but Greg was unable to keep the smile off his face. “You’re going to talk to your mum and preferably a capable therapist tomorrow. Sherlock’ll have your back on this.” At Mycroft’s enquiring look, Greg continued, “He gave me your address in exchange for three cases, but I offered him ten cases when I tried to get it out of him on your birthday. Honestly, I think he only haggled for appearances’ sake.”
“I suppose we’ll see,” Mycroft said, smiling softly at the toast he was making quick work of buttering. “There should be a selection of preserves in the fridge. I’ll have the strawberry.”
Greg crossed the kitchen to Mycroft’s fridge and found five open jars of various jams, a bottle of milk, and two pieces of fragrant cheese. He added the bag of Chinese and removed the strawberry jam. “You’ve got to get some actual food, Mycroft. You can’t live on toast and takeaways.”
“There doesn’t seem to be much point when I am so rarely at home,” Mycroft replied, taking the Fortnum & Mason jar from Greg. “My rooms at the Diogenes are easier to secure, so it made sense to base myself there whilst my sister’s situation was so delicate.”
“I’ll let that excuse work this time.” Greg watched as Mycroft’s lips curled into a small smile. It didn’t do much to alleviate the dark circles under his eyes, or the deep lines that fanned out from them, but he was relieved to see it nonetheless. It was the work of minutes for Mycroft to build a small stack of toast, which the pair of them steadily worked through, their free hands clasped loosely. It wasn’t exactly the most nutritious meal, but it was at least food, so Greg was willing to count that as a win. “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep tonight?” he asked when they had got to the last half slice, which Greg pushed towards Mycroft.
“I hope so.” Mycroft glanced down at their joined hands. “You have a remarkable way of making me feel better, even when the problem remains.”
“Any time. You know that.” Greg raised their hands and pressed a kiss to the back of Mycroft’s, hoping that his lips were not jammy enough to leave a sticky smear on the pale, freckled skin. “I’m going to get out of your hair and let you get some sleep, but I’m only a call away if you need me. Not much point in having a boyfriend if you’re not going to let me do my boyfriendly duty, is there?”
“Well, there is another option,” Mycroft said after a moment, his words carefully spoken. “You can stay here if you’d like. There are eight bedrooms, so plenty to choose from if you don’t want to share with me.” Mycroft glanced at Greg through his short reddish eyelashes, insecurity writ large across his expression. For all that Mycroft was undoubtedly a master manipulator and supremely confident in the workplace, he was so painfully lacking in confidence when it came to his personal life. Greg wanted nothing more than to wrap Mycroft up and beat the insecurities away with a big stick. “I’m not feeling up to sexual activity, but I should very much like to share a bed with you. All of my sources agree that risks associated with my sister are now as managed as they will ever be, so I am reasonably confident that we will be safe here.”
“Oh, I’m there. I’m there with all the bells on,” Greg said, delighted. One of the advantages of ageing was developing a true appreciation of physical intimacy without the need for sexual gratification. Greg had been positively craving those special moments with Mycroft since their relationship had started to shift all those months ago, and the wait and denials had only made those cravings stronger. Something sparked in Mycroft’s eyes as he recognised Greg’s sincerity, the set of his shoulders visibly relaxing. Wanting to ensure that Mycroft fully grasped that there was no pressure for more than a cuddle, Greg confessed, “I’ve been dreaming about sharing a bed with you for years. I bet you look gorgeous in the morning, with bed-head and a bit of stubble.”
Mycroft smiled and took Greg’s hand, leading him out of the kitchen and towards the stairs. “In that case, it is past time that dreams become reality.”
They headed back out of the kitchen, down a corridor, and took a left turn back to the main hall, followed all the way by Mycroft’s creepy soundtrack. That was when it actually hit Greg that he was in Mycroft’s house, about to be taken to Mycroft’s bed, and the hope crashing through him was almost painful. He wasn’t sure that he would cope with another setback. Not after the painfully slow journey from friends to almost-lovers, only to have tipped over a cliff edge into the kind of civility that had coloured the early years of their relationship. One foot on the bottom step, Greg came to a full stop. “I don’t want any going back after tonight, Mycroft. You’re going to talk to your mum, decisions’ll be made that have fuck all to do with me, and you sister’s probably going to be one of the most dangerous people on this landmass for the rest of our lives, but I’m going nowhere.” Mycroft, standing one step above Greg, held Greg’s gaze but did not interrupt. “We both know I’m head over heels in love with you. If I stay tonight, I’m not going to be stretching the truth next time I tell someone I’m your boyfriend. We’ll be picking up where we left off before the shit hit the fan. Are we on the same page?”
Mycroft’s expression barely flickered for a long moment and Greg, briefly, thought that he had pushed too hard, too fast. But then, just when Greg was about to start backtracking, Mycroft quirked a smile. “We shall need to discuss your ongoing security, but yes, we are very much on the same page.” Mycroft hesitated, a faint moue of distaste crossing his features. “Except one slight issue,” he continued, tugging Greg up the stairs. “I would be very grateful if you could see your way to replacing ‘boyfriend’ with something less juvenile. Partner, perhaps.”
“Oh, yeah. I can do that,” Greg agreed with a grin, practically bouncing up the creaky stairs with a newfound spring in his step. “Partner’s good. Perfect, in fact.” The decor on the first floor was more homely than on the ground floor. Less dark wood panelling and fewer imposing portraits made the space seem lighter and distinctly less creepy. There was something else, too, but it took Greg a moment to realise what it was. “No sound effects,” he said, as Mycroft came to a stop at another of the incongruously modern security doors and pressed his left hand against a palm scanner.
“Not on this floor, no.” One beep later and Mycroft pushed the door open and led Greg into a short corridor. “I upgraded the security after Sherlock’s antics. The floors, windows, and walls are all reinforced, and no staff enter this wing whilst I am in the house, so if we hear anything untoward we know it is a real threat. I have weapons concealed in various places, and there is now a permanent security presence in the house. My bedroom doubles as a safe room, should it be needed.”
Greg felt another wave of anger and sadness that Mycroft had been living alone in a prison for fuck knows how long. Mycroft was officially into middle age; he should have been able to relax a little, but between his parents and his siblings it didn’t look like he’d truly looked after himself in decades. ‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ Greg decided as Mycroft let them into his bedroom and switched on the light.
Mycroft cleared his throat. “My pyjamas will be a little long on you, but should do for one night,” he said, hovering just inside the door of his bedroom. It was so painfully obvious that he was out of his depth that Greg was worried that the other man had changed his mind until he registered just how hard Mycroft was gripping his hand. With a vague wave of his free hand, Mycroft gestured at another door, and continued, “the en-suite is through there.”
“Thanks,” Greg replied, taking the opportunity to look around. The lighter décor continued in the bedroom, with a refined masculinity that Greg had come to associate with Mycroft. All of the furniture appeared to be antique in pristine condition. The tall four-poster bed, with its plush green bedding and none of the ridiculous piles of superfluous cushions and pillows Greg’s ex-wife had favoured was exactly the kind of bed Greg had imagined occupying centre stage in Mycroft’s bedroom. “You’re going to have to cuff me to that one day,” Greg said with a nod in the direction of the bed, absolutely no idea that he was going to allow that particular fantasy to see the light of day until the words fled his mouth without a backward glance.
Mycroft’s laugh was light and happy, filling Greg with hope that they had well and truly turned a corner. Grey eyes twinkling in the light cast by the chandelier overhead, Mycroft wrapped his free arm around Greg’s waist and pulled him into a warm embrace. “That can be arranged. Not your handcuffs, of course; those would damage the wood.”
“Hmm, good point. One for us to think about, then.” Greg leaned in and claimed a kiss. “Bed. I’m owed some time off, so I’m sticking around tomorrow. You’re going to talk to your mum and whoever else needs a good talking to, and then we’re going to work out the rest together. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Mycroft tilted his face slightly to nuzzle at Greg’s jaw. “Thank you, Greg.”
“Any time. Wrangling Holmes boys who don’t know what’s good for them is my superpower,” Greg replied, feeling, for the first time since that fucking awful night, that things were going to be okay.