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Mycroft examined himself in his bedroom mirror as he put the cufflinks in place. The waistcoat hugged his silhouette tightly, the stark white shirt contrasting the dark trousers and making his legs look even longer than they were. He had been suspicious, but miraculously his tailor had been right: the few extra pounds he had gained in the stress of the last weeks suited him very well in that tight fit. He looked tall and steadfast. The colour was bold: emerald green that highlighted the ginger hair that he had given up on dying. He had considered if the golden pocket watch made him look too pompous for the occasion, but he supposed that being without his jacket all evening would be casual enough.
Nothing could hide the dark circles underneath his eyes, or the pale and sickly tone of his skin. It had been months since he had slept well; since that day in Sherrinford that had turned his life upside down. The pictures still haunted him at night: brains and blood splattered on the floor; a gun in his face, held by his own brother; walls that would not buckle, no matter how hard he pushed against them. Never in his life had he felt such loss of control. The uncertainty, the fear and the guilt he had felt that night still accompanied his every conscious thought. His parents’ accusations did not help, and even though Sherlock advocated for him, the bond to his brother seemed severed. Nothing could make him forget the cold he had felt when Sherlock had pointed the weapon at him.
Sherlock had not left out a single opportunity to make up for it. As Sherlock’s birthday approached, he had called Mycroft almost every day until he accepted the invitation, not taking any of Mycroft’s excuses.
It had been Greg who had convinced him eventually. Mycroft knew that Sherlock had asked him to look after him, but he had to admit that Greg was playing his role convincingly. Mycroft was quite certain that he acted on duty, not on pity, and if Mycroft were to choose someone to spy on him, Greg was not a bad choice. He was easy to talk to, and pleasant to look at – and sometimes Mycroft indulged in the fantasy that they could be friends. As he checked his hair in the mirror, he pushed away the thought that somehow this felt like more than just putting on a battle suit.
Mycroft had the strong inclination to leave just as he was walking up the steps to his brother’s flat, but it was too late now; they already knew he was there. John opened the door with a silent nod, and Sherlock appeared behind him, his relief obvious behind the mask of indifference.
“So glad you could make it, brother mine. Can I take your jacket?”
As Mycroft stepped in, his eyes were immediately drawn to the silver hair near the fireplace. Greg looked up from his conversation with Molly and gave him friendly grin. Mycroft saw his eyes dropping, taking in his appearance, and Mycroft looked away quickly.
“Happy birthday,” he said to Sherlock, handing him a book he was sure his brother would enjoy and a plain birthday card. He couldn’t bring himself to anything but a thin smile, yet Sherlock seemed delighted anyway. He gave Mycroft a smile that looked genuine, and for a moment Mycroft was jealous of his happiness. For Sherlock, caring had not ended in disaster.
He glanced towards Greg and was surprised to meet his eyes. Greg seemed surprised too because he looked away quickly, nodding importantly to something Molly had said.
“You should try the punch,” Sherlock said and gestured to the kitchen. “We made quite a lot of it. John has refined the recipe at university… We also have hotdogs and cake.”
Mycroft waited for a comment on his weight gain, but it didn’t come. Instead, Sherlock leaned back against the counter, apparently about to start making conversation, when the bell rang again.
“Sorry- We’ve invited quite a few friends…” He turned to open the door for people Mycroft had never seen before. He had stopped the surveillance on Sherlock, now that John was back at his side and his brother seemed stable.
He turned to look at the cakes, wondering how long it would take to eat a piece. He’d promised himself to just stay for an hour – it wasn’t exactly polite enough, yet all the time he thought he could stand in this flat – and then he could leave. He would just need to fill that hour, eat some cake, make some small talk –
“If you’re looking for recommendations, I’d take the Victorian Sponge. Mrs Hudson’s a fantastic baker.”
Mycroft jumped a little, the hair in his neck rising at sound of the rough voice. He could feel himself blush as he turned around, opening his mouth and closing it again, swallowing the ‘Inspector’. “Greg.”
The man grinned shyly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to attack you. I was just getting some punch, d’you want some?”
Mycroft nodded, purposely keeping his eyes averted as Greg filled two wine glasses with the berry-coloured drink.
“Thank you,” he said and reached out to take a glass, but Greg just nodded towards the counter.
“It’s alright, I’ll carry them. Go get some cake.”
Mycroft had expected Sherlock to use this set-up as a trap, to use Greg as an excuse to talk to him – but the hours passed, and they were left alone. Greg wanted to know about Mycroft, about his week and the baking he had done since they had last seen each other, about his trip to the US and whether he had listened to the songs he had recommended. Greg spoke about his nieces and his favourite crime novels and about work, and Mycroft let himself relax and melt into the sofa.
The more they drank, the closer they seemed to get. Their knees and shoulders were touching, and Mycroft could feel the heat radiating from Greg’s body. At some point, Mycroft had rolled up his sleeves to avoid sweating – now their arms were touching occasionally, skin to skin, and it only made him feel hotter. Greg’s eyes were deep and honest and bright with amusement, and Mycroft found it hard to focus on anything else. Sometimes, when Greg said something funny that made Mycroft laugh, Greg would bite his lip. It made Mycroft want to laugh rather a lot.
“It’s getting warm in here,” Greg said at one point, smiling at Mycroft. “Care for a smoke?”
Mycroft could certainly use some air to clear his head. He also hadn’t smoked since his arrival, and he was starting to feel the withdrawal. They left their drinks on the table. Mycroft took his coat while Greg remained in his shirt.
Although it was the first week of January, the night was unnaturally warm, just as the city seemed unusually quiet. Only sirens and flashing blue lights disturbed the peace as an ambulance drove past them, then suddenly it was just the two of them. They leaned sideways against the wall to look at each other, but none of them said a word. Mycroft could feel the air between them vibrating. His own heart seemed to beat with the knowledge that their bodies were way too close, even for drunk friends.
He cleared his throat, trying to regain some control over the intense situation by talking, intently searching the floor between their feet for conversation starters, when suddenly Greg’s fingers reached out to touch his waistcoat. He looked up quickly, his eyes wide. Greg’s eyes looked calm in the shine of the streetlight, but his lips were slightly parted as if he too found it difficult to breathe.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you all evening,” he said quietly, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down Mycroft’s back, his eyes sweeping down his front before they found Mycroft’s again, unafraid. “You look amazing.”
Looking back, Mycroft is not quite sure how it happened. Surely he must have tripped – dizzy from the alcohol and Greg’s proximity and his soft words, he lost balance – because suddenly the distance between them was gone and Mycroft was pressing his lips against Greg’s, unmoving– and he pulled back, his heart trying to free itself from his chest, banging against his rib cage with a terrifying force. His eyes were quick to seek the ground. Before he could even begin to think of an explanation, an apology, Greg gripped him by his shoulders. The next thing he knew, Greg kissed him again. Mycroft’s heart seemed to explode, his mind seemed to stop working. Unable to move, he shuddered as Greg pulled his lip between his teeth.
With an undignified noise that sounded very much like a moan, Mycroft pulled away, gasping quietly. He looked up to find Greg’s dark eyes fixed upon him. Mycroft watched him bite his lip, breathing heavily. He couldn’t believe it.
“Hey…” Greg ran his knuckles over his waistcoat, eyes still fixed on Mycroft’s face. “You okay? Is this…?”
Mycroft was speechless, but there was only one possible answer to this unspoken question. He nodded firmly and couldn’t believe his own daring as he leaned in for another kiss, his hands coming to rest shyly on Greg’s hips. Greg seemed to only gain confidence as he put a hand on Mycroft’s cheek and slipped his tongue between his lips, teasing. Mycroft thought he was going to expire on the spot. His mind remained empty, but he didn’t need it to remember how to do this.
When Greg finally pulled away, Mycroft was positively shaking. He was concerned about his own strong reaction until he spotted Greg’s bright smile, which put him to ease at once. They remained silent for a few moments, Mycroft’s hands still on Greg’s hips, Greg’s hand now against his chest, no doubt feeling his wild heartbeat.
“Should we go back upstairs?” Greg asked huskily, a small smile on his lips. “They’ll be wondering.”
Nothing could be further from Mycroft’s mind than going back upstairs, but he supposed that Greg was right. Something inside him was starting to work again, voicing concerns about evaluating those new events, but Greg flashed him another grin as they headed through the door and Mycroft’s mind went quiet.
Inescapable, he thought as he followed Greg back into the bright noise. I am not even going to try.