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When Greg entered the bedroom he smiled. Mycroft may seem like he had no heart to most people, but here, in their shared sleeping quarters, the man hid nothing. It had been their agreement from the start - no secrets. If this was going to work (and sometimes Greg really wondered how they had managed to make it this far) they had to be open about their feelings, at least when they were on their own.
Right now, My was curled up in a ball on the bed and not for the first time, Greg couldn’t help but think that there was a certain resemblance to Sherlock in a bad mood. The man had pulled the covers around himself protectively.
Slowly, unsure of whether the other man was awake or not, Greg came closer, loosening his tie as he went.
“How was it then,” My all but spat, “Probably atrocious, right? I never thought John Watson had much taste and that woman is even worse than him.”
Greg smiled. Mycroft had not been happy that John was going ahead with the wedding despite Sherlock returning into his life. Greg, however, understood. The man had made a promise to Mary, he wasn’t going to break it for anyone, especially not a man who had let him believe he was dead for three years.
And yet, Greg also couldn’t help but feel sorry for Mary. A man of his word John may be, but surely it wasn’t a good sign that he spent more time looking at his best man than at his bride, was it?
“It was a lovely ceremony, My,” Greg said gently, peeling off the suit and sliding in behind his partner, “You really should have come. I know you got the invitation.”
Mycroft gave a huff beside him, his hair tickling Greg’s nose.
“I am a very busy man, Gregory, I cannot be expected to attend such trivial procedures,” he all but spat out, yet the DI could have sworn that on this night, for once, Mycroft hadn’t been working, instead indulging in self-pity and worry for his younger sibling.
Greg debated mumbling reassurances about Sherlock being fine, but he knew that Mycroft wouldn’t appreciate the platitudes. There was nothing fine about Sherlock, despite the strong façade he had put on today. A lot of danger nights were coming their way.
“I brought some cake home for you,” he whispered into Mycroft’s ear instead, attempting to distract him.
“I don’t want their cake! I don’t want anything to do with them or their ridiculous ceremony!”
Greg smiled. Mycroft was really rather endearing when he couldn’t have his way. When all his power couldn’t change something, he apparently turned into an overgrown toddler throwing a tantrum. How many times he had criticised Sherlock for the very same thing and here he was, succumbing to sentiment.
How much he loved his ridiculous Holmes, Greg thought as he gently drifted to sleep.
----
Mycroft could feel Greg’s breathing evening out behind him. It was surprising how soothing a human body pressed against his own could be.
He supposed he had been acting a little immature today. It wasn’t like sulking was actually going to achieve anything and yet it had been strangely satisfying to give in to the urge just this once.
The presence of that woman in John Watson’s life was more than a little inconvenient. He knew that part of the reason Sherlock had fought so hard to return to his old life had been the existence of a certain damaged little army doctor. To find that his former companion had moved on had been a shock.
Sherlock had taken it surprisingly well, all things considered. In some ways, certainly better than Mycroft himself, though he would never admit that to his younger brother. There was a certain resignation to Sherlock though, that made Mycroft very uneasy. Surveillance on 221B Baker Street, now housing just his brother again, had been raised to the highest level of course and Sherlock couldn’t so much as sneeze without him being informed, but none of that managed to ease the tight little knot of anxiety that had formed in Mycroft’s belly.
No, he decided, he would not let that woman destroy everything that Sherlock had built for himself with John Watson. He would watch them, for a while at least, and see if his brother managed to cope. But at the first whiff of drugs or other self-destructing behaviour, something was going to happen.
Perhaps an accident, he thought. Car crash, terribly tragic, but what can you do? That would drive John Watson right into the arms of his brother.
Greg shifted behind him and Mycroft spent an idle moment wondering what his beloved Detective would say if he could read those dark thoughts on Mycroft’s mind. He would be shocked, probably, or believe that Mycroft wasn’t serious.
Oh, but Mycroft was. He wasn’t going to do it right away, that would raise suspicion. If things somehow worked out the way they were now (though he seriously could not see that happening) he might never even have resort to these extreme measures at all. But he was the British Government, sending soldiers into battle every day and staying detached when people gave their life for a greater cause. What was the life of one woman, when it came down to it?
Satisfied, Mycroft gently extricated himself from his lover's embrace, planting a gentle kiss on Greg’s forehead as he got up.
He was going to look for that cake now.