Chapter Text
It never ceased to astonish Mycroft that he had become friends with Detective Inspector Lestrade - Gregory, as Mycroft was permitted to call him. He was entirely sure that everyone familiar with him shared his astonishment – people simply did not like him. Especially easygoing and normal (not to mention attractive) people like Gregory.
Nonetheless, Mycroft found himself spending evenings with Gregory with surprisingly regular irregularity. They both shared a love of good whiskey, and Mycroft, who seldom indulged otherwise, was all too delighted to spend an inordinate amount of time sipping the finest spirits Scotland (and occasionally Japan) had to offer in Gregory’s charming company.
They avoided most work-related subjects (and diligently steered away from everything Sherlock-related), discussing an eclectic array of topics ranging from the Roman military tactics to the design of the London Underground to stolen colonial treasures in the British Museum.
On a rare occasion, they discussed more personal issues. One such occasion came in late spring. Mycroft could tell upon arrival that Gregory was preoccupied with something – Gregory had a rather cheerful and outgoing disposition, and it was rare to see him looking so maudlin. Mycroft had never mistaken Gregory’s positive outlook for a lack of depth or feeling – he knew that Gregory cared very deeply about many things (his unsolved cases, his failed marriage, the lack of contact with his family).
Ah, that was the issue then – the date corresponded to the anniversary of Gregory’s wedding day. Mycroft was unsure whether he should pry; in the end, he felt it would not be welcome and chose to remain silent, slowly sipping his whiskey.
Mycroft himself was openly gay – openly, because in his profession it was dangerous (not to mention foolish) to have secrets that were easily discoverable (Mycroft was no stranger to youthful indiscretions). In recent years, his sexual orientation had become nigh irrelevant, for it had been some time since he had had any kind of a sexual encounter (other than of the solitary kind, in which he engaged only irregularly). The sordid and mostly anonymous trysts he had enjoyed as an adult had left him feeling rather dirty and dissatisfied, and he had thus preferred to cease them altogether. (It was a pity - Mycroft did very much like all sensual pleasures.)
He strongly suspected that Gregory was not entirely heterosexual either, but they had never explicitly discussed the topic. Gregory and sex were a combination of ideas fraught with danger – though Mycroft had tried to convince himself that he was perfectly content with their current arrangement (friends), he could not repress his feelings. He was self-aware enough to recognise that he had come to care for Gregory on a much deeper level, though the physical pull was bad enough. (Mycroft chastised himself for pining for the man like a schoolboy.)
Mycroft was, however, a realist: Gregory’s (potential) attraction to men was in no way an indication of an attraction to Mycroft. Mycroft knew all too well his limitations, physical and otherwise – there was little to recommend him other than his power, money and status (all of which meant demonstrably little to Gregory).
Mycroft had reconciled himself with the fact that he was yearning for something he could never have – he was always careful not to overindulge in alcoholic beverages in order to stay in perfect control of himself, his actions and reactions. He never let his eyes wander, and, if he indulged in any fantasies, it was only in the privacy of his own bedroom.
Mycroft was suddenly aware that Gregory had finished his glass of whiskey and was pensively looking at Mycroft’s fidgeting hands. Mycroft had been turning the platinum ring on his finger – a bad habit that indicated that he was moping.
“Never been married?” Gregory asks - Mycroft’s reply is a firm negative.
“Ever been tempted?” Gregory then asks, raising an eyebrow.
Mycroft’s reply is not exactly a lie: “Civil partnerships have not been an option for very long,” but he feels uncomfortable enough to amend the statement with, “and I have never been in a long-term relationship.”
Gregory does not look surprised at the news that Mycroft is gay – contrary to what is brother believes, Mycroft finds Gregory to be surprisingly perceptive.
“I am sorry that things did not work out with your wife,” Mycroft ventures to say.
Again, Gregory does not seem surprised by his deduction and merely hms in reply, turning the empty glass in his hand.
When Mycroft no longer expects a reply, Gregory at last throws a complex look into his eyes: “It’s funny how sometimes you can’t see what’s right in front of you.”
Mycroft has no reply, and they part ways for the night soon after.
While Mycroft has never undertaken any fieldwork (as a junior staff member, he had been a pencil-pushing analyst), there are at times threats targeting his person.
One desperate and quite outlandish effort succeeds in catching him and his security team off guard. He is coming home from a rare private soirée when some kind of a tranquilliser dart embeds itself in his neck. Whatever the substance is, it is fast-acting – Mycroft feels slightly unsteady on his feet almost immediately. Luckily, his missing security detail reappears to make a welcome effort to tackle his assailants. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, Mycroft knows that this is his chance to escape – he sprints around the corner and throws himself into a taxi waiting at the red lights.
The taxi driver seems to believe him drunk, as Mycroft's rapidly deteriorating cognitive capabilities struggle to produce any kind of destination. The question, “Where'd you wanna to guv'?” finally brings a single idea into focus. Oh, how he has been yearning for Gregory's company the whole tedious evening.
“Gregory, take me to Gregory.” His infallible memory instantaneously produces the address when prompted.