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Greg had not thought he would ever run into Mycroft Holmes again. Their lives were too different to intersect otherwise than accidentally, as they had once upon a time.
Their affair had been almost unbearably sweet while it lasted (and the sex had been fabulous), but, of course, it could not and did not last. Greg had come to acknowledge years later (a long way into his not-yet-failing marriage with Jen) that they had both been at fault. He had been too insecure about his working-class background, and Mycroft had been too high-handed and perhaps also insecure in his own way. Both too proud and too stubborn to apologise. (Every expensive gift and careless favour from Mycroft had made him feel uncomfortable, and Mycroft's superior attitude hadn't been helpful.)
If his marriage to Jen had taught him something, it was that you needed to swallow your pride to make relationships work (not that his and Jen's had in the end, though for entirely different reasons) and that even a fabulous row did not mean that you could not and should not make up afterwards. With Jen, before the lack of trust led to the final breakdown, the fundamental issue had been that Greg was married to his work - Jen could not accept that she and her needs and wants sometimes came second. It was a legitimate stand, Greg acknowledged, but not something he could change - his work was an integral part of who he was (as was the case for Mycroft, which had contributed to their compatibility).
But by the time Greg came to the realisation that he had been an idiot, it was already much too late, water under the bridge so long gone that he sometimes wondered whether the regret was pure nostalgia on his part.
Nonetheless, the regret lingered – an instinctual gut feeling that they, he and Mycroft, might have been something together.
Unexpectedly, Greg came to meet Mycroft’s brother in the scope of his duties. Of course, he did not at first know that Sherlock was Mycroft’s brother; Mycroft had never mentioned his brother’s name, though he had often complained of a younger brother’s behaviour, and Sherlock certainly never told Greg he had a brother.
It was the name that had initially planted the seed of doubt (“Sherlock” was quite a peculiar given name, much like another he remembered). In addition, there was something of a family resemblance between the brothers - though they were both likely to deny it. Perhaps it was more gestural and a similarity in certain turns of phrase (and of mind) rather than a similarity in actual physical traits. Of course, when Greg finally learnt Sherlock’s last name, that sealed the deal – it was too much of a coincidence.
Greg did not tell Sherlock that he knew (or rather had known) Mycroft – better to avoid unwanted deductions. And all in all, it mattered not; Sherlock was his own person, and Greg had already developed a certain fondness for him, despite the regrettable drug habit. If giving Sherlock a few cases every now and then in exchange for keeping clean worked, that was reason enough. The family relationship did, however, mean that Greg might run into Mycroft at some point; that was a fact he had come to accept. In the long run, it might perhaps even be likely, given that Mycroft had genuinely seemed to care for his brother, despite their estrangement.
And so, on a rather lovely spring day, Greg - on an impromptu visit to 221B Baker Street - happens upon Mycroft, who is leaving the building. The man is just as tall and immaculately dressed as Greg had remembered, though his hairline is starting to recede (Greg finds that it makes him look somehow even more distinguished), and he looks every bit as forbidding – and as appealing. (Sex on a bloody stick.)
They both freeze, and just as Mycroft makes an effort to sidestep him with a clipped “Goodbye, Inspector”, Greg regains the use of his motor functions, making an abortive motion to pose a hand on the man’s arm with a rushed, “Mycroft, wait a sec.”
He can feel rather than see Mycroft sneer down his long nose at the direction of the offending body part. Spreading his hands in a (hopefully) disarming gesture, Greg attempts, “Please, spare me a moment, will you?”
Mycroft considers the demand for a few seconds more than he needs - presumably coming to the conclusion that it would be the most effective solution to deal with the matter here and now - and turns to face Greg, his face carefully blank.
Before Greg can start, Mycroft states (fishing out his pocket watch): “You have exactly two minutes.”
The gesture is so Mycroft-like that it has a entirely unintended effect of on Greg - he finds himself fighting a fond smile that threatens to burst on his face. Mycroft probably intuits something of the kind as Greg imagines seeing a trace of puzzlement appear in the imperious tilt of the man’s head.
Gods, man, be brave: “Look, I just wanted to apologise.” Now he is sure he can read confusion in Mycroft’s gaze.
Greg continues: “I was an insecure prick, and I behaved badly. For what it’s worth, I wanted you to know that I’m sorry.”
Mycroft’s reply comes slowly and is more muted than expected: “I am not sure as to what you are expecting from me.”
Greg sighs, “I’m not expecting anything, really. I know that the apology comes too late and won’t change anything.”
Mycroft looks doubtful. Perhaps Greg has been hoping for something more: “I was just hoping that we might bump into each other without too many hard feelings, I guess.”
Mycroft inspects him with that familiar, intent scrutiny that used to put him ill at ease - it doesn't anymore; perhaps he has acquired an immunity to the Holmes brothers.
“Very well then,” Mycroft concludes his inspection. Greg is still wondering what the conclusion might be when Mycroft reaches out his hand – Greg instinctually takes it, and with a last “Looking forward to seeing you again, Inspector,” Mycroft is gone.
Though Mycroft had planned for the eventuality of a chance meeting, Gregory had thrown him off his carefully prepared script. (He should have foreseen the possibility of that encounter; the surveillance must have missed a clue somewhere – to be investigated later.)
Mycroft had not, however, expected an apology – it contradicted his past observations of Gregory’s behaviour. He had also, over the years, come to the humbling conclusion that Gregory’s criticisms had not been unjustified – he had been somewhat overbearing. Mycroft had thus expected anger, indifference, perhaps even contempt or disgust – not a glimpse of something that had looked almost like affection and a no small amount of regret.
The unexpected apology had also had an unexpected result: what Gregory thought of him should by now be completely irrelevant; yet, Gregory’s words had rekindled a feeling in his heart that he had thought lost forever.
He had given in to temptation and shaken Gregory’s hand (he could still feel lingering traces of the shock the touch had sent through his arm).
Dear lord, the man had looked nigh edible. Of course, Mycroft had seen surveillance pictures, but it was wholly different to see Gregory in the flesh (those warm eyes, that easy charm). Though Mycroft had never understood some people’s obsession with silver foxes, Gregory had only grown more handsome with age - the lush silver-toned hair made the contrast with his brown eyes even more striking.
Mycroft himself had lost any feeble physical appeal he might have held as a young man – his physique had grown flabbier, his skin more pallid, his hair thinner, and his behaviour colder. He despaired – he was more than ever entirely out of Gregory’s league. (Gregory’s ex-wife was truly an incredibly stupid creature.)
Gregory’s kindness to Sherlock meant that Mycroft also felt indebted to the man. Gregory had been unfailingly supportive of Sherlock both before and after Sherlock's potential connection to Mycroft had come to light. Mycroft would endeavour to repay Gregory for his kindness in any way the detective might allow it.
Perhaps there was another motivation to his desire to (re)establish contact with Gregory, but it was best left buried somewhere deep in his psyche (he did not dare to hope, yet).
Greg was somewhat surprised (though pleasantly so) that after that initial encounter, Mycroft started to turn up from time to time when Sherlock was being particularly obnoxious on a crime scene or when he could otherwise lend some assistance (a ride home late at night in his black car, a surprise takeway when Greg was too tired to lift a finger, a convenient nudge to the Commissioner). Over the weeks, they became even something akin to new/old friends.
Greg does not, however, expect Mycroft to show up one evening at NSY, his sleek car idling at the entrance, and propose a drink. The opportunity is too good to pass up, and Greg instantly accepts.
They go to a posh whiskey bar (Mycroft still remembers Greg’s preferences) and sit down in a quiet, dimly lit corner. Greg likes a pint in a pub as well as the next bloke, but he has missed being able to share a expensive glass of whiskey in an luxurious, upscale joint. The ambiance of the place is bordering on intimate; Greg feels it is a good sign.
Suddenly, it seems that the years of separation and estrangement no longer matter, and they are chatting away as they used to when they'd been young. (“Gregory” rolling off of Mycroft’s tongue is definitely doing things for Greg's libido.)
Gods, how he has missed Mycroft and the man’s many contradictions: the brilliant mind and scathing wit coupled with a deep humanity and a surprisingly large amount of insecurity hidden beneath that elegantly tailored three-pieced armour. (The man is much too sweet for such an arrogant bastard he can be at times.)
Perhaps it is their past acquaintance or his years of experience as a detective that make it easy for Greg to read those fleeting micro-expressions on Mycroft’s face. (Or perhaps it's just the whiskey that makes him think he can read them all?)
Greg knows he cannot hide the fact that he is by now completely smitten - so he leans into the flirting, shifting closer to Mycroft until their knees touch under the table. He hopes he is reading Mycroft right - the man does not mind the attention (he has such a delightful blush and gets so easily to flustered when you know his weak points).
Dear lord, that teasing tone of Gregory’s voice and those suggestive looks. (Mycroft cannot keep himself from blushing.)
Before Mycroft can let himself hope for anything more, he must, however, acquit himself of the objective of the evening. He gathers his courage: “Gregory, at the risk of ruining the atmosphere, I must tell you something.”
Gregory looks alarmed.
Mycroft soldiers on: “I must also apologise for my behaviour all those years ago, I believe that I was not very gracious.”
Gregory’s smile puts his doubts to rest, “Mycroft, I forgave you a very long time ago.”
“And, for the record, I think we were both idiots - too young to know we had a good thing,” Gregory adds – though his tone is light, Mycroft thinks he can sense a profound sadness behind the words.
“Do you think that we might be old and wise enough now?” Mycroft enquires with some (significant) trepidation.
“Guess there’s only one way to find out,” Gregory answers, bringing his hand over Mycroft’s. His brown eyes are warm, and there is a soft smile hovering over his lips. (God, how Mycroft has missed that fond look.)
As much as Mycroft abhors public displays of affection (Gregory less so), he cannot resist pressing his lips to Gregory’s in a small, tender peck. Gregory's unguarded reaction makes him adjust the odds for spending the night with Gregory in his bed (they are excellent).