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The living room of John and Sherlock’s flat was a minefield of plastic building blocks and discarded wrapping paper. It was one of those rare "family" get-togethers that Mycroft usually avoided, yet here he was, perched on the edge of an armchair, nursing a cup of tea that had gone cold twenty minutes ago.
Across the room, Gregory was sitting on the floor, patiently helping his seven-year-old daughter, Daisy, navigate the complexities of a toy medical kit. Mycroft watched them over the rim of his cup. Greg looked happy—tired, with deep shadows under his eyes from a week of single-parenting through a flu season, but fundamentally happy.
"Another biscuit, Mycroft?" Sherlock’s voice cut through the domestic hum like a razor. Sherlock was leaning against the mantelpiece, his eyes darting over his brother with predatory precision. "Or perhaps you’ve reached your caloric quota for the quarter? That silk is looking rather... strained."
Mycroft stiffened, his fingers tightening on the porcelain. "I am perfectly fine, Sherlock. Do try to focus on your own abysmal health for once." "I’m merely observing the trend," Sherlock continued, his voice loud enough to drift over the chatter of John and Molly in the kitchen. "The gym visits have clearly dropped off. Is it the pressure of the Balkan crisis, or have you simply surrendered to the inevitable Holmes metabolism?"
Mycroft set his tea down with a sharp clack. He felt that familiar, cold knot of insecurity tighten in his chest—the one that had lived there since he was a boy. "I am on a strict regimen, I assure you."
"A regimen of what? Denial?" Sherlock smirked. Greg looked up then, his brow furrowed in a protective sort of frown, but he was interrupted by Rosie Watson tugging on his sleeve. Mycroft took the opportunity to retreat, slipping away toward the quiet of the hallway to regain his composure.
He stood by the window in the dining area, looking out at the streetlights, adjusting his waistcoat with a hand that trembled almost imperceptibly.
"You don't need a diet."
Mycroft jumped slightly, turning to find Daisy standing there. She was holding a plastic stethoscope from her kit, her hair a messy halo of curls that matched her father’s. She was looking at him with the terrifyingly direct gaze that only children and high-functioning sociopaths possess.
"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft murmured, smoothing his expression into a mask of polite indifference. Daisy walked closer, squinting at him. "The diet. I heard Sherlock being mean. You don't need one."
Mycroft offered a tight, tragic little smile. "That is very kind of you, Daisy, but I suspect your uncle has a point regarding my lack of discipline." Daisy shook her head solemnly. "No. You’re the most beautiful man in the world."
Mycroft froze. The air seemed to leave the room. He blinked, certain he had misheard. "I... I’m sorry?"
"That’s what Dad says," she said matter-of-factly, adjusting her stethoscope. "He tells me stories about his work, and sometimes your name comes up. And once, when he thought I was asleep on the sofa, he was talking to Uncle John. He said you were the most beautiful man he’d ever seen, but he was too scared to tell you because you’re a 'G-Man' and way out of his league." She looked Mycroft up and down once more, as if confirming her father’s assessment. "I think he’s right. You look like a prince. Only with an umbrella instead of a sword."
Mycroft couldn't speak. His heart, usually a well-regulated organ of state, was hammering against his ribs with a violence that was almost painful. He looked past Daisy toward the living room. Through the doorway, he could see Greg. Greg was laughing at something John had said, his face illuminated by the soft amber glow of the lamps. He looked warm, and real, and entirely unaware that his daughter had just dismantled Mycroft Holmes's entire world with a single sentence.
"Does he really say that?" Mycroft’s voice was barely a whisper. Daisy nodded. "All the time. He says your brain is the best part, but your face is a 'close second.'" She leaned in closer, conspiratorially. "I think you should give him a hug. He looks like he needs one."
Mycroft looked back at the Detective Inspector—the man he had admired from a distance for years, convinced he was nothing more than a necessary professional contact to a man like Greg. "I think," Mycroft said, his voice regaining a hint of its usual strength but infused with a new, tremulous warmth, "that your father might be a very perceptive man, Daisy." He took a deep breath, adjusted his tie one last time—not out of vanity, but out of a sudden, soaring sense of hope—and began to walk back into the room where Gregory Lestrade was waiting.
But before he could do anything, John’s voice boomed from the living room, effectively shattering the fragile silence of the dining area "Right, everyone! Movie time! Rosie’s picked The Lion King for the fifth time this week, so settle in."
Mycroft took a steadying breath, the phantom weight of Daisy’s words still pressing against his chest. He followed the small girl back into the main room, his eyes involuntarily seeking out Greg. The Detective Inspector was already clearing a space on the sofa, tossing a stray plush dinosaur toward the toy box. There was a moment of awkward shuffling as everyone found their places. John and Molly claimed the armchairs, Rosie and Sherlock (who looked profoundly bored) settled on the rug, and Mycroft found himself standing tentatively by the three-seater sofa.
"Room for one more, Mycroft?" Greg asked, patting the middle cushion. He was sitting on the far right, leaving a generous, polite gap of about two feet between them. "Thank you, Gregory," Mycroft murmured. He sat, his posture as stiff and upright as if he were attending a cabinet meeting. He folded his hands over his knees, staring intently at the opening credits as the sun rose over the Pride Lands. Suddenly, a small, determined force hit his left side. Daisy had climbed onto the sofa, but she didn’t just sit down; she wedged herself between Mycroft and the left armrest, then began a systematic shove. "Move over, Uncle Mycroft," she whispered loudly. "I need room for my legs."
Caught off guard, Mycroft slid to the right to accommodate her. He expected to stop once she was settled, but Daisy was relentless, shuffling her small weight until Mycroft had no choice but to close the gap entirely. His shoulder collided with Greg’s. He felt the sudden, radiating heat of the other man's body through the fine wool of his suit jacket. Mycroft froze, his breath hitching in his throat. He became hyper-aware of everything: the scent of Greg’s soap (something citrusy and cheap), the steady rise and fall of Greg’s chest, and the fact that their thighs were now pressed together from hip to knee.
Mycroft waited for Greg to shift away, to apologize for the lack of space, to reclaim his two feet of distance. Instead, Greg let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. He didn't pull away. Instead, very slowly, he let his weight settle.
Mycroft didn't move a muscle. He was terrified that even the smallest adjustment—a shift in his seating, a deep breath—would break the spell and remind Greg of the impropriety of the contact. He stared at the screen, eyes wide, seeing nothing of the animated lions and hearing only the frantic, rhythmic thud of his own heart against his ribs. He felt heavy, anchored, and utterly terrified that the movie might actually end.
On the screen, the colorful animation continued, but for Mycroft, the world had narrowed down to the few square inches where his suit jacket met Greg’s flannel shirt. The air in the room felt thick, charged with the weight of Daisy’s secret and the terrifyingly domestic warmth of the Watson-Holmes household.
Mycroft’s muscles were beginning to ache from the sheer effort of remaining motionless. He was a statue of a man, a monument to propriety, even as his internal rhythm was dictated entirely by the man sitting next to him. Then, it happened.
Greg moved. It wasn't a withdrawal, like he feared. Instead, Greg shifted his weight slightly, and Mycroft felt a hand—warm, heavy, and hesitant—settle against the small of his back. It wasn't a full embrace, just a light pressure, the fingertips barely brushing the fabric of Mycroft’s waistcoat. The contact was like a short-circuit to Mycroft’s defensive systems.
For a second, the instinct to recoil—to preserve the 'G-Man' persona Daisy had mentioned—flared up. But then, Greg’s thumb made a tiny, almost absent-minded circular motion against his spine. It was a gesture of profound comfort, the kind of touch one might offer a tired child or a grieving friend. Or a partner.
The involuntary shudder that went through Mycroft wasn't one of fear, but of surrender. The tension that had held his spine rigid for the last hour simply dissolved. His lungs finally expanded, taking in a full, shaky breath of that citrusy air. Without a conscious decision, Mycroft let his posture crumble. His head, suddenly too heavy for his neck to support, tipped sideways until it found the solid, welcoming shelf of Greg’s shoulder.
He expected a flinch. He expected Greg to make a joke to break the tension. Instead, Greg’s hand flattened more firmly against his back, pulling him just a fraction of an inch closer. Greg didn't look down; he kept his eyes on the movie, but his head tilted just enough to rest lightly against the top of Mycroft’s hair.
The silence between them changed. It was no longer the silence of two strangers trapped on a sofa; it was the quiet of two people acknowledging a truth that had been whispered in a dining room by a seven-year-old. Mycroft closed his eyes, the animated lions forgotten. For the first time in a decade, the British Government felt entirely, blissfully off the clock.