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She was charming.
Greg couldn’t remember the last time it had been so simple to hook up with someone, but Amelia had already greeted him with that sly smile and appraising look, and not left him alone for a single minute ever since. She laughed at his jokes and after a few glasses of wine, her hands were all over him, somehow always touching his elbow or his shoulder blade or his knee.
Greg hadn’t expected this to happen when he had arrived at Baker Street for John’s party, nor had he wanted it. But from the moment that she had shaken his hand with that little wink, it has been so easy, and he hadn’t realised how much he had craved for it to just be easy for once.
Not that it was entirely unproblematic. He could feel Mycroft’s eyes piercing him the whole evening. He caught him glaring at Amelia, undoubtedly plotting to send her into exile. He has no right to, Greg thought furiously, no bloody right to hate her, or me. Greg would probably be more scared for her safety if he wasn’t sure that Mycroft simply lacked the guts to go through with it. Coward that he is.
It was for the best, really. This has been going on for too long. It’s been months of getting ghosted after late night texts, of shared dinners in vibrant places and awkward silences in the car. Greg had been sure at times that Mycroft was melting, that Greg’s careful advances and blatant hints were what he wanted, but he was pushed away, again and again, so hard it left him breathless for days.
“Hey handsome, are you with me?” A warm hand cupped his cheek, pulling him out of his thoughts. Greg felt himself blush in the cool night air.
They were downstairs, sharing a cigarette as they waited for the cab. Greg had thrown Mycroft one last defiant look before leaving and caught an unexpected glimpse of raw hurt just before Mycroft had turned away. The smoke seemed to do nothing but irritate this throat. His thoughts remained tangled, not even allowing him to find the source of his frustration. Was it Mycroft’s reaction, or was it his own that annoyed him so much? After all, all they had ever shared was heart stopping eye contact and accidental hand brushes. Amelia had touched him more tonight than Mycroft had in twelve years.
“Y-yeah, sorry, I was just trying to remember whether I had cleaned up my-“
“Lestrade!”
Greg’s heart jumped and for a brief moment he thought he felt relieved, even though the voice sounded angry and wasn’t at all the one he wanted to hear.
“Sherlock,” he sighed. “What is it?”
Sherlock stepped from the door onto the pavement, and the streetlight illuminated his drawn eyebrows and his tight lips, his nostrils flaring as he lifted his head imperiously. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly quiet, though his tone was as sharp as ever. “What do you think you’re doing, Lestrade? I didn’t invite you so you could find some girl to have what I am sure would be average and slightly embarrassing sexual intercourse with.”
“Excuse me?” Amelia growled, irritated. Although Greg was used to this kind of behaviour, he found himself unusually wound up by it, too.
“You didn’t invite me at all, mate. It’s John’s birthday,” he said with a strained, forced calm that did nothing to conceal his anger, “And it is none of your business who I take home-“
“Oh, but it is, isn’t it! Because it was me who just spent an entire evening dealing with the gloomy and self-pitying mess of my brother. And I can’t blame him, really. I wonder-“, Sherlock looked up in mock contemplation, “how you would feel if he went home with some pretty plaything after months of your sickening flirting.”
Greg saw Amelia step up to say something, but he felt frozen to the spot. Cold had spread inside him at Sherlock’s words. “How do you know?”, he asked, his voice not quite sounding like his own.
“Oh please,“ Sherlock sneered, “it is blatantly obvious. I guessed there must be something going on when I first noticed that your moods were correlating, and then my brother started turning up on crimes scenes, and you were all over each other like some lovesick teenagers. What happened, did he not invite you to prom?“
“Shut up,” Greg growled, surprising them both. He was shaking with suppressed rage. “It’s none of your business. And anyway, nothing happened, so-“
“Nothing happened?” Sherlock sneered. “You are insulting your own intellect, Detective Inspector. Surely you will have some understanding of how extraordinary this development is for my brother. In fact, I don’t recall any prior interest on his side in anybody, sexually or romantically.”
“Then why doesn’t he show me?”, Greg bit back, his insides suddenly shrinking painfully. “It’s like dating the weather. If you can even call it ‘dating’.”
Sherlock regarded him for a moment, as if surprised Greg was actually that stupid. “He is the most powerful man in Britain, and on top of that, he’s a Holmes. You can’t have expected this to be easy?”
Sherlock’s words, though spoken in a calm, patronizing voice, hit Greg like a punch in the guts. He stared at him, dimly aware that a car pulled up beside them. He only looked up when Amelia cleared her throat, the door to the back already opened. She had a questioning look on her face, and there was a sting of disappointment somewhere in his chest as he shook his head apologetically. She got in and closed the door with a sigh.
Greg nodded at Sherlock. He wasn’t yet sure whether he should actually be thankful, but he hoped sincerely that one day he would be.
Upstairs, he filled two glasses of wine and made his way over to Mycroft. Sherlock was right – Mycroft looked strangely lost, despite his magnificent suit, one that Greg didn’t recognise. When he noticed him, Mycroft looked at him with a mixture of great surprise and contempt.
“Detective Inspector,” he greeted him, and Greg wasn’t surprised to hear they had regressed to titles. “I did not expect you to come back. That woman looked rather agreeable, was she not?”
Greg gave an amused huff and handed Mycroft the wine. “Yeah, no, she was. Just… changed my mind. Thought I’d rather spend the time with you.”
Mycroft’s lips parted slightly as if to speak, then he took a sip of wine. “Why?”, he asked, flatly.
“Because I like you a lot more than her, obviously. Even if we’re just talking.” He cleared his throat. “’m sorry I didn’t come straight here.”
“You’re not obliged to spend your time with me,” Mycroft said coolly, making Greg cringe a bit.
“Yeah, I know. I’d still like to, though. If you still want to.”
Mycroft said nothing, simply staring at him, as if trying to solve a difficult riddle.
And suddenly he didn't look like an elegant, evil mastermind, toying with Greg's feelings, trapping him in a game of push-and-pull for his own enjoyment. He just looked lost. And it dawned on Greg then that all the times he'd been pissed at Mycroft for being too cool and indifferent, he'd fallen for the mask of a man who desperately wanted to hide how out of his depth he was.
“Shit,” he breathed. “I really messed this up, didn't I?” He scratched his head, tasting regret like bile in the back of his throat.
“Messed what up?” Mycroft asked coolly, trying to regain his aloof posture. It only made Greg's heart squeeze painfully with fondness.
“Us,” he said softly. Right, that's it. No more games. “I want to be with you, Mycroft. In any form you're comfortable with. But, god... I'm trying to hit on you. I've been trying to hit on you for months.”
Mycroft was silent. He just stared at Greg, his jaw dropping slightly, but no words escaped him. This time, Greg did not let it unsettle him.
“I think you enjoy being hit on by me. I think you like being with me.” He let out his breath as a nervous huff, not quite believing his own nerve. “Am I right about that?”
Mycroft's jaw twitched, as if he was trying to say something and his mouth wasn't working. A silent blush spread across his cheeks. He nodded, once.
A relieved grin split Greg's face as the weight lifted off him. It crumbled only when he remembered their current situation and he dragged a hand across his face, embarrassed.
“Okay. Okay, that's good. Let's just... not do this tonight. I'm sorry for- I'm going to make it up to you. I'll make dinner tomorrow evening at my place, and we can talk.” He gathered the courage to look at Mycroft, eyes soft, letting him see his sincerity. Standing so close, their hands brushed together in a way that was by now a familiar occurrence, but it never failed to shoot tingles up his spine.”Will you come?” he asked so low, he wasn't sure Mycroft would hear it over the music, even as they stood inches apart. But then he nodded. And it was all Greg ever needed.