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If he knew about Greg’s dithering for a good twenty minutes in front of his wardrobe, Mycroft might feel better about his own jangling nerves. If he could admit that his nerves would ever do something so undignified as jangle, that is. Other things he will not admit include, but are not limited to: how his stomach turns at some of the daily briefings that cross his desk, how his heart seemed to stop when his brother last overdosed, and how his blood rushed in his ears when Greg agreed to dinner. If he’s honest (and he is always ruthlessly honest with himself, if no one else), he'll admit upward is not really the primary direction his blood rushes when he thinks about Greg. Speaking of undignified.
The decision to ask Greg to dinner — Greg would, he knows, question Mycroft’s definition of ask, but since he agreed, the point is moot — was a spontaneous one, and Mycroft does not do spontaneous. But something about Greg makes spontaneity appealing, makes Mycroft willing to cede control just a bit. Mycroft orders wine that will pair nicely with the entree he knows Greg will order, though he resists the impulse to simply order for both of them before the man arrives. He sips cold water, ignoring the trickle of nervous sweat down his back.