Work Text:
Eager to escape the increasingly crowded cafe, Greg follows Mycroft to the waiting car. When their conversation stalls, Mycroft squeezes his umbrella handle so hard his knuckles turn white. Greg gently takes his hand. Their fingers intertwine comfortably, like it’s the thousandth time instead of the first. Neither man wants to let go when they reach their destination.
The flat is elegant and immaculate; Greg wonders how much time he spends here.
“More than I’d like,” murmurs Mycroft, his breath warm on Greg’s ear. “I prefer the country estate, but the location is ideal for work.” Belatedly, he realises he answered the question before letting Greg ask it. His expression is endearingly earnest as he lays a hand on Greg’s arm and says, “It makes you uncomfortable when I do that. I apologise.”
Greg shrugs. “I’m kind of used to it. In fact, I sometimes wonder if you Holmeses forget I do have a voice.”
“I quite enjoy your voice. I’d like to hear it more.” The words send a shiver up Greg’s spine and fan a fire somewhere deeper.
A phone’s chime breaks the silence, and Greg groans. He knows exactly who must be texting him right now, and he can see Mycroft knows, too.
“I am not answering that,” Greg states firmly. “No interruptions, not even from your brother.”