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Greg laid the murder file beside Sherlock’s microscope, then noticed the bouquet: stargazer lilies opening pink throats above forget-me-nots and sprays of blue salvia.
“Where did you get that?”
Sherlock lifted his head from the microscope, regarded the flowers impassively and returned to his task. “John brought them.”
“Nice. Things going well with him, then?”
Sherlock met his eyes with a blank stare, then shrugged.
There were questions Greg wanted to ask and advice Sherlock would scoff at. His sigh held sadness for Sherlock and fear for himself. He opened the file.
***
Greg came home and folded himself around Mycroft on the sofa. Mycroft lowered his book, surprised by the weight against his chest.
“Is something the matter?”
Greg pressed his face into Mycroft’s shoulder. “Would you like me to bring you flowers?”
Mycroft blinked. “Flowers?”
“Would that matter to a Holmes?”
Puzzled, Mycroft studied Greg: the set of his mouth, the sorrow he had carried home from Baker Street, the fear beneath the question.
“We’re not them.”
He lifted Greg’s face and kissed him.
“I’ll speak to Sherlock.”
Greg hummed, unconvinced.
“You won’t hurt me,” Mycroft said. “I won’t let you.”
“You make sure of that.” Greg smiled, their exhilarating relationship still too new for him to believe he could have this and not fuck it up. “I love you.”