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“Slow down, brother dear, or you’ll ruin your diet,” Sherlock sniped, and Greg had had enough. He should have known that a day of menu sampling with the Holmes brothers would be a nightmare, but he hadn't anticipated quite how much so. Since he'd accepted Sherlock’s proposal, there had been nothing but arguments about venues, suits, flowers, and cakes. Not that he regretted accepting for a moment, of course, but being stuck between the two of them was exhausting.
He dropped his cutlery with a clatter and got up from the table where they had just tested miniature version of a potential wedding breakfast, heading over to the buffet table set up against the far wall of the fancy ballroom. It was positively heaving with small trays of bite-sized nibbles, finger foods and miniature cakes, and despite having just sat through a three course meal Greg felt his mouth watering.
Simon, the chef who had been assigned to their menu testing session, followed, amusement writ large across his face. “Are they always like that?”
“You have no idea,” Greg replied with a strained laugh. “Am I all right to try some of this now?”
“Of course. Here’s the feedback form,” Simon said, handing over a clipboard. “Same as the other courses: the samples are numbered, so just mark down which ones you want for your final menu.”
“Ta.” Greg looked out over the amassed treats and quickly went against everything his mother had tried to instil in him as a child, homing straight in on the desserts as the brothers Holmes approached. He selected a miniature Victoria sponge and lifted the treat to his lips, and immediately decided that it would make it to the final cut; the sponge was the perfect balance of sweet and airy and moist, and the flavours of the creamy, fruity filling burst across his tongue. He unconsciously made a noise of satisfaction, eyes fluttering closed in bliss. “Oh, God, that’s good,” he said to no one in particular, sucking the remnants of buttercream filling from his middle finger.
A choked off noise from beside him drew Greg’s attention, and he turned to find Sherlock staring at him, a light blush dusting his cheeks. Quickly realising what had so affected his fiancé, Greg pressed his finger further into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and swirling his tongue around the sticky digit with a throaty hum.
Sherlock’s gaze zeroed in on Greg’s finger and his blush deepened. The older man smirked as he withdrew his finger, giving the tip one last, exaggerated lick.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Mycroft said huffily, taking the clipboard from Greg. “Can you not keep your minds out of the gutter for five minutes?”
Greg grinned unrepentantly at his friend and soon-to-be best man and brother-in-law. “Nope.”
Sherlock finally looked away, scanning the table with an expression of boredom. “Why do we need a buffet, Mycroft? Unlike you, most of us will be satisfied by the three course meal and won’t need to eat again until the morning.”
“Oh, do shut up, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped, still consulting the form. “You know very well that an evening buffet is expected for those not invited to the wedding breakfast.” He stepped closer to the table and peered intently at the selection of fancy little pastries. “I’m tempted to instruct them to provide the full range; after all, between Mummy’s family and the remaining Holmses, there should be enough vultures to pick the table clean.”
Greg stared at Mycroft for a moment, mentally calculating how much that would cost. Between Sherlock’s insistence on designer clothing, hiring a venue that would accommodate the number of people his future in-laws were inviting and had the infrastructure to support Mycroft's security retinue, the cost of the wedding was already running into many thousands of pounds. “Mycroft, really—”
“Don't be tedious, Greg,” the elder Holmes interrupted, peering closely at a tray of what looked a lot like vol-au-vents but probably came with a fancy name. “Do you really think that Mummy will let you pay for any of this? She’s positively aquiver at the prospect of such expenditure, I assure you.”
Sherlock stepped close and wrapped an arm around Greg’s waist. “It pains me to say it, but he’s right. She’s delighted at the thought of me getting married and will be insulted if we try to pay.”
“But—”
“No buts,” Sherlock said, lips brushing Greg’s ear. “I think my brother has this in hand, don’t you?”
Greg watched Mycroft hovering over the table in earnest conversation with Simon, the two of them consulting the clipboard and pointing at various samples, and sighed. “If he’s insisting on having the whole lot, I’d say so,” Greg replied, resigning himself to having a buffet that would probably feed a small city’s homeless population for an entire weekend.
Sherlock pressed closer and worked his hand under Greg’s shirt, gently stroking the sensitive skin of his lower back. “In that case, what do you say to us inspecting the honeymoon suite?”
“Subtle, Sherlock, really subtle,” Greg replied, smiling against his will.
“Subtlety is overrated.” Sherlock removed his hand from under Greg’s shirt and the older man immediately missed its presence. Sherlock started to walk away but froze mid-step, turned back to the table and picked up the two remaining miniature Victoria sponges, wrapping them carefully in a napkin.
Greg snorted. “Are you serious?”
With a lascivious smirk Sherlock leant in and bestowed a lingering kiss on Greg. “Waste not want not.”