Work Text:
WILDE TEMPTATION
ACT I
Lady Bracknell
I
(Enter GREG. )
Life goes on, as people say. But the thing is that it always goes on for other people, right? Life doesn’t really go on like it used to after this. It’s only been a few days, but Greg can see that whatever happened in Sherrinford changed some tiny, bloody essential details, and it changed everything for the people involved.
Sherlock… It’s hard to remember he used to be such an unfeeling prick, or maybe Greg had not been paying enough attention all those years, but, in any case, Sherlock steps out of the high-security level prison more open and more vulnerable than Greg is comfortable with. The need to check on him itches persistently on the back of his mind. Thankfully his sidekick is back by his side, and John Watson seems well over his misplaced anger against the poor lad. Well, not his place to judge, but Greg is biased anyway; he simply likes knowing them back on track together. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Mycroft Holmes, at first, seems to be holding up the best.
But, as he will discover, Sherrinford appears to have been the culmination of everything the secretive Mycroft Holmes had dreaded, feared, and fought against all his life.
Sherrinford changed everything for the people involved. It changed Mycroft, it finished changing Sherlock Holmes, it changed John Watson back to the way he used to be before his wife’s death, (it also hurt poor Molly) but, most of all, surprisingly, if you looked back on it months later, Sherrinford also drastically changed Greg Lestrade’s life.
It’s a starting point, really.
Initially, it all begins the day Greg arrives late at work and stumbles by accident on the Chief Superintendent enquiring why an official isn’t there to discuss the classified case they are supposed to hand over to the Secret Intelligence Service.
When the stern-looking chap answers he’s been sent as a liaison, Greg’s boss demands to at least see Holmes’ signature (unofficial procedure). Thing is, apparently Mycroft hasn’t been seen at work for the past two days. Unavailable, is the word that the man uses.
Greg strides by nonchalantly, but he immediately takes his mobile out of his pocket and dials Mycroft Holmes’ number as he locks himself in his office.
That’s not good.
He saw the man just a few days ago, on the morning right after the events of Sherrinford. Mycroft was clad in one of his usual impeccable three-piece suits, accompanied by his gorgeous P.A., looking as busy and imperious as usual as he marched down Whitehall. Greg thought Holmes was positively mad. But then, everyone copes with difficult situations in their own way, and that day Greg thought maybe working and keeping his intelligent mind occupied was indeed the best way to get over what exactly had happened with Eurus Holmes, the third sibling. So he didn’t intervene.
He was wrong apparently. That upper-class posh nob. Should have talked to him. The blame is on Greg, and he can feel it weighing unpleasantly on his conscience right now.
As he peers through the blinds of the curtains, he realizes he doesn’t quite know how he’s going to start the conversation. Surely Holmes will find it a bit odd to receive a personal call from Greg. Well, it doesn’t matter.
He waits and waits, but no one answers. Worse, the phone appears to be turned off on his second try. That’s… Mycroft Holmes always answers his calls (he must have a sixth sense, when it’s about Sherlock the git’s incredibly swifter), or he returns them very shortly if he’s too busy - which supposedly he is not.
‘Definitely not good,' he mutters, and dials Sherlock’s number in the next heartbeat.
No time to waste - Greg is a man of duty himself, and his mind is quite made up when it comes to following through with something that he considers his responsibility. Sherlock, the bastard, unsurprisingly doesn’t answer either. Why did he even bother? With a sigh, Greg resigns himself to punch in John’s number this time, and even before two full dial tones can buzz in his ears someone thankfully picks up the call.
‘Oh finally! ’ Greg groans. ‘Trying to get a hold on either one of you is a bloody saga, you’re busier than the Queen!’
Unexpectedly, it’s not John, but the whispers of a deep baritone which reply in an annoyed rumble, ‘I never answer calls, Greg.’
There’s no mistaking the sweet splattering of joy he feels at being finally called by his true name, but he asks, ‘Sherlock? Why are you answering John’s phone?’ After a second he adds in an instinctive lower voice, ‘And why are you whispering?’
‘I don’t want you to wake John and Rosie. John keeps his phone by the bedside table.’
By the beds- Oh. Could it be-
‘Stop thinking,’ Sherlock lashes out in a quiet hiss, ‘it’s unnerving.’
‘Right, sorry.’
‘I was merely passing by his bedroom.’
‘Whatever, mate.’ Greg quickly assures, trying to dismiss the matter. Because, if he trusts his instincts, Sherlock definitely sounds a bit nervous. It’s probably too soon and a bit offensive to be thinking about things like these anyway - John is still grieving. Greg realizes that he doesn’t even know where the boys are currently living, since Baker Street blew up with a sodding grenade - it had not been a good day for Greg to receive the call reporting the incident and arrive on the scene without spotting John and Sherlock alive nearby - and he takes the opportunity to check up on them too. ‘So, where are you staying now that 221B blew up?’
‘At John and Mary’s house.’ The voice is louder following the sounds of Sherlock’s footsteps probably going out of the bedroom.
So, John is comfortable having Sherlock around in the place he shared with Mary? Good. Good for them.
‘Why were you calling, Greg?’ (Third time in a row he gets it right, it’s written in stone now.)
‘Oh, yeah, right. It’s your brother. He hasn't been seen at work for the past two days, and I was wondering if you could give me his address and also maybe the keys to his - flat.’ Greg doesn’t know if it’s a flat, actually. ‘I’ll head over there tonight after my shift to make sure he’s okay.’
There is a short pause on the other end of the line, followed by, ‘I’m texting you the address. You can have the keys, I usually break in through the window.’
‘Great.’ Now this isn’t something Greg should be saying, in retrospect. ‘Can I pop by at six-thirty?’
‘Why? Oh, no. I don’t have the keys. I meant to say that you’re welcome to go and retrieve them. They should be… somewhere… in the kitchen? In a teapot? Can’t remember.’
Suddenly Greg doesn’t have a good feeling about this. His face is already falling into a grim, disbelieving expression when he enquires, ‘What kitchen?’
‘Why, Baker Street’s, obviously.’
‘You’re shitting me, right?’
II
(Scene: MYCROFT's Manor stands tall and proud in the middle of the scene, imposing without seeming threatening. Some lights are on, giving the impression of life and yet, insecurity. The roars and the squealing of a car can be heard. GREG steps out of it and distractedly plays with a set of keys.)
The night already wraps London in a dim embrace when Greg arrives in front of Mycroft Holmes’ house. Okay, right, it’s not a flat. It’s a sodding manor. A whole damn estate secured with several gates, and were it not for the multiple keys - with passcodes carelessly written over them in Sherlock’s blurry handwriting - he actually managed to find in the scorched rubble of 221B, Baker Street earlier this afternoon, Greg wouldn’t have been able to come closer at all. Only a few rooms are lit. They cast reassuring sparks of light on the noisy gravel leading to the main entrance.
On a second thought, of course Mycroft Holmes would have a bloody manor. It just hadn't occured to Greg since Sherlock mentioned at John’s wedding that he could easily asphyxiate his brother in his house, that the man has a private life outside of his job and a place to go back to at the end of the day. He’s a breathing, living man, then? Greg is a bit curious.
He knocks, waits patiently with his hands buried in his slowly warming pockets, and looks around, wondering how many people take care of this place, since it’s unlikely Mycroft Holmes spend his rare TOIL days hoovering and watering hydrangeas - but what would he know about it? He knocks again thirty seconds later when no one stirs inside. It’s very close to the loud bang Greg uses as a copper when he has a warrant and wants to get somewhere. So there’s no butler, apparently.
‘Mister Holmes!’ He calls. (He never knows what to call Mycroft, it changes from time to time with awkward uncertainty.)
Still no answer. Deciding it's precisely for this kind of situation that Sherlock asked for his help, Greg inserts the key in one of the two carved, golden knobs of the sturdy oak doors - not in the right one at first; he swears under his breath - and quietly steps inside. Usually he’d make sure to make some extra noise to warn people of his presence, but he’s a bit intimidated by the unsurprisingly grand interior that greets him. Bloody hell. That bastard. Maybe Greg should steal a lamp on his way out, it would top up his income immensely.
The entrance hall is plunged into an opaque, steel-heavy darkness as soon as the door clicks shut with a startling electronic sound. If memory serves right, the third room on his left was illuminated, so, after unsuccessfully groping around for a switch, Greg heads there thanks to the feeble light of his phone.
There doesn’t seem to be anyone in here - no loud kids, no busy spouse… Greg wondered more than once if the ring on Mycroft Holmes’ right hand means that he is married, and it seems like tonight he will probably finally know.
He opens the next door, and senses right in time a gust of wind swirling in his direction. Greg ducks and recoils.
‘Woah!’ He shouts as a long, dark object twirls in front of his face in a neat arc.
Greg is this close to reaching for a weapon, assuming for a second that maybe Mycroft is not simply unwell, but has actively been hurt or abducted or killed by assassins or what have you, when the shadow in front of him suddenly stills in the moonlit room and asks in a familiar, yet strange voice, ‘Detective Inspector?’
By the time Greg manages to steady his thundering heart and mad breathing, both racing with adrenaline, Mycroft is already walking away. He frowns against the obscurity to try and make out what is wrong with that voice.
‘Mister Holmes? Yeah, yeah it’s me. It’s Greg. Came to see you. Sherlock gave me your keys.’
The light switches on, causing Greg to blink. Once his eyes adjust to the light that floods the room though, he immediately looks for Mycroft, and his heart gives a painful squeeze.
He looks awful.
‘Of course my brother would hand you the keys. He has so little respect for privacy.’
Privacy. This was maybe what the man had been looking for, in the end, but it makes Greg relieved that he did come, and also uncomfortably guilty that he hasn’t been more thorough so far in his promise to look after Mycroft Holmes. Because the man, right now, looks absolutely pitiful: clutching his umbrella tightly in a slightly shaking fist - oh, that’s what he attacked me with - he stands irresolutely by a far wall, clad only in soft, silky bottle green pajamas that seem too fine to be anything else than a stupid night suit, but which are slightly more loose than his fitted outfits and make him look smaller, or at least less impressive. Even his posture is more defensive and vulnerable, though still trying wearily to appear dignified.
Greg has no doubt Mycroft just cried, or that he had been crying all day: his face is sickly pale, red on his cheekbones, and his eyes are puffy. It's so damn far from that collected and influential aura he usually projects that the contrast is even more striking and Greg feels wretchedly sorry for him. An insistent pull tugs quietly inside him. Damn, I should’ve come sooner. Did he stay here alone for the past two days?
Mycroft’s voice though - weak, that’s what's odd, it’s too bloody quiet - is almost steady when he declares after these few seconds of dazed silence, ‘I apologize for attacking you in such a cavalier manner, Detective Inspector. I wondered…’ His fingers play nervously around the umbrella, but he suddenly smiles, a fake stretch of lips which somehow doesn’t conceal the weariness in his eyes. ‘Well, let’s just say I did not expect you. To what do I owe the pleasure? ’
The irony makes it blatant he guesses precisely why he’s here.
‘I wanted to make sure you’re okay,’ Greg answers truthfully.
‘Well, mission accomplished, Detective. Thank you for your concern. It’s appreciated.’
He’s not as strong as he thinks he is, Sherlock's voice reminded him
That’s right, he’s not. There’s absolutely no way in hell Greg is going to turn away and leave the man alone in this state. Sherlock trusted him with the task of taking care of his enigmatic brother, and the overestimation of Mycroft Holmes’ real strength led them to this. He’s going to stay.
Greg is about to announce it when Mycroft feebly begins, ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll…’
But a full body shiver seizes him all of a sudden, ending with a staggering dizziness, and when he tries to bolt courageously to the door behind him to seemingly disappear out of Greg’s vision, his legs give out and he collapses halfway onto his side with a muffled thud on the polished wooden floor, a trembling hand outstretched to the nearest wall for the barest support.
Mycroft, Sherlock’s voice starts hesitantly in Greg’s head, make sure he’s looked after. He’s not as strong as he thinks he is.
Greg is by his side in an instant.
‘Alright,’ he soothes, scooping him up with an arm around his chest, ‘stop it, you’re not okay. Don’t take me for an idiot.’
‘I - don’t.’ Mycroft answers softly, grabbing Greg’s arm when he realizes he’s being lifted to his feet. He’s heavier than Greg would’ve thought, and it’s made worse by the fact that he seems about to simply keel over. ‘My apologies. I didn’t mean to… faint in such an unmanly way.’
Greg chuckles despite himself, but worry still is on the forefront of his mind so he lifts Holmes up completely. The man feels almost spineless. It takes strength to hold him properly. What happened in Sherrinford that could bring him so low? Greg long thought that Mycroft Holmes was a bloody brick wall, even less emotional than his brother was, which is saying something, but just like Sherlock, a bit of digging proved to him that it wasn’t quite true. Mycroft, he realized years ago, loves his brother fiercely, even if neither Holmes would admit it without being held at gunpoint. This however is another level of emotional display entirely.
Mycroft is cold to the touch. Strangely, his head falls on the hollow of Greg’s shoulder as soon as he is able to stay upright, and both shivering hands tighten in Greg’s long black coat. He doesn’t speak. It’s awkward and a bit overwhelming, but not unpleasant.
‘Alright,’ Greg repeats, ‘we’re going to lie you down. Which way is the sitting-room? This way? Alright, we’re almost there. You can’t even stand on your own, look at you. Have you eaten, at least? You look like your brother. All pride and sodding bravado. There, on the sofa. Down you go.’
Greg tries to let go of Mycroft gently, as if - oddly - the man is made of delicate glass, but as soon as he touches the sofa he slowly peels himself from Greg’s body to lie down and turn away wordlessly, both arms shakingly holding his waist. God. He’s heartbreaking to watch. Greg feels miserably heartbroken. The quiet pull inside him tugs harder. Dealing with Sherlock a few years ago had already been painful.
‘There, let’s warm you up a bit.’ He offers, because he can’t stand not doing his best now that he’s here and involved despite himself. He pulls the thick covers from under Mycroft's body to wrap him up in them completely from shoulders to feet, snugly tucking in the heavy fabric around his thin ankles, long shaped calves and torso.
He should feel a bit self-conscious, but he is all Mycroft has for now, it seems. There’s no one around.
Single then? He ponders. That’s what I assumed. He’s busier than the ruddy Prime Minister. Hell, he probably sodding runs the Cabinet Office. Or maybe he’s into one-night stands.
‘There, it’ll feel a bit better. I know it’s not going to fix everything, but let’s try and take this slow, yeah? No rush.’
Mycroft’s attempt at making conversation (however sarcastic) despite his increasingly paling face spurns Greg a little. ‘Are blankets always your remedy against shock and anguish, Detective?’
‘Well, it’s part of the process, yeah.’ He replies, considering the answer as he sits on the sofa too. It’s true that it’s more police procedure instinct than anything, but Greg has a lot of experience in providing comfort. ‘There’s a checklist of sort, but top priorities are blankets and food.’
‘How convenient.’ The muffled answer is slow, as if each syllable is physically tiring. Mycroft sounds exhausted. Maybe he’d like to sleep, Greg reflects, his eyelids sure droop enough to seem like he could.
‘Do you want to rest, Mister Holmes?’
Mycroft visibly winces, his mouth twisting in brief distaste, but it’s not until he answers that Greg is sure why. ‘Do drop the formality, if you please. Given the current situation it seems rather ludicrous. I am buried under covers like a child and swooning like a true Victorian princess. And no, thank you, I wouldn't if I tried.’ A short hesitation. ‘Sleep eludes me.’
‘I’ll call you Mycroft if you call me Greg,’ he offers, somewhat gratefully.
‘Fair enough.’
Greg’s a bit excited at the idea. After a second of silence, he decides to take off his coat and to throw it on the coffee table, leaving him only in a sky blue shirt, but the cosy place is warm enough even if the fireplace isn’t lit - it looks like the ashes have been cold for some time - and he wants to make the point that he’s not going anywhere for now.
When he sits again, he realizes Mycroft has rolled onto his back and is staring at him with his piercing, intelligent gaze. It’s more hawkish than Sherlock’s. Greg’s also less scared to be insulted, or to be deduced at all, which is surprising given the fierce, ruthless reputation of Mycroft Holmes. He is, in fact, rather at ease here, he finds.
‘I’m going to make dinner,’ Greg announces when the intensity of said gaze fades and Mycroft’s face falls sideway tiredly, facing the room this time. It’s so sad, he can’t stand it.
‘Do not bother. My fridge is empty.’
‘It’s-’ But most shops are already closed now. Did Mycroft plan to eat nothing at all? ‘Alright, I’m ordering in for tonight then, and tomorrow I’ll fill up your fridge with good food.’ Mycroft blinks at him then, mildly surprised - was it something Greg said? He doesn’t figure out what. Well, whatever. Taking his phone out of his pocket, he tries to take a guess, ‘So what do you want to eat? French?’
The gaze turns derisive, and Mycroft answers with much poise, ‘Italian would be fine,’ as if Italian was a clear downgrade to French cuisine. Thank God Greg didn’t suggest kebabs and onion rings.
He places the order. Greg orders meals that sound good, consulting the elder Holmes to make sure he pronounces the names of the dishes correctly - he’s going to forever remember the way a sick and bedridden Mycroft corrected with suffering affliction, “It’s Potage alla Romana, Gregory, and I hardly think you would find it a suitable meal.” - and he doubles Mycroft's order to make sure he will have food tomorrow until Greg comes back in the evening. Remembering Sherlock’s allusions to Mycroft’s diet, he grins when the man finally stirs to ask him for a dessert. Greg makes it three tiramisu.
‘Do they have muffins?’ He enquires then with calm, blinking solemnity.
‘Uh, yeah… Are you sure?’ Greg doesn't want to antagonize Mycroft, but he fears indigestion.
‘Quite so. I hate people who are not serious about meals. It is so shallow of them.’
Mycroft doesn’t even eat an entire dish when their order arrives, but Greg coaxes him into at least a tiramisu when he spots the considering gleam in his eyes. It doesn’t take much persuasion.
Their evening is comfortably silent, despite the palpable thickness of the melancholic atmosphere. Greg realizes soon that he’s a bit off-balance seeing Holmes so idle - usually when he sees him or calls him, their meetings are abruptly cut short by one call or another, and he ends up imagining the country would immediately fall if he took an evening off. Could be true nonetheless, but it makes Greg think that he hasn’t seen his P.A. here, or anyone else checking on him, really. And his phone hasn’t rung ye- Oh, he turned it off, yeah.
‘Shouldn’t you check your calls?’ Greg suggests, eagerly stuffing pasta in his mouth. Mycroft is back laying on his side under the covers. His face is dry and uncomfortably irritated, and had it been his child or his girlfriend Greg would've cleaned it eagerly with a wet flannel. ‘I’m starting to fear for the safety of the Commonwealth.’
The banter falls horribly flat when Mycroft’s face suddenly grows hollow and twists with anguish, blue eyes wide and unseeing. Bloody hell.
‘Sorry.’ Greg promptly apologizes, feeling sodding awful. He hurriedly sets his plate down and turns to the man. He’s not sure what triggered the reaction - Greg would bet it’s failing in his overwhelming duties - but it’s bloody heart-wrenching to watch and it squeezes both Greg’s heart and throat in the same beat. He almost chokes on his pasta.
Mycroft is frozen. He doesn’t bat an eye, barely breathes. It’s frightening. Damn, the man needs someone to hold him tight. If he dared, Greg would place a hand on his shoulder, but it feels uncalled for.
‘Sorry. I’m sure they’re fine. Forget I said anything, yeah? You’re allowed to take a few days off, Mycroft. I’m just, you know. You’re always materializing wherever Sherlock needs you, so I wonder - But you know what? I’ll let you know on the spot if that’s the case. You just need to make sure to rest.’
The change of subject - Greg knew the mention of Sherlock would get him a reaction - allows Mycroft to regain some composure, and he struggles not to pant, ‘My brother…has my personal number, of course.’
‘That’s your professional number I had all those years?’ Greg blurts out before he can help himself.
Bugger the sheer surprise in his voice! Mycroft picks up on it - of course, sod it - and turns his fatigued yet still awfully piercing gaze on him. Something about the situation is unnerving, and Greg’s embarrassment swells in his tight throat and chest when Mycroft answers, ‘Yes, Gregory, it was. I wasn’t aware you wanted my personal number.’
Uh. Greg backs down when he feels heat racing through his body from his toes to his probably flushing face, and he nonchalantly forces more pasta down his throat.
His ‘Yeah… Well… Just assumed…’ doesn’t bring them anywhere.
The silence comes back, loosening up its tense grip as minutes pass. The fact that Mycroft hasn’t asked him once to leave yet, although he assured Greg repeatedly that none of this is necessary, is proof enough for him that he is really needed here, and that Mycroft is aware of it.
A quiet, automatic ‘Thank you,’ falls out of his mouth every time Greg does the simplest thing for him, which is quite sweet, but in any case Mycroft doesn’t seem to be able to manage much more. He looks emotionally drained. Yet the evening is still young, and Greg believes distracting Mycroft from his misery is worth a try.
Turning to Holmes’ sorrowful face gazing into the distance with glassy, blue eyes, Greg wipes his mouth with his thumb and starts, ‘So, what do you usually do in your spare time? Sherlock’s thing is the violin. The bastard is rather good at it, but then he’s good at everything. Do you play piano? Or… do you... paint? I’m sure you can paint lovely little Cupids.’
The half teasing earns him the closest thing from an eye roll and an exasperated grunt he could hope for under the circumstances. Greg finds himself longing for the man’s snarkiness. Humour can, however, hide a lot.
‘I bet you read plenty of books and you go to fancy opera premieres, don’t you?’ He asks then more seriously.
‘I unfortunately don’t have the luxury of having time to spare,’ comes the answer, but Greg’s eyes fall at the same time on a slim book next to the sofa, and he understands that Mycroft is bullshitting him with his characteristic cynicism. The pages of the book are ruffled and yellow with age, its old, white cover hard worn, the drawing of a top hat and an umbrella just beginning to fade. If Greg’s instincts as a detective are any good, he’d say this copy has been read often over the years.
It’s a lead - as much to know how to distract Mycroft than to actually know him a bit better - and Greg dashes into it. ‘What’s that book behind you, then?’ He gets up just long enough to grab it, and reads in a distinct accent, ‘The Importance Of Being Earnest.’
It’s from Oscar Wilde, Greg obviously knows that much, but he won’t be able to discuss it with Mycroft. Heck, he probably can’t discuss anything with someone as intelligent as Mycroft Holmes.
‘Never read it.’ When he spots the surprised raise of eyebrows in his peripheral vision, Greg explains, ‘It was either this one or The Picture of Dorian Gray when I was in college. I picked Dorian Gray.’
Mycroft actually blinks and turns his face to him, looking contemplative and even more taken aback. This random choice probably holds tons of clues on his bloody socioeconomic and political background for a Holmes, he guesses, but Greg is simply relieved that he got a reaction at all.
‘And…’ Mycroft trails, ‘did you enjoy it?’
‘Not really. Well, I don’t remember much, I was just a kid. I should read it again now, maybe I’d like it better.’ There is little chance Greg will care for reading the novel tomorrow except to feed his own ego, but it feels more considerate to say it in front of someone like Mycroft.
‘I’m sure you would.’ The man answers, startling Greg a bit.
‘So… yeah, anyway, I can’t speak for this one.’ He concludes, recovering after a moment and showing the slim book. ‘I’ve just finished one based on it, but it’s as far as I’m gonna get on this topic.’
‘Did you?’ Mycroft enquires nonetheless. ‘I hope it did not end happily? I don’t like novels that end happily. They depress me so much.’
It’s such an incongruous thing to say given that Mycroft’s eyes are still red-rimmed and his nose is a bit blotchy, without taking into account the fact that he’s buried under a hundred blankets, that Greg actually chuckles. Silence settles once more over the room for a few seconds as he wonders how he’s going to entertain Mycroft now. (He should have built a fire earlier, he rarely has the occasion.)
This time, Mycroft speaks first. ‘Actually, I… was reading it again.’ He sounds hesitant, and after a few more sentences Greg understands it’s uncertain bashfulness. ‘It was a one-time thing, but I did theatre in school, and I played Lady Bracknell. It was quite enjoyable.’
It’s obvious. A gentle nostalgia softens Mycroft’s traits as he probably recalls the memory fondly, a small, tight smile ornaments his lips, and - yeah, that’s it, Greg found it. The thing he’ll use to help him. His mind briefly picked on the female role with a mix of horror, amusement and respect, and he just knows he wants to see it. Damn, seeing Mycroft Holmes getting a kick out of playing that Lady Bracknell again in front of him is what he needs in life.
‘Alright, I want to see it.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Mycroft sounds dumbstruck, but still unsure of Greg’s meaning.
‘Your Lady… Lady Bracknell. I want to see you interpret her.’
A blink so slow it looks like Mycroft shut his eyelids answers Greg. Then the golden lashes flutter in incomprehension, transmitting effectively I’m afraid I am not following.
‘Come on!’ Greg insists, informally nudging his leg over the covers, ‘You loved it, you just told me so.’ His stomach flips awkwardly when he realises what he just did to Mycroft bloody Holmes, but his arm is soon forgotten on the top blanket, around the man’s thigh. ‘If you liked it, you should try it again.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t.’ His aloof expression is turning coyer by the second, melting a generally cold mask into something self-conscious that stretches a cautious smile. Greg hit something there. He didn’t even know the man could look so unassertive.
‘It’s just me,’ he coaxes, ‘come on Mycroft, I want to see that Lady Bracknell, whoever she is. I’m sure you rock on stage. It’s so… well, you, both of you, you Holmeses are such drama queens,’ Mycroft looks less affronted than Sherlock would’ve been at the implication; if anything, he looks a bit shy and pleased, ‘if you don’t do it then at least now you have to show me the recording.’
‘There are none, I’m afraid.’ Mycroft answers, sounding regretful, clearly involved in the conversation now. The blooming hopefulness is slow, but oddly lovable. Greg would chuckle if it didn’t make him feel better to see it. That’s it, come on, come on Mycroft, you can do it. ‘Do you really think I could be any good?’
‘Yeah, really!’ He assures him, which isn’t completely honest; Greg is half certain he’s not going to be able to keep a straight face, but Mycroft looks painfully keen on doing it, and he’s not going to take that away from him.
Somewhere during the last seconds, Mycroft straightened into a more proper sitting position, and for a moment he simply considers the idea with an unintended contemptuous expression on his face as he adjusts the button of one of his silk suit pajamas’ sleeves with a quirked eyebrow. Greg waits expectantly.
‘I am not sure I can still fit in my old dress.’ He decides. ‘I have lost a lot of weight since, so I’d have to find my corset.’
Oh, God. If this entire evening isn’t a bloody plot twist to his image of Mycroft Holmes.
Given what the immediate future seems to hold, Greg shouldn’t by any means feel so genuinely relieved and glad.
III
(Scene: Largest room of MYCROFT’s manor. As the two protagonists enter, the light is switched on and reveals a stage at the farthest wall after five rows of eight seats. The room could possibly either be used as a private cinema or a presentation room. GREG looks around behind MYCROFT, seemingly impressed.)
Five minutes later, Mycroft’s mind is finally processing the stupid situation. What, for Goodness’ sake, possessed him to accept Gregory’s request? The answer is startlingly obvious, making the whole thing even more embarrassing and shameful.
His nervous fingers, shaking for another reason entirely now, fumble with the fabric of his Lady Bracknell outfit - the long velvet red dress is still as magnificent as it had been, the floral crochet collar just starting to age with a creamer shade. He sewed it himself when he was seventeen, he remembers fondly. Sherlock had been jealous and learnt stitching right after the show, until he appeared in front of Mycroft’s eyes a week later dressed as a charming and insufferable little space pirate. His unbearable brother is most likely to blame for the situation Mycroft is currently stuck in. What am I even doing?
Just a moment ago, he invited the detective inspector to take a seat and warned politely, ‘Pray bear in mind that I haven’t acted for any other role than the one I’ve perfected through years of deception and practiced lies. I recently realized I have made a terrible job of it.’
The ghost of Eurus almost appeared in the shadows of the room then, as she often had in the past, worsening the guilt he had carried all those years and which currently brought him down. The disappointed shock that had radiated off his brother in Sherrinford had been unendurable. Mycroft couldn’t envision it without closing his eyes and heaving slightly.
Guilt was a gangrene of which the tedious symptoms started infecting the mind far too late - Mycroft had merely done what was necessary to ensure the safety of the entire nation, and yet here he was decades later, gaping and almost surprised, struggling with the unbearable consequences of an educated choice.
‘Just be natural,’ was however all Gregory said, shrugging, gentle encouragement tainting his rough way of speaking. Mycroft knew the detective was aware of some of what had happened, and yet, he had been nothing but an invigorating, forgiving gentleman all evening.
How much did Sherlock know he had needed Gregory Lestrade? Having such perceptive siblings was so tiresome.
‘I wouldn’t know what it means, I’m afraid.’ Mycroft smiled coldly in his direction. ‘To be natural is such a very difficult pose to keep up.’
I need to stop flirting with the detective inspector. Mycroft admonishes himself as he recalls the scene. He always entertained a silly, frivolous crush for the candid and honest DI, which is probably why Sherlock deemed it a good idea to suddenly send him to his house.
Or perhaps it is punishment.
I’m going to look perfectly idiotic. He thinks as he puts on the dress and corset. It is, of course, not the dress he’s worried about - the dress is sumptuous, and he fancies himself looking particularly slim and slender in it - no, he knows the outfit will make Gregory laugh that genuine, barking laugh of his - particularly attractive ; if Mycroft was indecent he would turn into a ruthless predator just seeing that beautiful thing that is his smiling face. But the mere thought of performing in front of Gregory for his own delight is absurd. He is acutely aware that this is going to tear to shreds the image of the serious man in a suit directing the country. How come, then, he is equally as thrilled as he is nervous?
At the last moment, Mycroft decides to wear the magenta monstrosity of a hat which completes the costume. He always had a taste for the grotesque. It’s embellished with yellow feathers and dark purple ribbons - the perfect touche finale. Surely the detective can enjoy a good disguise.
Nervousness rises again. He knows Gregory will be sitting in the middle of the third row, since he left him there as he exited the room, assuring the DI that he wouldn’t need the book - he had read it just yesterday - but that he would require his assistance to read the other characters’ lines.
‘I’ll do my best.’ The courageous man answered after a few gobsmacked seconds. Once the hesitancy had gone, he looked certain of himself; his voice, on the other hand, sounded apologetic. ‘I’ve never done it though, I don’t want to ruin your scene.’
‘You’ll do just great, Gregory.’ Mycroft assured, and started walking away. ‘I’ll be back shortly. I’ll spare you the make-up, but I do love a complete disguise - ask Doctor Watson, I’m pretty adept at doing those. Oscar Wilde deserves a decent interpretation of his work. I enjoy it so much.’
To his surprise, the sarcastic voice taunted behind his back, ‘Yeah, I bet you love Wilde.’
Mycroft froze, stunned, and then partly turned to the detective, who was trying not to smirk as he pretended to read the page he had been told to open.
‘Is this supposed to be a smart innuendo?’ Mycroft snorted, failing to chase the delighted amusement away from his voice.
‘I wouldn’t dare, Mister Holmes.’ Gregory mocked.
‘Sorry for assuming you were smart.’ He apologized with another spontaneous smile and a long blink. ‘I had hoped.’
The badly hidden smirk morphed into a cheeky grin, improving Mycroft’s spirits immensely. As he steps onto the floodlit stage with an aristocratic bearing seven minutes later, chin high, focussed, the memory of it still makes him feel antsy.
Mycroft finds his anchor in Gregory’s sudden, loud mirth.
‘Bloody hell, you make such an ugly lady!’ He laughs, quite gone, delicious in his authenticity. The knowledge of his making the DI laugh is a sweet, sweet warmth slowly spreading in his chest. ‘Damn Mycroft, sorry, but I’ve seen prettier dead hookers. You’re bloody great.’
Mycroft doesn’t budge and patiently waits for his audience to be ready.
‘Gwendolen!’ He thunders after a long silence, stepping up to the first third of the scene, ‘What does this mean?’
Despite being fully in character, the sight of Gregory Lestrade reading the script and trying to add a woman’s touch to his rough voice is something Mycroft immediately catalogues for later use. It is utterly endearing. ‘Merely that I am engaged to be married to Mr. Worthington, Mamma.’
‘Come here.’ Mycroft answers, paying attention to the tiniest details. ‘Sit down. Sit down immediately. Hesitancy of any kind is a sign of mental decay in the young, of physical weakness in the old.’
The scene plays out quite pleasantly. Sheer enjoyment runs through Mycroft’s body when he moves, through his mind when he sits and fully immerses himself in the prose. It really is something he had missed, in the end. Oh, he had recited monologues since, but having an audience makes it thrilling. He thinks Gregory is having an entertaining time as well, at least until Mycroft turns his head during one of his lines and suddenly spots the flash of a mobile phone.
Behind it, Gregory is scoffing silently.
A cold dread engulfs Mycroft all of a sudden, spreading towards his limbs rapidly, freezing them as his face flushes. It’s a video. Gregory is filming him in this dress and making fun of him. Humiliation is a slap to the hoping heart. What a fool I’ve been.
‘What are you doing?’ He hears himself ask.
His voice sounds insecure and unsteady. Of course Gregory’s request wasn’t sincere. It was textbook. Oh, and he dared mock Sherlock with Irene Adler. Just a few flat praises, and Mycroft is dancing, whirling on stage reciting Wilde in an old female costume. Was this a cruel prank? Was this a cruel prank from Sherlock and Doctor Watson?
But Gregory’s reaction is instantaneous: as soon as he hears the question, he blinks rapidly, takes a look at Mycroft’s expression, and whatever he finds makes him drop the phone slightly with haste and horror. It’s still filming, still freezing Mycroft’s poor excuse for a heart.
‘Oh, no.’ Gregory reassures, ‘No, no. Shite, wait. It’s just for me. I want to keep this, you’re too good.’ The lie is bitterly vicious for his shattered ego. But Greg doesn’t stop, he props himself forward and goes on when he probably realizes Mycroft doesn’t believe him, ‘Honestly, you’re bloody brilliant. It was just for me, I swear. I have vids of Sherlock too, don’t worry, I never show them to anyone. I just wanted to keep it.’
Doubt creeps into Mycroft - the detective radiates honesty, but the harm has been done to the bleeding soul that had just started to mend thanks to the distraction. ‘I know you have videos of my brother.’ He simply states. That is the least foolish thing he can say at this point.
‘How do you- Is my phone bugged?’ Gregory sounds amazed - his credulity knows no bound, Mycroft hates himself for finding him irresistible even now. The staggered expression however soon fades to be replaced by embarrassment. ‘Uh, how long have you... been able to look at my phone?’
In all honesty, Mycroft doesn’t have time to personally look at it days and nights - but he has a good idea of why the DI is a bit bashful: like many men, Gregory is very progressive when it comes to texting ‘nudes’ . Quite unfortunately, he always deletes the ones he sends, which once or twice left Mycroft staring with raised eyebrows at a procession of women in very compromising positions.
‘A long time ago,’ is the evasive answer he goes for.
To his credit, the DI quickly shuts his slack jaw and finally drops the phone to tap something on it. ‘Alright. I, uh, I deleted it, don’t be upset. Please, go on. Go on, Mycroft.’ And then, once more, when he hesitates, ‘You’re too good, it’s my bloody fault, Sherlock usually doesn’t care at all, please go on.’
Gregory is an upright man, a loyal friend to his difficult little brother, and Mycroft decides to tame his anxiety and trust his logical deductions - Gregory is obviously telling the truth. So Mycroft regains his composure, breathes in, and starts his piqued soliloquy over confidently, ‘Well, I must say, Algernon, that I think it is high time that Mr. Bunbury made up his mind whether he was going to live or to die. This shilly-shallying with the question is absurd. Nor do I in any way approve of the modern sympathy with invalids. I consider it morbid. Illness of any kind is hardly a thing to be encouraged in others.’
Time - as the idiom goes - flies, and, while the representation lasts well over an hour, it ends with a last acerbic reply which plunges the room into a thoughtful silence.
When Mycroft turns his face to Gregory, he finds him still propped forward with his forearms resting on his knees, lips slightly parted, his chestnut eyes wide and candid as if he was watching telly. His beautiful face and silver fox hair are lit by the light flooding the stage.
‘Well, that’s it?’ He enquires with authentic bluntness. Mycroft is terribly pleased to see him so eager. ‘What happens next? Does Jack marry Gwendoline?’
Oh, what he would give to be the detective’s insane ex-wife.
‘This is a question for another time, I’m afraid.’ When Gregory frowns in confusion, lips parting again, Mycroft clarifies reluctantly, ‘It’s very late, and your shift starts very early.’
Mycroft won’t take advantage of his kindness any longer. Earlier this evening, he physically couldn’t bring himself to request that Gregory leave when he was at his lowest, but, as much as would like this surprising and beautiful evening to continue, all things end.
And particularly beautiful things.
‘How do you-’ Gregory starts to ask before stopping himself and taking a look at his watch. He springs to his feet immediately. ‘You’re right. I need to go. Well, if-’
‘I’m quite hopeful I’ll survive the night.’
Gregory understands the derision certainly, but he either finds in Mycroft’s face something he didn’t manage to suppress and that the DI doesn’t like, or - more fanciful - the detective doesn’t want to leave yet, because he hesitates before assenting, ‘Alright. I’ll be back tomorrow evening, then.’
Mycroft should say no, he should say this isn’t necessary, and I will be fine. He shouldn’t stay quiet and be guilty rather than lonely.
‘You’ll play for me again?’ Greg asks. ‘I want to know how that Bunbury thing works.’
‘Yes, I believe I will, if you’re interested.’
And I dance, dance, dance, as long as you will watch me .
‘I am.’ Such a sweet admission. The DI suddenly breaks eye contact to worry his lower lip as he glances at his watch again, fidgeting. ‘Shite. I really should go.’
It is not that late, they probably are both aware of it.
‘Good night, then, Gregory,' he wishes, a master of fake smiles and pretense.
He always has been, after all.
Earlier, he countlessly thanked the detective for his tremendously helping presence. This time, somehow, it is infinitely more difficult to express. Mycroft is aware he has to say something, but the welcome quietness of the evening, perhaps, or the link they just shared, makes it hard to reopen his heart even a little.
Instead, he opens his mouth for a few seconds, raises his eyebrows, and finally manages to find his voice to express the deserved gratitude, ‘Thank you. You lifted my spirits.’
‘Don’t mention it. I loved it.’ Oh. Gregory quickly runs a hand through his gorgeous grey hair. ‘I mean, not that you’re a mess, I enjoyed the evening. You’re a great Lady Bracknell.’
Silence settles as Mycroft wordlessly tastes the startling and comforting praise. It is an electrifying balm. Both of them awkwardly wait another second. The tale-tell ambiguous second of uncertainty.
Innocence is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone.
‘Well, see you tomorrow.’ Greg finally says as he heads out of the room. ‘You make sure to rest, alright? Good night, Mycroft.’
When the door closes softly, Mycroft remains alone on the chair in his Victorian dress; the haunting demons of his past probably lurk in every corners of the estate, patiently waiting his return to remind him of his failures and collateral crimes but, for a brief moment tonight, he had the fortune of forgetting them. Gregory brought with him abstract perspectives Mycroft does not dare to contemplate yet - hope is such a distressing gamble - but for which he is most grateful to have indulged in this silly venture.
Living, sometimes, is simply frightening.
He is still not sure whether Sherlock offered him this brief taste of what it is to thrive as a torment or as a peace offering.