Chapter Text
The proprietor of Tea and Tattle on Great Russell Street had just given them the second of the series of pointed glances such as all restaurant employees learn to direct at customers who show no signs of calling for their bill and looking about for scarves and gloves ten minutes before closing. Mycroft, of course, saw and correctly interpreted the glance, but carefully avoided meeting the man’s eye. He’d leave a tip when he paid that would ensure no hard feelings if they lingered until the last moment.
“...and then she brought out one of those magazines, you know, women’s mags, with all the celebrity gossip and sadistic advice about how to ‘improve’ a blow job that sound like they’d end with someone in hospital. Well, hers probably didn’t have that; I think it was some teenage version. I hope.”
“You seem to be quite well versed in women’s literature.” Greg just rolled his eyes and laughed.
“Yeah, I was married, remember? I lived with at least one of the genre in the loo next to my Four Four Two for ten years. And sometimes I’d already read everything in the football one.”
Mycroft just smirked, his expression taking the piss better than most people could with a thousand words.
“Oi, none of that. I’ll bet you don’t know the proper occasions to wear glitter eyeshadow.”
“I have retained Anthea for counsel on all such subjects, should the need arise.”
Greg just snorted, and jumped back into his story from his niece’s recent weekend visit (thirteen; old enough to resent a childminder, but too young to be left at home by herself for a whole weekend--Greg’s sister had hinted that he invite Lucy for a visit that would conveniently happen to be the exact weekend Beth and her husband wanted to celebrate their anniversary in the Cotswolds). “So, yeah, she had this magazine, and she’d already explained to me why some teenager with big hair and a really frightening amount of glitter on her face was going to be the next Celine Dion, so, I was only halfway paying attention when she asked if I’d take a quiz, and I must have accidentally moved my head in a way that looked like nodding, because next thing I know I’m being asked all sorts of questions about my romantic preferences.”
He paused to drain his cup of the last of his tea. Mycroft watched him while eating the last of his scone with damson plum jam. He and Greg had met ostensibly to discuss Sherlock and the details of his long-term relationship with risky behaviour, as they had on a fairly regular basis over the years, but as was becoming more and more common now that Greg didn’t have a wife to rush home to and Mycroft had gained enough power to tell those who would bother him after hours for anything less than a dire emergency where to stuff it, the conversation had glossed over Sherlock and wandered off onto other topics.
Such as Greg’s results from the “What’s Your Ideal Date?” quiz.
“Honestly, the questions....tell me, would my friends describe me as ‘spunky and independent’ or ‘romantic and earnest’? I figured ‘sweet and shy’ was right out.”
“Hmm...I can’t say that any of those are the words that I would use if I were called upon to describe you.” I would call you...honest, thoughtful, patient, loyal...I do believe you have the capacity to be romantic, although I’ve never had the opportunity to see or experience your efforts in that area. Mycroft rarely admitted, even to himself, that he might quite like romantic overtures from this man.
“Oh, so I have to officially ‘call upon’ you for you to give me your opinion?” Greg teased, with that look he always gave Mycroft when he was being very posh and stuffy. He didn’t wait for an answer, but rambled on. “Then there was some rubbish about what I would notice first about the new boy next door and which American city I felt best represented my approach to life--how should I know? I’ve only been to New York.”
As he paused for breath, Mycroft indicated to the waiter that he was finally prepared to accept their bill, much to the relief of the proprietor, who casually glanced at the clock that indicated closing time was in four minutes.
“And did you learn anything from this foray into self-awareness?”
“Well, apparently, my ideal date is wandering about a museum or art gallery opening. Dunno how I got that; I was expecting something involving food or sport. Then again, I suppose it wasn’t really designed with men in their forties in mind.”
“Certainly. I believe the proprietor will be straining his eyes if he stares at us and then back to the clock any harder, so I believe we should prepare to take our leave.”
“Oh, yeah, wow. I didn’t realize it was so late. Time gets away somehow.” Greg popped a last bite of cake into his mouth and stood, turning to remove his coat from the back of the chair as he continued chattering. He’d never been such a talker, but now that he lived alone it seemed what few friends he made the time to meet up with usually got an earful. “And then as if that wasn’t bad enough, there was a second quiz, and this one was about whether I was a good kisser or not. I had to refuse that one; not something I want to discuss with my niece! Then it turns out she has a whole magazine just of quizzes. I suggested movie night start early, but she…”
Mycroft’s back was to the door. He was reaching for his wallet in the pocket of the coat draped over his arm when it all went to hell.
Crashing.
Glass breaking.
Screaming. The busboy. The lady digging through her handbag for her keys by the door. Both.
Shouting. The waiter.
Shoving.
Chair hitting the ground.
Falling.
Pain.
Ears ringing.
Pain.
Dizzy.
Gregory?