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If you asked Greg Lestrade what drew him to Mycroft, he couldn’t quite pinpoint just one characteristic. Mycroft contradictions: aloof yet sweet when he so desired, calculated yet caring, stoic yet vulnerable. He was brilliant beyond the world; like he belonged in an entirely different society which Greg was too plebian to know existed. And he was attractive. God, he was attractive. Greg had never really had a type regarding blokes, but right now it was tall, posh, red-headed, and dressed from the 1800s, speaking in expensive words like he was getting paid per syllable.
But if you asked Greg why he’d been dating the man for a year and never said those four terrifying words, he had a simple answer. Everyone who had met Mycroft with the exception of his brother and his brother’s flatmate, found him intimidating and untouchable. Of course, Greg had touched Mycroft by now (multiple times, in fact, Greg sniggered to himself; each one its own special memory full with 3D graphics and surround sound that Greg would play over and over during the indeterminable days My was away for business), but he was still in the same boat with the general populace of London: Mycroft was fucking intimidating. Which was silly, right? Here he was, a grown man and Detective Inspector of homicide at Scotland Yard. Taking down dangerous criminals was his fucking job description. And yet he couldn’t get the courage to say “I love you, My.” Well, okay, he said it in his head while looking at the red-head, and out loud in the cab afterwards (which was met with a guarded look from the cabbie), but it was the man’s presence that made everything so much scarier.
It wasn’t like My had said it to him yet either.
Greg had many a pub night with John, talking about their respective relationships with the Holmes brothers. They figured if there was one thing the siblings had in common (besides disdain for the common people, John joked), it was their aversion and quite frankly, immaturity, to emotions.
Sherlock and Mycroft grew up essentially raising each other. Sherlock taught My how to care for someone, and My grew up to protect his little brother. But even with the one person who had seen them at their best and worst in childhood, they didn’t express love to each other beyond underhanded gestures and annoyed looks.
The night John greeted Greg and his pint of bitter with an exuberant smile and a slap on the back was the night the DI’s respect for the doctor went up even more. Because Sherlock had finally said the most meaningful words a Holmes could say. He said it really quietly. Like he wanted to say them but wanted to keep them close in case he needed to take them back. John didn’t stop smiling the entire night, and when Greg had a case the next day—it was a seven at least—Sherlock had turned him down, citing John and some rather graphic plans. Even through the text message Greg could tell that the younger Holmes was pleasantly thrilled with John and the new step in their relationship.
On their anniversary, Greg made the decision to be the first to put himself out there and perhaps the first person unrelated to Mycroft to tell him he was loved.
Of course, making the decision was much easier than actually executing it, because here he was a month later, still intimidated by the man. Yes, they had been dating for a year (of which the elder Holmes later admitted he wasn’t entirely aware they were dating during the first three months—seriously, did single men exclusively go out to dinner on a bi-weekly basis to restaurants with candles, and late night movies at each other’s houses and not call it a date unless they were Sherlock and John before they were SherlockandJohn?), but Greg was never quite sure exactly what went on in My’s mind. Sure, they slept with each other and regularly shared passionate kisses (especially when My returned from abroad after days of no contact for security reasons). But My had also never quite shown interest in loving someone. His favorite motto when they had first met over Sherlock-circumstances had been Caring is not an advantage. What was to say that My hadn’t changed his stance?
Even though they hadn’t yet professed their love to each other, Mycroft had started to bring Greg to his posh social events about nine months into their relationship. Greg would come home to find a new suit hanging from his front door and an embossed invitation made out to Mister Gregory Lestrade. Though it didn’t explicitly state it, it was abundantly clear that he was in fact Mycroft’s plus one, and the implication made a grin stretch across his face. He was sure My was watching his reaction from the CCTV camera trained on his front door (he’d quickly gotten over the creepiness of it and decided to focus on the sweet gesture and satisfaction of My’s curiosity instead), and had turned his face away from the camera in an embarrassed gesture the first couple times. Now, he would seek out the camera and let My see how the ramification of the invitation made him feel.
The last time it happened was two days ago. This time the invitation was handwritten by My, and the event wasn’t a government-funded soirée; it was a family dinner at the Holmes estate. Tonight, Greg pulled on the suit, never pausing to wonder how his boyfriend knew his exact measurements or which cuts looked best on him (Greg honestly didn’t know the answer to either of those questions). Each suit he’d worn with Mycroft was slightly different. According to the note tucked into the bag, this newest one was grey with a glen plaid pattern, two buttons, and a step lapel. Greg could really care less what the fancy words called the fit, but looking in the mirror, he could admit that Mycroft knew how to dress him (and didn’t that sound possessive).
Greg was aware of Mycroft’s insecurities, and had been made privy to his nervousness about bringing Greg to meet his parents. Sherlock and John would be there as well for their first introduction, but their parents had read about John in the papers and on the blog to the point where it wouldn’t really be a first introduction, as much as a first opportunity to put the face to the name. For Greg and Mycroft, it would be the first everything, and for a man who liked control and pace, Mycroft was feeling a bit overwhelmed.
Knocking on his boyfriend’s front door, Greg was let into the foyer by his PA, and made his way to My’s front room as usual. He always liked to look out the large windows (bullet-proof, triple pane, Mycroft had assured him) at the clouds as they rolled across the London sky. The sunsets were breathtaking as much as by its natural beauty, as by the sliding colors of orange and red that trailed across Mycroft’s features on date nights.
Attuned to the man’s walking habits, Greg turned around at the sound of the tap-tap of dress shoes. When Mycroft entered, Greg was (as always) incredibly drawn to the man. He wore a three-piece suit in a slate grey with a dusky blue dress shirt and navy blue tie. He was beautiful. “You look--you look really good, My,” Greg managed to stumble out (God, he was like a schoolboy on a first date). Mycroft usually gave a pleased smile and made a comment back, but this time, the younger man remained frozen, staring at him with wide eyes. “My, is everything alright?” Greg took a step towards him, hand outstretched to settle on the man’s arm, but Mycroft abruptly spat out an I can’t do this, before turning on his heel and fleeing.
Greg felt the impact of the man’s words like a meteor entering Earth’s atmosphere. It was abrupt and unexpected, the influx of the words leaving a ringing emptiness where there was once input. They made him freeze, arm still outstretched towards the vacated space of the man he’d fallen in love with. Their meaning sank into his organs, searing its way through his chest. He couldn’t--he didn’t--it wasn’t--he couldn’t have meant that, did he? Had Mycroft…broken up with him? Before he was able to tell My he loved him? His entire being was burning up until he wasn’t sure there would be anything left. Greg looked around, lost in the horror of Mycroft’s four words. The wrong four words.
The longer Greg stood in Mycroft’s front room, the more aware he was of the silence surrounding him—the silence separating him from Mycroft. If there was one thing Greg consistently did in his life, it was keep his promises. He had kept his word to Sherlock to let him on cases if he kicked the drug habit, to his wife to never cheat on her ‘til death do them part (or she cheated on him and then filed for divorce, the unfaithful gannet), and now he would keep his promise to himself to tell Mycroft the right four words.
Greg made his way to Mycroft’s room where the heavy wooden door was firmly closed. “Mycroft, what’s wrong? Did you-did you just break up with me?”
“No, Gregory. I am merely having a panic attack. It is quite common in people with stressful jobs, as I am sure you are full aware.” Mycroft spoke in confident tones meant to dissuade the man from further conversation. “I will reschedule the dinner; I’m sure Sherlock and John won’t mind our absence.”
Greg ignored the sting that came with Mycroft’s formal use of his full name. “If you’re having a panic attack, I’m coming in so I can help you, My,” he called out as he attempted to turn the handle only to find it was locked. “Fucking—” Greg cut himself off before he could call Mycroft any ill-timed names and took a deep breath instead. “Mycroft, you have to talk to me. Why are you doing this?”
“Go home.”
“No. Not until I see you first.”
“You already saw me. I believe you also said that I look really good. Thank you. Now go home.”
Greg glared at the door, running his hand through his greying locks. His fucking boyfriend was a stubborn arse sometimes. “Come to the door right this second, I have something to tell you, Mycroft.”
“Just say it through the door. I’m trying to get my breathing under control.”
Greg heard Mycroft start counting to regulate his breathing pattern, and leaned his forehead on the door. “It’s not something I want to say through a door,” he murmured sadly.
If Mycroft heard his words, he didn’t show it, his counting never wavering. After a few moments, Greg straightened up again and stepped away. He knew when Mycroft got into moods like this there was nothing he could do about it. It rarely happened, but when it did, he waited until night passed before seeking Mycroft out again—unless the latter found him first. He’d tell Mycroft tomorrow.
Greg turned around and started to walk away from the closed door. This was precisely when Mycroft pulled it open and called out his name. Greg stopped and looked back at the man in the doorway. “Mycroft?”
“I-I’m terrified.” It was the first time Mycroft had stuttered and admitted being afraid of something.
Greg took a step back towards him. “Of what?”
“Dinner. It’s overwhelming. My parents and John have already practically met through the blog, but with us it will be completely new. You might not like them. They’re very important to me, and if you couldn’t get along with them, I don’t know what I would do. And, I know we haven’t said anything concrete yet, but what if everything between us gets messed up? It would be a strain on our relationship and then we’ll slowly drift apart, and eventually I’ll be alone again. And-” Mycroft was babbling now, and though Greg was aware that what he was saying wasn’t really in the realm of acceptable, he did find it a bit adorable.
“My,” he interrupted. “I-I have something to say. To you. And I know that it’s big, and it’s something that you might not be ready for, or be able to say back right now. But I’ve wanted to say it to you for a while. And it might make you uncomfortable and I’m not sure what your views on it are, but I really need to say it to you-” Great, now he was babbling.
“I’ve been wanting,” Mycroft cut in.
“What?”
“I’ve been wanting. Not I wanted. The present perfect tense refers to an action which includes up to and including the present moment which is now. As you are currently speaking about what you want to say, I can assume you still currently want to say it, whereas I wanted refers to and stops in the past.”
Greg huffed a laugh.
“I love you too.” The words were rushed, though Mycroft’s eyes were sincere, looking right into the older man’s shocked ones.
He stared in awe at Mycroft: the man who beat him to it. The man who just said four of the right words.
Mycroft continued on, stumbling over the words in his hurry to get them all out. “I have always known it. It just happened and hasn’t stopped. And while I still don’t think it’s an advantage, my feelings are real and if I ignore it, it will only serve to be detrimental.”
Greg remained staring at Mycroft, eventually making the man lose his collected appearance. “Greg…” The older man parted his lips and sucked in a healthy dose of oxygen. Then he wasn’t sure what to do next. “Are you alright, Greg?”
In answer, the inspector pulled Mycroft’s face down to his. “I love you, My. The right four words.”
“The right four what?”
Greg kissed him instead.