Chapter Text
It started, as all good things do, with a vicious argument.
Dinner the night Mycroft returned from his hush-hush, top-secret trip to Cornwall had been a quiet affair. Mycroft had black rings under his eyes, and kept blinking rapidly every so often, and Greg had just wrapped up a case involving a schoolteacher and several hacked up children. Needless to say, they spent most of the meal in silence. When the waiter came round to take the dessert order, Greg reckoned they’d better abstain so Mycroft didn’t fall asleep over his lemon tart, paid the bill before his sleepy boyfriend could protest, and drove them home. Home, in this case, was Mycroft’s rather ostentatiously rich apartment in Knightsbridge, which Greg was all fine with because his bed was literally the most comfortable thing he had ever slept on, and he would be criminally stupid to not take advantage of such a thing. The man had silk sheets. They felt divine against bare skin (even if they were a bugger to clean.)
"You didn’t have to pay," Mycroft muttered, slowly sliding off his clothing, slowly folding it up, and slowly crawling into bed.
Greg was already in bed, and curled in close, nuzzling at Mycroft’s neck. The elder Holmes made a soft, slightly irritated sound. "I wanted to pay."
"Strange. You are the first person who has ever insisted." He fixed Greg with a bleary, but intense stare. "I don’t... understand you," he admitted, voice quiet.
"I’m not that complex."
"That’s not the issue..." Mycroft’s voice trailed off into silence, broken only by the rustling of sheets as Greg tried to find the perfect position for both cuddling and sleeping. Eventually he pushed one leg through both of Mycroft’s, pressed flush against his back, and slung one arm around his waist. From his even, steady breaths, Greg thought the other man had drifted off, and was startled when he murmured: "I’m going to Norfolk in a couple of days."
"Oh, sweet, you just got back." Mycroft made another irritated sound, although whether it was at the nickname or in sympathy he couldn’t tell. "Doesn’t the Queen know you’re buggered?"
"I should hope not. She would be quite distressed. Might even knight you."
He snorted. "Sorry, I meant tired, not..."
There was a hum that vibrated gorgeously against his chest. He felt a quiet, potent ache spring up as well, and tried to press against more of Mycroft. Greg had missed him with a ferocity that was bloody terrifying in its intensity, which, when combined with his less-than-stellar day, made him feel unusually morose and clingy.
"Norfolk isn’t state business," was the reply. "It’s personal."
"I’d hate to know the person who pissed you off."
The vibration shuddered; Mycroft was chuckling soundlessly. "You misunderstand: I meant family business. We... my mother has an estate in Norfolk. I’ve been remiss lately, and she is quite eager for me to come up."
An estate in Norfolk. Of course. This was the Holmes family they were talking about. "How long for?" No, he wasn’t whining, he just had… something in his throat.
"No more than a week." He evidently felt Greg’s sigh, pressing back into him briefly in wordless apology. It wasn’t long before he fell asleep, breath rasping, but Greg continued to stay awake, feeling properly miserable and mulling aimlessly over the day.
A thought occurred to him, very slowly, and it continued to itch at him the entire night through, bleeding right through into the next morning. At first he dismissed it offhand as being a ridiculous idea, but he was nothing if not excellent at convincing himself to do stupid things, and the more he thought about it, the less it seemed like a crazed delusion. What would be so wrong in joining Mycroft in Norfolk, after all? They were... if not in love, at least at the stage where he wouldn’t be ashamed to bring Mycroft home to his family. (At least, he wouldn’t if his dad weren’t a raging homophobe, and if he ever managed to fully reconnect with his parents after twenty years of radio silence and a painful family reunion that had left new scars instead of healing old ones.) Sherlock was fine with his brother being gay, and Mycroft was very comfortable with it as well – not dangerously closeted, or anything. So didn’t it stand to reason Mycroft’s mum would be pretty gracious about the whole taking the new boyfriend over thing? He brooded over breakfast before finally deciding to propose it to Mycroft, who still looked somewhat worse for wear.
"Hey," he began. Mycroft glanced up from smirking smugly at The News of the World (who’d been going through phone hacking allegations, or something; Greg didn’t pay much attention to the news about the news.) "You know the Norfolk thing that you were—”
“Which Norfolk… thing?” Mycroft interrupted, looking slightly alarmed.
“With your mum.”
“Oh.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. Greg was getting the distinct feeling he wasn’t meant to know about the Norfolk thing. “Yes. That. It’s nothing, really, just mother being…” He flashed a strained smile. “Motherly. I presume—you saw the invitation?”
Okay, now he was getting confused. “Er, no? You told me last night. There was an invitation?” Mycroft’s mum was the sort to send invitations? Well, he supposed it explained several aspects of the Holmes brothers…
And hopefully if he met her, he might learn how Mycroft could go from relatively good-humoured to impassive in about point five of a second. There was no gradual transition; his expression simply passed into the realm of blank, cold civility, complete with that fucking patronizing smile. “Ah, I believe I know your question. You needn’t concern yourself with it.”
It was six in the morning, and he didn’t particularly want an argument, but he couldn’t help rankling at that. “Really,” he said flatly. “And what am I going to ask?”
“Whether or not your presence is required, of course. It is quite alright,” Mycroft added, in what he probably thought was a soothing tone; “I would also prefer you not to go.”
On reflection, he probably should have taken longer to cherish the idea that he’d actually (unintentionally) gotten one over on a Holmes but, as it was, he was a little busy working himself into a foul temper. “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
The perfect mask of affability and condescension faltered for a moment as Mycroft considered him, before he said smilingly, "Come now, Gregory, we two both know the reasons."
He should let this go, he really should. "Humour me," Greg said, voice rising along with his anger.
Mycroft’s expression gave way to pure, hard annoyance. "From what we understand—" Greg wondered if he’d realised he’d used the royal ‘we,’ "—your relationship with your own parents is not what one would call ideal. We..." He blinked slowly, mouth twisting. Apparently he had. "I had thought to spare you the difficulty of meeting my mother."
Greg’s teeth were grit so hard that his jaw started to ache. I am a rock. Unfeeling, solid, calm. And maybe if I tell myself that another hundred times this meditation calmness shit will work. "My family is none of your..." His voice cracked. He stopped, did the fucking stupid rock thing, and tried again: "I refuse to talk about this. You’re being uncommunicative, Mycroft."
"I’m being uncommunicative?" the other man said, in a tone perilously close to a sneer, and one that continued to drip with sarcastic irritation: "My dear—" oh God how Greg wanted to deck him for that, "—I am not the one refusing to talk about the underlying issues, which are the very source of our problems."
"My family… stuff is not the effing underlying issue! The underlying issue is that you won’t bloody open up! I learnt about this trip by, by what? Accident? Because you were too tired to self-censor—oh, don’t try and bloody deny it. What the hell did you do with the invitation anyway: burn it?" He was being sarcastic, but the way Mycroft pressed his lips together in stony silence made Greg realise he was right on the mark. "Jesus Christ. This isn’t some sort of... of James Bond film, Mycroft. It’s your—our life, and I couldn’t give a toss if you’re double-oh-seven, or M, or whatever while you’re at work, you have to be... I want you to be open with me."
"Thank you for your expert opinion, Gregory," Mycroft said coldly. Greg bit back an aggravated sigh. "I was hitherto unable to determine what my life was comparable to, and now that I have a pop culture icon I can reference I certainly feel much more at ease." On that note, he stood from his chair and stalked into the bedroom with affected hauteur, but not before giving one last parting shot: "At least I am proficient at my job." The door was shut firmly, the soft click echoing in the sudden silence of the kitchen.
Greg’s hot anger drained from him, to be replaced by an icy tightness in his chest. In his mind’s eye, he could see the faces of the three children they’d found in the basement - two of them girls about his own daughter’s age, twelve to thirteen, and the other a boy of about six. He covered his face with both hands, feeling sick and trying to rid his mind of the voice that whispered, he’s right, he’s right, he’s right. After a few moments of focusing on breathing in, and out, and in, and out, and hearing Mycroft moving around in the other room, Greg rose, snatching up his half-eaten bowl of porridge and car keys from the bench. Throwing his bowl at the bedroom door would probably be childish, and he would regret it, as it was a very nice bowl that hardly deserved to be smashed. He instead chucked it into the sink, and left for work, slamming the front door on his way out.
---
Work was hell. The Earth went round the Sun. His team was looking a bit shell-shocked after that case, and he spent the day poring distractedly over old paperwork and administrative forms and other bureaucratic nonsense. Sherlock didn’t come in, for which he was grateful, because he was still jostling for a fight that he knew the consultant would happily provide. Greg left at six o’clock, earlier than normal but still later than most of his division, and headed home. Home, in this case, was his own neglected, empty and small flat, where the light of his life resided: his cat. Toby, at least, was happy to see him, butting his head against Lestrade’s legs and twining in between them. The bastard probably only wanted dinner. Still, he would consent to being briefly cuddled in return for a half a tin of sardines.
Mycroft would probably call or text. Greg switched his mobile off for the night, and, as an afterthought, unplugged the landline. This turned out to be a stupid decision, as there was nothing to eat in the fridge except for a large block of cheese, left there from the last time Mycroft came over. He shut the fridge door, leaning his forehead against it and covering his face with his hands. Muted anger and upset prickled at his stomach… he’d order takeaway.
The rest of the night passed in a dull and distressingly sober blur. (If he touched alcohol, he knew he wouldn’t stop drinking until his liver gave out.) There wasn’t a lot of furniture in the flat, and none at all in his bedroom, so he slept on the couch. Or, to be more accurate, he stayed awake late into the night while lying on his couch.
How quickly he’d assimilated into Mycroft’s neat little life. And after, what: one and a half years of going out? It wasn’t a terribly long time – longer than he’d known his ex-wife when he married her, granted, but, as he’d accidentally gotten her pregnant, it was slightly different to the situation he found himself in now. He was fine with the pace of things when everything was running smoothly, but when they hit the bumps, they hit the bumps hard. Getting into a fight with Mycroft was almost impossible to do, and literally impossible to win. It was like trying to argue with an iceberg; not only was it cold and immovable, he could also try and chip away at it all he liked, and there’d only be more bloody ice. There wasn’t some sort of external layer he had to break through before everything turned to roses and daffodils, no; Mycroft was ice. Strip all that away and… well, Greg didn’t know what would happen, or what would be left, but it probably wouldn’t be pretty.
Mycroft appeared to be content with how quickly Greg was adapting to him, just so long as he didn’t have to change anything for Greg. And, sure, maybe the visiting-your-mum thing was a bit stupid, but he genuinely wanted to understand his boyfriend, and his occasional bizarre habits and mannerisms, better. If he didn’t want to open up, well... fine. That was fine. Greg just wanted some time apart to lick his wounds after every fight, every tailored barb and piercing comment that came his way. A week apart was looking more and more appealing – by then Mycroft would be in better spirits, and he himself wouldn’t be dreaming about little girls screaming and bloody rag dolls in basements and why didn’t you help us in time...
He flailed awake, falling heavily off the couch and staying down for the moment, hardly daring to breathe. For a while, he thought his nightmare had woken him, but then he heard a, ‘tap, tap, tap’ on his front door. Fucking hell. He struggled upwards, growled out a, “Coming!” and checked his reflection in the window. Not overly terrible considering he’d had five hours sleep. He ruffled his hair up unconsciously, and then tried in vain to comb it back flat. Then he flicked his mobile on. It informed him that it was the ungodly hour of eight in the morning, and that there were two missed calls on his mobile: a voicemail he couldn’t bring himself to listen to, and another text message sent last night, which simply read, Are you coming home? Greg really did not want to have to reply to that right now. He supposed he would, just to see Mycroft before he left, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to face trial-by-Holmes at the moment.
The person tapping insistently at the door turned out to be a brown-haired woman tapping at her Blackberry, and he was taken aback for several seconds before she glanced up. “Hi,” he said. “Uh, Anthea?”
Her eyebrows rose in amusement; she turned back to the phone. It occurred to him that probably wasn’t her real name. “Mr. Holmes wonders if you would be amenable to joining him…” He opened his mouth to refuse, but she overrode him: “…in driving over to Norfolk and spending the foreseeable week there.”
“Couldn’t he have come and asked himself?” She looked up again, an, ‘I-am-going-to-pretend-you-never-asked-that-question,’ smile on her face. “No,” Greg muttered. “Of course not. Uh, look, tell him, thanks but no thanks. I can’t take any time off work—”
“It’s already been arranged, Inspector,” she interrupted, lowering the phone slightly.
“Great. Well, in that case, I need to spend the week getting the flat ready for my daughter coming over next—”
“We have people to do that sort of work. It will be attended to.”
Greg’s mouth thinned. “Are you going to take, ‘no,’ for an answer?”
“I was under the impression that you had requested this. It is a very nice estate,” she added, offhandedly. “You will enjoy yourself.”
He was struggling to maintain righteous indignation, swamped as he was by exhausted apathy. “But, I haven’t got any clothes packed, or anything—”
Anthea looked distinctly unimpressed, an expression that had been growing more and more pronounced since he’d started voicing protests. “You do not know Mr. Holmes very well if you think that is a problem.”
“Look,” he started, “you can’t just swan in and start telling me what I know and don’t know about my—Mycroft.”
“If you think so, Inspector,” she said calmly. “However, you will get in the car. Someone will come around to attend to your cat, if you should choose to go to Norfolk.”
“I’m not going to get in your bloody car, so you can piss right off.”
Five minutes later he was in the bloody car, rubbing at his wrist and warring between annoyance and respect. Anthea looked perfectly composed in the seat next to him, absorbed in her smart phone once more. He winced when his wrist popped: she had a hell of a grip. She dropped him off near the front of Mycroft’s apartment block, not even bothering to say goodbye or look up from her phone.
There was a white, vintage car idling on the kerb. Greg was pretty sure it was a MGA coupe, hideously expensive, and, from the sound of the engine, would run beautifully. Mycroft was leaning against the passenger door, looking simultaneously hot as hell and dead tired. He looked as if he’d just come from the Diogenes, pinstriped suit and all. He straightened up when he saw Greg, one hand twitching upwards slightly and the other maintaining a death grip on the umbrella. His perfectly cordial greeting and strained comments on the lovely day they were having were met by raised eyebrows and Greg fighting back a sudden, wry grin. Mycroft also raised his eyebrows, locking them both into an eyebrow-raising contest for a bit before he gave a put upon, fond sigh and got in the car, calling out:
“The keys are in the ignition. If… you’re coming, that is. If you are not, I suppose I might have to drive myself. In the sleep-deprived state I appear to find myself, however, I would likely crash, but please – do not let that influence your decision.”
“Well, when you sell it like that,” Greg replied lightly, running a hand through his hair again. Once in the car, he hesitated, glancing across at his lover. “Look, can you just tell me straight up if you want me to come or not?” When Mycroft opened his eyes (having closed them while he got in) he added hastily: “I don’t mind if you don’t. I won’t. It’s okay.”
Mycroft leaned back in his seat, completely silent for several moments. “Permit me, if you will, to answer your question with another question: do you want to come?”
“Yes,” he said decisively, “but I don’t mind if you—”
He was cut off: “You already have your answer. If you desire to go, I desire you to go. Now, could we perhaps commence driving? With traffic the way it is, I do not wish to dawdle for any longer than necessary.”
The tension wasn’t completely gone, but Greg could breathe easier, and even crack a grin. “Come off it, you telling me a bit of London traffic’s going to detain you?”
“I am but a humble servant of Her Majesty’s, and even our monarch has minimal control over the mysterious force that is the London traffic system.”
---
This demure statement turned out to be absolute rubbish, of course, as they were out of the city in bloody record time, and onto the M11. Mycroft fussed over telling him precisely how he should be driving, taking half an hour to finally conclude that Greg was a perfectly able driver. The car seemed to be Mycroft’s pride and joy, despite how little he claimed to know about them. Greg suspected the only reason he’d been given the keys to Mycroft’s baby was so that the man could have a nap in the passenger’s seat, trying to make up for a month of what probably contained little to no sleep.
It started spitting rain just as he was about to wind down a window, and quickly developed into a steady, if relatively mild downpour that had the wipers working at half-speed. That was good, he supposed, with the drought and everything, but the landscape turned into a dark green and brown smear, trees and bushes and mud and grass all blending in to form a bland kaleidoscope. These were exactly the type of driving conditions he liked to avoid: there were far too many trucks on the slippery highway for his liking. The rain petered out shortly after they merged onto the A10, and the anaemic winter sun heralded the rest of the drive. He’d sussed out their destination was roughly 10 miles out of King’s Lynn, tucked inland and on a plot of land that he, “couldn’t miss,” which was slightly ominous.
As Greg was wondering if he could get the map out of the glove box, check it and drive all at the same time, Mycroft woke up. It was always fascinating watching him transition from virtually dead to the world to awake in about three seconds, his face losing the slackness of sleep and shifting to hyper-alert awareness. He saw that the only person around was Greg, blinked slowly and gave a small, discreet yawn. Greg glanced over, smiling sympathetically as his expression collapsed into real exhaustion.
"You were only out for an hour or so."
"You make it sound as if I had been kidnapped," Mycroft replied, shifting minutely in the red, leather seat, rolling his head experimentally and muttering in pain.
"I’d like to see someone try. Ay, you can kip for a bit longer, if you want. Still about a half hour till we get there."
"No, I shall stay awake. I wish to have at least half my wits about me..." That said, he relaxed back into the seat, exhaling quietly.
"So,” Greg began, “this house I’m meant to not be able to miss…” A thought occurred to him: “Oh, hell, it’s not a whopping great castle, is it? Because I really have to draw the line there."
"Of course not," Mycroft sighed, eyes closed. "Absurd. Draughty. Impossible to fund, besides. No, it’s merely a manor house."
A smile twitched at the corner of Greg’s lips. “Lord of the manor, eh?” His response was an indelicate snort.
“Hardly. I have no wish to take over the place of my father. In the household, at least. Mother is quite capable of running it herself. She has a knack for…” He trailed off, pursing his lips, and instead concluded: “Well, you’ll see.”
“Sounds great.” He was determined to be as cheerfully optimistic about this trip as possible, even after their pretty turbulent beginning. “What’s she like, your mum?”
Mycroft was silent for a while, his face that particular version of Zen like calm it attained whenever he was considering how best to respond. “She’s very… strong-willed. I daresay that I take after her in many ways, but she is quite… different.”
“Anything like Sherlock, or what?”
“No, no, not that particular blend of different. It is quite difficult to describe, actually. I feel I must tell you in advance she is very unafraid to speak her mind and… rather blunt about certain topics. You two will probably get along well,” he added, sounding doubtful. Happy and positive, Greg would be happy and positive. Yes, they probably would get on well. Hopefully.
“Yeah, course we will.” After his (slightly hesitantly made) affirmation, the rest of the trip passed quietly. Mycroft occasionally woke up enough to point out the names and histories of various forest reserves, with enough genuine glee in his voice when he retold the legends behind their names to make up for Greg’s usual lack of interest in history. Mycroft also commandeered the map, although he protested that the route was perfectly straightforward and his memory was such that he did not require one; Greg retorted that if they got lost, he was blaming Mycroft. And so the compromise was that the guidebook sat in Mycroft’s lap, unused but reassuringly there.
They turned off a fair ways before they got to King’s Lynn, travelling right across the county and into scenic terrain that Greg pronounced as being, “pretty.” His lover rolled his eyes at that detailed assessment, muttering about poetry and eloquence and the English language. The roads they drove down were generally hemmed in on both sides by thick, vibrantly green shrubbery – “Ligustrum ovalifolium” – but occasionally breaks in the hedges revealed fields of red poppies, shivering and shimmering in the light breeze. More frequent still were fields of wheat and barley, but they weren’t as picturesque as the swaying poppies. When he remarked about the little red flowers, Mycroft started dryly quoting Keats at him – “Through the dancing poppies stole a breeze most softly lulling to my soul…” – and refused to stop until he directed that they turn off the small road onto a long, gravel driveway. He was solemnly finishing off the last couplet of The Eve of St. Agnes, Greg laughing and telling him to stop (mostly because he wanted to kiss him) when they reached the front gates after a solid five minutes of driving.
Greg’s first thought upon seeing the house looming in the not-too-far distance was that he’d somehow stumbled into a Harry Potter book. It wasn’t Hogwarts, but it was like the manor of the older, blond-haired actor he found reasonably attractive – Malfoy, that was it. The house was very… well, symmetrical was the only word to really describe it; there was a black door under the entrance arch, flanked on either side by walls that jutted out into the front garden. It was also unashamedly white limestone, standing out starkly against the virtual forest of trees that surrounded it, and fucking massive. He’d been too wrapped up in driving and laughing to have been seriously concerned about the bloody long driveway, but now it was slowly sinking in that the Holmes manor – oh, Christ, it probably had some ridiculously posh name, too – was on a plot of land that was about two, three hundred acres. Greg wasn’t self-conscious enough to feel embarrassed about still being in yesterday’s work suit, but it was a near thing.
The manor was lovely, yes, certainly, but with the bizarre feeling he got from watching a period drama on ITV that was trying very hard to be Victorian, but only managed to be just not right – he supposed it might have been the intercom Mycroft leant out of his window to address, and the fact that the gates swung open by themselves. However, there was also something else he couldn’t quite pinpoint, something very— He realised he was treating it like a murder investigation and hurriedly stopped that line of thinking. It was a holiday, for Christ’s sake, not a stakeout.
Mycroft likely wouldn’t appreciate the reference to such modern literature as Harry Potter, so he waited for his partner to finish speaking before teasing:
“Taking me to Pemberley, eh?”
Mycroft took a moment to make the connection, before scowling at him. “I am not Mister Darcy,” he informed Greg loftily. “And you are not Elizabeth Bennet.”
Greg grinned, placed one hand on his chest with put-on distress, and sighed, “Must you crush all my childhood dreams?”
He was considered for a moment, before Mycroft scoffed, “Oh, do pull the other one,” and then proceeded to look very superior at the expression of utter shock he received. “I am not unaware of slang, you know,” he remarked as Greg, shaking his head incredulously, parked the car.
“‘Pull the other one’?” he repeated, eyebrows raised. Mycroft gave him a none-too-gentle tap on the arm with the map book when he sniggered. “Come on, you, let’s go and be the Darcys before you begin Cockney rhyming, or, heaven forefend, swearing.”
The house was only slightly less foreboding up close, although he was pretty sure he’d seen stables behind it and was now feeling very middle-class. It was about two stories – well, floors – high, with rectangular windows evenly spread along the outer surface. He counted about twenty-four all up. Why you’d need twenty four rooms – possibly even more – was beyond him; he could survive, had survived, quite happily in two or three. Likely, a comment of, “Cor, blimey,” would also not be appreciated, so he refrained, grinning wildly at the thought. Mycroft glanced at him suspiciously, as he rapped on the ornate gold – gold! – doorknocker. It was in the shape of a lion’s head; he had stumbled into the world of Jane Austen.
A markedly plain older gentleman welcomed them and proceeded to look utterly thrilled at the presence of Mycroft. Well, as thrilled as a butler – or was it valet – could be, which was apparently a reserved smile, and an affable, “Mycroft, we’re very glad you could come.” Greg got the impression from the way Mycroft looked momentarily startled that it was akin to being grabbed into a bear hug and slapped on the back.
They were then led into an entrance hall, and Greg stopped pretending he wasn’t gawping like a country yokel – although he did manage to close his mouth after three seconds, which he considered an achievement, because the entrance hall was bigger than his flat and oh Christ he was gaping again. He thought it rather justified though, as there was literally a three-tiered chandelier smack bang in the center of the ceiling, the clear individual crystals reflecting the light into the iridescent colours of the rainbow. The rest of the room was cold, white marble, with a fucking grand staircase leading up to the second floor. Jesus Christ, if he’d thought that he’d felt inadequate before, it was nothing compared to what he felt now: like an ice block was pressed against his neck, running so cold it burned and sliding down to pool in his stomach.
With difficulty – you’re still in fucking yesterday’s suit you daft bastard, what the hell does he even see in you, certainly not this – he pushed down the voice in the back of his head that was all too happy to start listing off his flaws, and forced onto his face a smile, instead of the stunned grimace that was threatening to emerge. Luckily, Mycroft was both engaged in talking to the butler/valet, and nearly dead on his feet, so he (hopefully) hadn’t noticed Greg’s inner struggle between, ‘oh dear God I’m a low paid DI in his forties; I am not prepared for this,’ and, ‘Jesus Christ, he’s your boyfriend, Greg, and you asked for this; get a bloody hold of yourself,’ where the latter thankfully won over.
The butler did, in fact, turn out to be a butler rather than a valet, and was called Barrymore, which was unsettlingly familiar in a way he couldn’t quite work out. It was starting to become something of a theme, this sense of unease… but he would work through it. He wanted Mycroft to not regret bringing him, and Greg would try his bloody hardest to make sure he didn’t.
From there, it was a bit of a haze involving trips up stairs with suitcases – the fogginess of his head serving to remind him of his own lack of sleep the night before. The bedroom he was led to was tastefully impersonal – a guest one, he figured, rather than, say, Mycroft’s old bedroom. That might’ve been too weird for his liking, sleeping in the bed that had once been occupied by a younger Mycroft. The room was nice, though, plain cream walls and all. The bed had a rather impressive ornate headboard that stretched right up to the ceiling. There was a fireplace with two plush Victorian spoon-back chairs on the left side of the room, and a door just beyond that which opened onto an ensuite. The drapes were unfortunately floral on blue print, as was a slightly out-of-place chaise lounge. Greg dumped the bags next to the ugly lounge – he probably shouldn’t think that; could be some sort of inherited furniture with great history. Maybe someone had died on it, and they’d had to get it re-upholstered, but the re-upholsterer had terrible taste and did it in floral. He was perhaps thinking about this too much.
He was rifling through his bag, which, although having been packed by someone else, contained a packet of nicotine patches and the box of smokes he thought had been a secret, in the hidden compartment he usually stashed them. No secrets among Holmeses, he supposed wearily; they were like bloodhounds in that regard, able to sniff out the slightest hint of anything private and drag it kicking and screaming into the light. The compartment was unsafely concealed once more when he heard a creak of a floorboard and looked up to see Mycroft lingering in the doorway.
“Supervising the unpacking effort?” Greg enquired, turning back to the case. Mycroft hummed in response. “Bet it’s nice to be home, eh?”
“It’s agreeable,” he conceded. Greg had worked out early on that was Mycroft for, ‘I’m ecstatic!’ “The house is much quieter than my memory would have me believe, although that may be due to the absence of my brother.”
“Yeah, I can imagine.”
“But the staff are pleased to have me back.” Mycroft paused, before adding, “They’re very pleased with you.”
Was that what he’d been doing while Greg was unpacking? Well, a good start, at least. “So, got your butler’s seal of approval, have I?”
“Oh, yes, he’s quite taken with you. I’m starting to get rather jealous, in fact.” Greg glanced up to see Mycroft smirking at him. The warmth that bloomed in his chest was fierce and surprising, and he couldn’t help grinning back.
“Ah ha ha,” he retorted dryly. “Well, break it to him gently, yeah? You’re the only man for me.” And then, just like that, it hit him. Thankfully, Lestrades did not blush, otherwise his face would be crimson after he realised—God, he was in deep. Why had he...? Why now? His head was spinning with the sheer force of it.
“Is that so?” his lover murmured, and for one terrifying, exhilarating moment, Greg was sure he knew and was going to comment upon it or, God, do something about it. “His wife will be pleased to hear it, I’m sure.”
Greg wasn’t sure if it was relief that struck him like a sledgehammer, or disappointment. It was best not to think about it too much. “You know me, happy to help.” His tone was cheerful, and completely forced past the sudden knot in his chest. He felt irrationally glad when Mycroft’s smirk softened into a smile and, citing a need to find his mother, he slipped out of the room. Greg took the opportunity to hide in—well, strategically retreat to the bathroom, where he let himself collapse onto the toilet seat, hanging his head between both legs and scrubbing harshly at the back of his neck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
This realisation, this bleeding epiphany had shaken him to the core, and was slowly stripping him of all his defenses, one by one. It was both horrifying and amazing: Heaven and Hell. It was... oh, Christ, no; he couldn’t let himself think it. What if...? No, no ‘what if’s either. He was too old to agonise over things like this.
There were two things Greg was certain of in life. One was that the sun rose and set everyday – the passage of time was impossible to stop. The second was that things always got worse before they inevitably had to get better. It was only when you hit rock bottom that you could understand and appreciate true happiness. Now, there was a third thing.
It was the fact that he, Gregory Lestrade, was stupidly, unashamedly, and irrevocably in love with Mycroft Holmes.
And, shut up, he had every right to be a dramatic ponce about it. It was love. He’d need a second to stop being undone from this revelation. This was meant to be a fucking holiday, not a sudden attack of romantic feelings he’d much rather hash out back home. There at least he could run away if said feelings were not reciprocated. No, he would tough it out here without letting it slip. Somehow. For a week. Dear Christ.
Okay. He rubbed his neck again. He was fine now. Greg would face this like a man. By not facing it until it was absolutely imperative. Right. Yes, he was good at ignoring his problems; the length of his last marriage confirmed that. They’d have to talk about it. But not now. Maybe he could even wait until he knew that Mycroft felt the same? A slightly hysterical laugh escaped him; he’d be in his eighties before he knew that. No, it had to be soon. When they got back to London, yes, they’d go out for dinner and he would be romantic and charming and there would be fireworks and at the end of it all he would passionately declare his love. Yeah. Sure.
He was in so deep, and he still didn’t know how far down it extended; a yawning, seemingly endless chasm was at his feet, and to get to the bottom he’d either have to jump, or wait to be pushed. Even if he preferred the latter, he was aware it wouldn’t happen until it was probably too late. Love was a bloody tricky business.
---
Eventually, the nervous breakdown subsided; he washed his face, gave the unpacking up as a bad job, and set out in search of Mycroft. What he found instead was that the house was really big, all the corridors looked the same, and it was very easy to get lost. He probably should have expected that, it being a manor house, and all. It took him half an hour to find someone else, which was a little bit terrifying. A manor house that was virtually empty. Practically begging for one of those Poirot-type murders, with the staff all having their little secrets and scandals. Maybe that’s why Sherlock was so keen on detective work. The person he found was the helpful butler, who had the grace to not look overtly amused at Greg stumbling through the house. He offered to escort Greg, and Greg accepted; he’d rather bite down on his pride and get somewhere than still be wandering around that bloody labyrinth.
Something else that creeped him out about this place were the portraits he’d found dotted about the place. The majority of paintings in the halls were of landscapes, so when he came across a family relative, it was pretty startling. Most looked like Mycroft, but he found a couple with an uncanny resemblance to Sherlock; the plaque on one of them revealed that it was actually Sherlock, aged 15, and looking surly as any teenager.
Barrymore was surprisingly easy to talk to, if a bit reserved. Sort of a pre-requisite for a butler, though, wasn’t it? A certain sense of aloof, yet sincere, politeness. Their topics mostly revolved around the shocking weather on the trip up, the trip itself, a brief summation of how he had met Mycroft (he’d hastily thrown together a stuttered response involving Sherlock and knowing him through work, which had diverted Barrymore’s attention onto the younger brother) and some general facts about the house – fifty rooms! Barrymore just smiled whenever Greg asked about what it might have been like growing up here, and insisted he pose his questions to Mycroft, as it wasn’t Barrymore’s place or privilege to divulge. Now even Mycroft’s childhood was like a bloody state secret. Double-oh-seven, eat your heart out.
One thing he had learnt was that Mother Holmes wasn’t in residence at the moment. She had intended to arrive roughly the same time they had – at noon – but had been delayed, and sent her most sincere apologies, etcetera, etcetera. If he’d been twenty, even ten years younger, he would’ve taken it as a good chance to become intimately acquainted with their no doubt fantastic wine cellar. As a recovered alcoholic (and with the wisdom gained through many mornings spent hung-over and miserable), he restrained himself to sharing a bottle of gorgeously dry red with Mycroft. Well, okay, maybe they made their way through a couple more bottles by the end of the night.
Looking back on the rest of the day, he couldn’t quite say what he’d been doing – not only because of his exhaustion, but also the simple fact that there apparently wasn’t much to do at a manor house except try to avoid thinking about both work and his ill-timed inconvenience of the heart. One had to win, and it wasn’t going to be work, so he was left feeling sappy and painfully obvious throughout both lunch and dinner.
When they got to the third bottle, Greg coaxed his boyfriend into taking it with them outside, and found a charming little white, iron-wrought table and matching chairs. The vantage point gave them an uninterrupted view of the grounds, lit only by the moonlight, but what took his breath away was the sky. Hundreds upon thousands of stars were strewn upon the night sky, ranging from white, to purple, to blue, to even green, sparking and shimmering over a veil of darkness.
He could feel Mycroft’s gaze on him, and heard his, not unkind, laughter – somewhat giddy after the wine, because his lover was an absolute lightweight – when Greg stared, mouth open, at the brilliant night sky.
“‘s a bit different to the stars’n London,” he explained, too pleasantly tipsy to be embarrassed. “I think... When I was a kid, and we lived in Somerset, me dad used to take me out in the hols, and we’d walk for ages and ages... We’d get to this field, and he would sit down, with me, and he would name the cons’ellations and stars. All of ‘em; was sort of a hobby of his. Course,” he laughed, “I can’t remember most of ‘em now, even though we did it all the time.”
“I don’t know anything about astronomy,” Mycroft admitted, eyes heavily lidded, a small smirk playing on his face. He was also growing steadily more flushed with every sip he took, the pink hue of his skin cast into relief by the candle they’d taken out to light the table. “You’ll have to instruct me.”
“Might take a while. So many of ‘em.”
“Well,” he said, stretching his arms wide in a broad, very un-Mycroft like gesture, the wine in his glass sloshing dangerously close to the rim, “we’ve got all the time we need right here.”
Greg looked at him, looked at this man who was smiling and blushing and bright eyed and getting more and more drunk, and thought, with simple, warm acceptance, I love you.
Instead of voicing that, he said, “Right, well, better get cracking, then.” His chair had already been dragged next to Mycroft’s over the course of the night, and he leaned into the other man, pointing up at the brightest star in the sky. “That’d be Orion, cos it’s what takes over the night durin’ winter. See how the stars make a line, yeah? That’s the Belt, and then they’re joined to the two up top and the ones I’m pointing at down the bottom – the really bright one, in the corner? Yep, that’s the one, and right across on the left. Oh, there’s Sirius, the Dog Star. It comes together with five others to make the winter hexagon – although, dad used to call it the heavenly G, cos it’s all wobbly... Look, over there you can see...”