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The trip to the elevator was punctuated with discreet touches that Greg realized were synchronized, almost down to the step, with the blank spots in the building security. Part of him knew that the fact that this man - the man with whom Greg was heading home for the second night in a row - seemed to know the holes in the security better than most Yarders should put him on high alert.
That part, however, was nothing but a faint whisper compared to the one that was literally humming with anticipation.
The ride down to the ground floor was nearly unbearable, the air between them crackled beneath the unmoving gaze of the security camera.
In the small confines of the stuffy elevator, My stood a good six inches to his right, hands wrapped around the handle of his tipped umbrella, eyes down. Greg, himself, looked straight ahead, as if watching the numbers change color would see them to their destination faster.
Just as Greg was congratulating himself on keeping his calm, his stomach growled; loudly. Shattering his illusion of cool.
“Charming,” he muttered self-consciously, kicking himself for not taking the danish when he’d had the chance.
My cleared his throat delicately. “While you were putting the key on your ring, I had my assistant order you a bite.”
Greg’s widened his eyes in mock dismay. “I thought the lure was dinner?” he responded, keeping his voice to a low whisper.
“Oh it is, Inspector,” he said; Greg’s new title rolling off his tongue like a caress. “But as I expect that you may want to change while I see to the final touches, I thought a small something now might not be amiss.”
Greg grinned, because, seriously, who did things like that. Who talked like that?
Still torn between thinking of the posh man in front of him as My or Mycroft, which did seem to suit him actually, Greg breathed a sigh of relief when the elevator came to a relatively smooth stop. “So you’re one of those types are you?” he asked.
He placed his hand on Mycroft’s back, encouraging him to move as soon as the doors opened.
Mycroft glanced over his shoulder as he stepped foot into the lobby, lifting his brow in silent question.
“A natural caretaker?” Greg supplied. “You know, a mother hen? I mean, you rescue me last night, sort out my clothes for morning, liberate my most prized possessions from - for all intents and purposes - a mad man, bring me a danish, and now you’re ordering me tide-me-overs and fixing me a meal?”
Mycroft stilled. “Too much?” he asked, without making eye contact.
Greg opened his mouth, and then closed it without saying a word.
‘Was it? Too much, that is?’
Although he had just been teasing, he paused. His first thought was maybe, but then again, maybe not. Because when was the last time he’d had (or let) anyone - even his ex-wife, before she was his ex - look after him? It had been ages.
In fact, come to think of it, Greg was hard pressed to think of the last time someone - anyone - had gone out of their way to do something even remotely considerate for him.
It wasn’t like he didn’t get on with his family or didn’t have any friends; he did, on both counts. But he really couldn’t think of the last time that someone had actually taken the time to make his day a little easier. A little brighter - even something as mundane as bringing him a danish.
Instead, he was the one who most of his friends and family called when they needed something - whether it was a ride to the shoppes, help with a move, a short term loan, or a character reference for a job. (Apparently being a detective at the Yard made him a good judge of character.) Or, in Sherlock’s case, access to crime scenes and interference at the morgue.
How many years had it been since he’d gotten anything back, other than, granted, a few heartfelt thanks? Not that he’d wanted - or even expected - anything back. He’d been glad to do all those things, and then some. But that was beside the point.
Maybe people had stopped offering because he’d stopped asking. Or even just accepting....
Which led him back to the question. ‘Was it too much?’
And then, with a flash of empathy - the one quality that made it possible for him to talk to victims’ families when so many others couldn’t - to the question that Mycroft had actually asked: Am I too much?
Greg snorted softly, despite himself.
Definitely yes to that. But he liked it. And for some strange reason that he couldn’t quite put words to just yet, he was pretty sure that he was going to end up liking My - and maybe even Mycroft - if they played their cards right.
Just as he was about to answer the question, to let Mycroft know that it was fine - that it was all fine - he noticed a young woman uniformed in a sleek black suit and stylish black pumps being waved through security.
She was carrying a small carton of takeaway and a mobile.
As she approached, the sweet and savory aroma of barbecue sauce assaulted his senses, turning his stomach inside out. He hoped he wasn’t going to drool.
“Sir,” she said, nodding at Mycroft. She handed him the container, barely sparing Greg a glance.
“Thank you, my dear,” Mycroft smiled enigmatically, shifting the umbrella to his other hand to better accommodate the container. “You’ll make your way home without the car?”
Although she didn’t respond with words, she somehow managed to convey the appropriate measure of something - be it amusement, annoyance, affection and confidence - to put him at ease.
She couldn’t have been more than 25.
“Then you’re free to go,” Mycroft said finally, their silent conversation coming to a close. “Though...” He worried his lower lip. “...there is just one small thing.” He glanced over at Greg.
And silently, her attention followed.
She was pretty, but not overly so. The words ‘capable,’ ‘discreet,’ and oddly enough, ‘deadly,’ popped to mind. Though he outweighed her by 3 or 4 stone, Greg wouldn’t feel comfortable taking his chances with her in a dark alley.
They both turned away.
“I need you to ensure that....” Mycroft took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. “That my brother is occupied this evening.”
The woman nodded. “Will that be all, sir?”
Mycroft’s lips twisted, his eyes alight with what looked like mischief. “I should think that would be more than enough, given the circumstances.”
She nodded again.
Greg noticed that she didn’t ask what form these occupations were supposed to take, suggesting that she’d either done this before or that she had carte blanche. He wondered, not that it was any of his business, just what a young woman who looked like that and who could talk to her boss without words was willing to do to keep said boss’ ‘brother’ out of his hair for the night. (Assuming that is, that ‘brother,’ wasn’t a code for something, or someone, else that Greg really didn’t want to think about.)
He was also curious just how much she got paid to do it, because something told him it was above his pay grade.
“Good night, my dear,” Mycroft said, seemingly oblivious to Greg’s curiosity - either that, or impervious.
“Good night, sir,” she returned, and then she turned to go. She’d only taken one step, when she glanced over her shoulder at Greg. “Good night, Detective Inspector,” she added; her lips curled up ever so slightly, making her look even younger. “Enjoy your evening.”
“So,” Greg began as he climbed into what he assumed was the same black mercedes from the night before, “there are two of you?”
Not sure what the protocol was, he took the same spot, facing away from the driver.
If Mycroft was either surprised or disappointed by Greg’s choice of seat, he didn’t show it. Indeed, he waited until the car started moving and he’d stowed his umbrella securely beneath his feet before even responding.
“I’m sorry, Gregory? What was the question?”
“You told your assistant to keep your brother busy,” Greg clarified, trying to ignore the warmth that had pooled at the base of his spine to hear his name - well, that particular version of his name - spoken by that particular voice.
“I was just confirming that there are, indeed, two of you,” he grinned. “Seems hard to believe that there’s another one of you running around out there.”
Mycroft frowned and motioned for Greg to start eating.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “I’ve heard that before. Though I feel compelled to say, in my own defense, that that particular question - or rather that particular sentiment of disbelief, if not outright dismay - is usually directed at my brother. Not to me.”
“Bit of a wanker is he?” Greg asked, opening the carton, only to groan appreciatively. “These are so bad for you,” he said, reaching in and pulling out a buffalo wing glistening with sauce. “But they’re so bloody good.”
“Like so many other things in life, I would imagine.” Mycroft said.
Greg laughed, and then took a bite, relishing the tanginess that exploded in his mouth. He didn’t even try to stop the moan that originated low in his throat.
Thinking back to Sherlock’s rather cryptic comment about Mycroft and security, he had to ask: “So, just how naive would it make me if I simply assumed that your pretty little assistant made a lucky guess and just happened to stumble across - out of all of the chip shops and curry houses this side of the Thames - one of my guiltiest pleasures?”
He sucked his thumb into his mouth, determined not to get sauce on his new shirt.
“Not to mention that, lest my tastebuds deceive me, she also just happened to acquire them from my favorite pub in all of London.”
Mycroft’s eyes tracked his every movement and Greg had to fight back the urge to blush. More turned on than uncomfortable underneath the scrutiny, he decided that if Mycroft was going to stare, he should at least give him something worth watching.
Greg selected a second wing with reverence; he paused for just a moment, mouth slightly open, head tilted back ever so slightly. With another groan of appreciation, he slid the fleshy end of the wing into his mouth, smearing him mouth liberally with sauce.
“Hmm?” he prodded, when it became clear that Mycroft had once again forgotten the question. “Coincidence? Luck maybe?”
Polishing off the last little bit of two bites of chicken, Greg slowly and methodically began licking his lips.
Mycroft looked away and cleared his throat.
“My assistant is a very resourceful young woman,” he said finally. “I trust her implicitly and rarely question her methods.”
“So you don’t know how she knew that I am literally addicted to these American monstrosities and exactly where I prefer to go to get my next hit?” Greg prodded.
“Perhaps you had a receipt in your wallet?” Mycroft offered, with just enough placidity in his voice to remind Greg just how uneven the playing field between them actually was.
“I suppose it was too much to hope for that you would have actually respected my privacy,” Greg noted, closing the the container on the third morsel. He was suddenly no longer hungry. Funny how that worked.
“So, tell me this,” he began, changing approaches. “Just how - and why - did you get my things from Sherlock? Because when I asked him about it, he assured me that he didn’t give them up voluntarily.”
Mycroft head jerked back and his lips fell open slightly, eyes wide. “You saw Sherlock today?”
“Yes.”
“And you believed him when he told you whatever it was that he told you about how I came to have your things?”
If Greg didn’t know better, he’d think the man was actually pleased. Though why that would be the case, he had no clue.
“Of course, I did. Why wouldn’t I?” Greg sat the the carton aside and leaned forward. “What reason would he have to make something like that up?”
“Other than narrowly defined self-interest?” Mycroft supplied, taking up a matching pose.
Greg laughed, surprised, but not unpleasantly so, at just how closely his and Mycroft’s assessment of the slightly mad genius lined up. “I see you’ve known him for a while then.”
“Long enough to know that it is in my best interest - and often his - to check his pockets after any conversation lasting more than five minutes.” Mycroft leaned forward, yet again; though this time he reached out to dab at the bottom of Greg’s cheek. “You have a little bit, right there. I’ll just....”
Greg snagged Mycroft’s wrist and drew the elegant hand to his mouth, where he slowly licked the digit clean.
Mycroft let out a soft sound that sounded a little bit like he was dying; but Greg was relentless, sucking the finger tip entirely into his mouth before surrendering it all together.
“Stop changing the subject,” Greg reprimanded, glad to see that even though Mycroft was a posh bastard, he was still just a man - with all of the weaknesses that entailed. “We were discussing how you ended up with my phone.”
“Oh, yes.” Mycroft leaned back, smoothing his suit jacket over his lap. “As I was saying, before I was so delightfully distracted, I routinely check Sherlock’s pockets as I take my leave. As you are now probably well aware, Sherlock is an accomplished pickpocket. Though, in his defense - and given your particular occupation - the contents that I am most likely to find are my own.”
“So last night?” Greg pushed. “That was you merely being a good samaritan?”
Mycroft looked like he had swallowed a lemon.
Greg got the impression that wasn’t a normal look for him and therefore got quite a kick of having been the one to put it there.
Smoothing his countenance, Mycroft pulled himself upright. “I was fully prepared to take you to the Yard, Inspector,” he said stiffly. “As you may recall - ”
“Oh no you don’t!” Greg scoffed. “I may have been the one who suggested we go back to yours, but don’t pretend that you weren’t willing.”
“Never,” Mycroft closed the gap that had come to separate them as their conversation unfurled. “In fact, as I suggested earlier, I think you’ll find that not only am I willing, Inspector Lestrade, but I am also exceptionally eager.”
Right as Greg opened his mouth to respond, the car came to a silent halt.
And without missing a beat, Mycroft reached over, flipped the switch that opened the door, dropped a quick kiss on Greg’s upturned lips, and motioned him out of car and into the now familiar quiet residential street.
His re-entry into the posh three story flat was reminiscent of the last time he’d arrived there, less than 24 hours before. Once again, Mycroft stripped him of his coat and jacket within seconds of him crossing the threshold.
But this time, instead of getting him naked less than 2 feet from the coat rack, Mycroft merely gave him another warm kiss on the cheek and suggested that he go upstairs to the third floor bedroom, take a quick shower, and change into something more comfortable, while he - Mycroft, that is - put the finishing touches on dinner.
Which is how Greg found himself heading back up two flights of stairs passing closed door after closed door - doors, which he knew from recent personal experience, were locked.
Arriving at “his” room, he took a quick look around. Not surprisingly little had changed since he'd last been there.
The bed was hotel neat; the duvet had been laundered and pressed. He crossed over quickly and pulled it back. Clean sheets; and not only clean, but new.
The luxurious cotton that he’d woken up in this morning had been white; these were a deep navy. Not entirely surprised, he didn’t bother to smooth the duvet back, but let it fall where it would.
On his way into the bathroom, he did his best to ignore the suit bag hanging in the doorway. Though, try as he might, he couldn’t quite shake the memory of Sherlock’s taunting rejoinder about the likelihood of Greg getting a new suit for his efforts.
He turned the water on hot, and then took a moment to get naked. As he was rooting around for a towel, he noticed a pair of steel grey pajamas that hadn’t been there that morning. Of course, they were his size (meaning that they’d be simultaneously too wide and too short for the man of the house). They felt like sex against his hands, even as rough with callouses as they were. Given that he’d spent most of his life in cotton or flannel, he couldn’t imagine what they’d feel like on the rest of him.
Looking for somewhere to put his own clothes where they wouldn’t get wet, he also discovered a black twill robe with stiff cuffs that looked more like they belonged on a tuxedo than on a bathrobe. That and a matching pair of slippers tucked into the corner.
Again, exactly his size.
Giving up, Greg tossed his dirty clothes into one of the cupboards - mainly because he was no longer under any illusion that they wouldn’t be taken care of, maybe even by the time they were through with dinner - and stepped into the shower.
The water was barely on the right side of tolerable. But it was exactly what he needed. As the grime of the day swirled down the undoubtedly hand tiled basin, the thought occurred that he was way over his head.
He knew that he should be suspicious. He knew that he should be asking Mycroft much tougher questions. Hell, he knew he really shouldn’t even be here.
Why hadn’t he tracked down Sherlock? Why hadn’t he even bothered to run Mycroft’s name and address through the Yard’s databases - other than the fact that he knew damned well that he’d draw a blank?
Futility aside, why hadn’t he even tried?
If there was anything that Greg prided himself on, it was his integrity.
And, honestly? He hadn’t looked because he didn’t want to know.
Because, what if?
What if Mycroft was really one of the bad guys?
What if Mycroft was one of the really bad guys?
Just because he lived in the shadows of Downing Street didn’t mean that he was on the side of Queen and country.
Greg poured the shampoo - the one that Sherlock, apparently, could identify by scent at five paces - into his hand and scrubbed it into his scalp angrily. Because thinking about Sherlock led him to the one thing that seemed the most likely out of all of his paranoid conjectures: What if Mycroft was Sherlock's fix?
Holding his head directly under that spray, Greg tried to let his doubts go the way of the suds. Cursing his cop’s mind, he could at least take comfort in the fact that even though Mycroft was cagey as hell, he really hadn’t triggered off any of Greg’s normal cop’s instincts. His thoughts, yes, because Greg had simply seen too much during his time at the Yard. But his feelings - which tended to be much more reliable than his conjectures - not so much.
What Mycroft did bring out in him was desire - deep, unadulterated want.
He wanted to trust him.
In fact, it wasn’t too much of a stretch to say that he might even want to crawl up inside the man and stay there - at least for a while anyway.
Feeling a bit foolish, he turned off the water and stepped out in front of the mirror, his feet sinking in the thick bath rug. Without meeting his own eyes, he dried off and slipped into the silk pajamas, the shiny material slick and warm against his skin.
He promised himself that he’d ask Mycroft one more time who he was and if he didn’t get the answers that he wanted - that he needed - he’d call it quits. It wasn’t like they were dating or anything...though it was certainly beginning to feel that way.
As his father used to say whenever he’d get his hopes up over some girl: “Just because it looks like a duck and smells like a duck, doesn’t mean that it’s actually a duck.”
Suited out in his borrowed threads and comfy slippers, Greg realized that even though he felt like he was ready for bed - God knew he was tired enough - the cut of the robe and the color of the pajamas actually didn’t look that much different than his normal work clothes. And while that didn’t change the reality of it, it did make it feel a little less weird to be hanging around in some posh Westminster flat in his sleepwear.
He slipped silently through the townhouse, back down the stairs, and into the kitchen, where he was relieved to see that Mycroft had changed too. No longer in his suit and tie, Mycroft had also dressed down to a similar pair of sleek pajamas and a thick burgundy robe that looked suspiciously like velvet.
“Well, aren’t we cozy?” Greg said by way of greeting, making no attempt to hide his amusement of the thought of two grown men sitting down to dinner in matching pjs.
“We’re comfortable,” Mycroft corrected with a smile as he poured one glass of red wine, then another. Despite that his eyes had never left Greg’s face, the lines of liquid were identical across the two glasses, the wine sitting heavy at the widest part of the bulb.
He’d obviously done that before. Frequently.
Without waiting to be invited, Greg walked around the island.
There were two brightly painted plates on the counter, surrounded by twenty or more colored bowls filled with bits of food. Outside of the salad bar at Tossed, he’d never seen such an assortment of nuts and vegetables. There were at least four types of greens and what he thought might actually be spinach. And as beautiful and, in some ways, as delicious as it looked, the fragrance of roasted poultry and freshly baked bread hung in the air like a taunt.
He snagged a cherry tomato and popped it into his mouth to keep himself from salivating.
“I hope you didn’t spoil your appetite,” Mycroft remarked as he corked the wine.
“No worries, there.” Greg smiled. “In fact, I’m pretty much back to starving.”
Setting the bottle aside, Mycroft handed him a plate. “Go ahead and serve yourself, Gregory. I’ll take the wine into the breakfast room - unless, of course, you’d prefer to dine in the dining room?”
“It’s down to you.” Greg said, ignoring the gnawing in his gut that he told himself was hunger, but that he knew - in his heart of hearts - was something he hadn’t felt since he’d first moved to London some twenty five years ago.
‘What the hell was he doing here?’
If they had been at his, they’d be having takeout on the sofa, not by design, but out of necessity. And his poor post-divorce flat barely had a kitchen - let alone a dining room.
Yet here he was, about to have dinner and do who knows what else with a man who not only had no name, but also....
Silk pajamas….
Two tables….
Three floors....
At least three bedrooms....
God only knew how many bathrooms....
A warm hand settled on his waist, slender fingers sliding around his hip, causing him to jump.
“Is something the matter, Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice cut through his monkey mind like a warm knife through melted butter. He leaned around, a concerned look marring further his already imperfect features.
“No, nothing’s the matter” Greg took a breath and counted to three before exhaling for a count of five.
“If you’d prefer to skip to the main course, we can pass on the salad,” Mycroft offered. “I’d be happy to carve the duck now, rather than later, if that's your pleasure.”
Greg looked down at the plate that he hadn’t realized he’d been gripping. His knuckles shown white against the blue and orange splashes.
He closed his eyes and shook his head.
The ups and downs of the day had obviously caught up with him.
Because no matter what the situation really was, who was Greg to say no to what was shaping up to be a pretty good meal, another round of mind blowing sex, and yet another good night’s sleep in a bed about a thousand times better than his own all because the man had a formal dining room?
He wasn’t an idiot.
Turning in Mycroft’s light grasp, Greg handed him the plate that he must’ve been holding like a talisman for the last few minutes. “Why don't you lead the way? Because considering my idea of salad is a wedge of iceberg and a spot of salad cream at the pub, I could probably use all the help I can get.”
Dinner passed in a blur of truly excellent food and even better wine. The conversation wasn’t bad either, alternating easily from popular culture, world events, and perhaps not so surprising, his recent adventures with Sherlock, punctuated with pregnant pauses, lingering looks, and the occasional brush of socked feet across bare ankles.
In the end, they’d barely touched the duck, though Mycroft convinced him that it would make for wonderful sandwiches, so not to worry.
Possibly the effect of the wine, Greg found himself feeling increasingly confused and just a little bit frustrated.
In addition to being an excellent conversationalist, Mycroft was a master interrogator. He was also highly skilled at evasion.
Because all throughout their dinner, Greg had found himself in the middle of story after story that he hadn’t told anyone in years, if ever.
And these weren’t just the typical first (or even second) date stories, these were the ones that mattered. These were his deepest secrets. The things that he’d never told anyone.
He told him about the day he’d found his grandfather hanging by the neck in the barn about a month after his grandmother had passed. He told him the first time he’d taken a bullet, and the first and last time he’d kissed his wife. He told him about his first pet and the one and only time that he’d been bullied by Shane McLanahan. He also told him about his first love - Mark Harrington - and how Mark had broken his nose, along with his heart, when Greg had finally worked up the courage to tell him he was bi.
In return, Greg still didn’t have a name, though that small fact seemed less and less important with each and every sip of wine. And what he did find out - that Mycroft held a “minor” position in the British government and had been raised in a modest country home north of Sussex - he didn't believe for a minute.
Draining his glass, Greg glanced at the ornate clock that hung discreetly between two floor to ceiling windows. “It’s getting late,” he remarked, setting the stemware down next to his mostly empty plate. “Shall we put all this away....”
“No need,” Mycroft assured. He pushed back from the table and rose to his feet. “If you’re ready to go upstairs, I can call for someone to take care of this.”
“Not your pretty little assistant?” Greg asked, also standing.
Mycroft frowned. “You’ve referred to her that way twice now and you were married for quite some time.” He took three steps to close the distance between them. “Should I be concerned?”
Greg reached out, wrapping his fingers around the belt at Mycroft’s waist. “Forget the should,” he muttered, feathering his lips across Mycroft’s neck; the man tasted like vanilla, and just a hint of cedar. “What I’d like to know is would you?”
Mycroft tilted his head to the side, as if he didn’t understand the question. “Would I be concerned?”
“Give the man a prize,” Greg slid his arms around Mycroft and clasped his hands together behind his back. “If you really thought I was attracted to her, would you be concerned?”
“Are you?” Mycroft countered. “Attracted to her, that is?”
“She is a very attractive woman,” Greg admitted. “I’d be blind not to see it. But that’s not the point.” He tightened his grip, pulling Mycroft flush to his body; he could feel the heat of Mycroft’s arousal even though the heavy robes. “If you really thought I was attracted to her," he asked again, "would you be jealous?”
Mycroft looked distinctly uncomfortable; he also looked like a man who wasn’t used to being backed into a corner.
“Yes,” he relented. “I would be - very much so. Is that what you wanted to know, Gregory?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I wanted to know.” Greg leaned forward, tasting his lips, moving their tongues together for the first time time all evening. He pulled back just enough to see Mycroft’s eyes, which, in this light, looked almost blue. "So Mister I Still Don’t Have a Last Name and If I Told You What I Really Do I’d Undoubtedly Have To Kill You, are you going to just stand there spinning off hypotheticals with that big brain of yours, or are you going to keep good on the only word you’ve given me?”
“And what word was that?” Mycroft asked, already taking him by the hand and leading him towards the door.
“Begging, I think you said,” Greg reminded him, as he managed to get one arm back around Mycroft’s waist and pull him close. “I distinctly remember someone saying something about begging.”