Chapter Text
It takes him some time to work out a plan. There are a lot of snags, potential problems, and he has to find a way to sail around those without accidentally sinking his ship on the sharp edges of the iceberg that Mycroft Holmes thinks himself to be.
He needs to get Mycroft to communicate with him, plain and simple. Calling him up wouldn’t work, because there is no way Mycroft would answer his phone. Sending him messages, then, which ties in nicely with how they’ve danced their little courtship dance before, but even so he highly doubts sending him about thirty consecutive texts to explain how he feels would have a positive outcome either. Nobody enjoys having their inbox spammed, not even with declarations of love.
He considers e-mail but realises he doesn’t actually know Mycroft’s e-mail address, so that one gets tossed aside quickly.
Yes, the obvious conclusion is he needs a chance to actually genuinely talk to him, face to face. It takes him a couple days to think of a means to create an opportunity for that. For some time he considers lying, making up some great emergency to lure him in, but he realises that would put Mycroft in an altogether far too unromantic mindset and would probably only serve to piss him off. He can’t just go look him up himself, either. Far too confrontational, far too intrusive to step onto Mycroft’s turf again. If this is going to work, he’s going to have to get Mycroft to come to him.
It’s going to be a matter of great patience. Greg is not the most patient man in London so he expects frustrating times ahead, but what other option does he have? Luring Mycroft, he expects, is going to be oddly like getting a stray cat to trust you. You have to keep putting small dishes of cream by your backdoor and hope the skittish little thing will eventually let you pet it without attempting to bite your fingers off.
It’s a good thing that he’s not just stubborn, but also possessing of a single-minded sort of determination. It’s what makes him good at his job, or so he’s been told, and he’s pretty sure it’s going to be his one saving grace here, too. Once Greg Lestrade sets his sights on something, he doesn’t rest until he gets it.
On a sunny Monday he sends Mycroft the first text.
‘I really need to talk to you, so here’s the deal: every Tuesday and every Thursday I will sit on the bench St. James’s Park for an hour, from 4 to 5. You know what bench I mean, no need to track down my phone signal or whatnot. I will wait there for you. Ball’s in your court. Please? – Greg’
He takes his seat on the bench at exactly four o’clock the next day. He doesn’t expect Mycroft to show, and indeed he doesn’t.
Patience.
~~~
No dice on Thursday either. He drinks a coffee, waits the full hour, and goes back to the station.
~~~
It’s ten to five the next Tuesday when he texts him again.
‘Still here. I will keep doing this until you show up, you know. – Greg’
~~~
The second Thursday sees a spectacular August rain shower. He takes an umbrella and goes anyway.
~~~
He’s got to say, sitting out in the sun two afternoons out the week is starting to give him a nice little tan. The temperature rises, summer buzzes through London, and Greg Lestrade waits on a bench. Occasionally he peeks across the park to the HM Treasury and wonders if Mycroft is looking back at him from one of the windows, weighing his options.
‘You know how impatient I am, but I am still sitting here waiting for you. Please, Mycroft. I just want to talk. – Greg’
~~~
‘I was almost late today. Think I could put an ad in the paper asking people not to commit murders on Tuesdays and Thursdays? Gets in the way of my sweeping romantic gestures. Not that it matters, you didn’t show anyway. – Greg’
~~~
On the fifth Tuesday on his bench he realises he’s starting to feel pretty zen about doing this. Impatient still, yes, but sitting there has become an oddly fixed moment of peace in his workweeks. Maybe he should’ve done something like this years ago, although preferably without having to beg for someone’s affections. He’s sitting there in the September sun, counting squirrels, enjoying the crisp edge the impending autumn is already painting onto his days, when a shadow falls over him and would you believe it – his patience has actually paid off.
“I am this close to blocking your number,” Mycroft says quietly. “You really are just like a dog with a bone.”
“And we’re back to dog metaphors,” Greg says, sitting up. All those hours before he’s sat there and had imagined he might be nervous if Mycroft ever decided to show, but he supposes that zen thing really works wonders because he’s cool as a cucumber. He looks up at Mycroft and smiles and thinks he looks as good as he’s always done, if perhaps a bit more tired than usual. The suit he’s wearing is a muted grey, with a pale blue tie. Something is missing, though, and it takes Greg a moment to figure out it’s the umbrella.
“Once again, Gregory, you need to let it go. Do yourself that favour.”
“No.”
His answer is short, and brief, and he gives it with a smile and that seems to confuse Mycroft most of all.
“No?” Mycroft repeats.
“No. Simple, isn’t it? No, I’m not letting it go.”
“For God’s sake, Gregory, why won’t you just –“
“No, just no.” Mycroft doesn’t approve being interrupted, he can tell from the unhappy sort of twitch of his mouth, but Greg has his chance now and he’s taking it. “Just hear me out, okay. Give me that.”
Mycroft steps back a bit, tilting his chin up and looking down at him. He’s giving him his moment, then. Good.
“I miss you,” Greg begins. “Insanely so. All the time. It’s been like six weeks since you dumped me and it still hurts. You tell me to let it go, but how could I when I can’t stop feeling like this? On top of that, I know you’ve been feeling like shit too. John told me you were. Well, he implied it, really, but close enough.” He takes a deep breath. “So here’s how I have it figured. You miss me, too. I miss you and you miss me and we’re both miserable. That’s not right.”
“You’re making such assumptions,” Mycroft says, carefully measured words. “I dare say John Watson doesn’t have the keen insight into my inner workings that he apparently thinks he does.”
“You may be right, there. John probably doesn’t. But I do.”
Mycroft gives him a funny look at that, somewhere halfway between indignation and surprise, and Greg pushes on.
“You sent me texts even though you hate texting. You insisted on making up for a ruined lunch date. You kissed me awake in the early morning because you didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye. Mycroft. If you’re going stand there and tell me, to my face, that you don’t have feelings for me, you’re a flat-out liar. We both know you are.”
Mycroft’s jaw twitches but he says nothing, eyes trained very firmly on Greg, and Greg thinks that that might mean he’s getting somewhere. He's right, and it’s extremely encouraging that Mycroft doesn’t even try to deny it after all.
“You told me yourself, in the flesh, on this very bench here, that you think of me all the time. Why do you think I picked this spot? You must have figured that one out, you’re a clever bloke. And here, look at this. I stumbled across it again a few weeks back and I just, I couldn’t just let that one go.” He takes his phone out his pocket and with practiced ease pulls the text conversation up on his screen. He holds up the phone for Mycroft, who reads them and just like that looks incredibly sad, like Greg has uttered some magic word, pushed a well-concealed button somewhere, and managed to find the sore spot after all.
“You told me to never stop chasing you. You said please, even,” he says softly. He tucks his phone back into his pocket and stands. “Mycroft. I know you want to. I know you want me. I don’t know why you fight that, why you don’t allow yourself to give into that, but I just can’t sit here and accept it as unchangeable. Especially not if it leads to both of us feeling awful and lonely. Would you please just… let me make you happy? I know I can. I know you can certainly do that for me. You said there were no advantages to this, to us, which is stupid, because as far as I’m concerned making each other happy is the best advantage you can get.”
“I don’t...” Mycroft begins to say but he doesn’t finish his sentence, looking at Greg. He’s gone a bit pale, which is worrying. If he swoons Greg might panic. “We’re such different people, Gregory. You want things of me I am not capable of giving you. I don’t see how any of this would work.” There’s an honesty to this that Greg does appreciate, actually. It’s like he’s managed to peel away the politician from the person and despite the suit, despite the public place, despite all those things that usually make Mycroft keep up his shields, he’s now finally talking to that delightful freckled man he’s had in his bed.
“Are we really that different? I mean. Yes. I get it, you’re public school, I’m state. You’re fancy four course dinners, I’m chippy tea. But other than that, we have plenty of things in common.”
“Gregory…”
“No, no, hear me out. We’re both workaholics. We both live for our jobs, and let’s face it, neither of us is going to change that. So that’s okay then, isn’t it? We’re on the same page there. We’re both not exactly social butterflies. We both like Japanese food. And we’re both early risers!”
Mycroft raises an eyebrow at him. “You genuinely wish to build a relationship on how we both enjoy getting up early in the mornings?”
“Yes. Yes I do.”
Mycroft closes his eyes and sighs and Greg wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, wake him up, please.
“Besides, the most important part I haven’t even gotten to yet,” he continues. “It’s the differences that make a relationship work, not the things you have in common. I want to learn all of those things about you and show you all of those things about me. I want to see where we differ and make us fit. That’s the best part, isn’t it? About a relationship?”
“Gregory…”
“Will you stop protesting already? For God’s sake, another thing we have in common, we’re both stubborn as can be. See? Just like every other new couple starting out. We have background, we have basis, and I for one want to know everything about you there is to know. I think you’re delightful and I want to solve you like a puzzle, isn’t that enough?”
“Gregory.”
“Spoons!”
Mycroft sort of stops and stares, eyebrows going up. “Spoons?”
“Yes. Spoons. Spooning. You like to be the little spoon. You like to sleep naked without covers and you like to be the little spoon. I like to sleep under lots of covers and I like being the big spoon. So even though that we prefer different things, we still wind up sleeping at our most comfortable together. Don’t you see? It’s about complementing each other. Filling in the gaps in – what are you doing?”
Somewhere halfway his sentence Mycroft has stepped up to him and has now placed both hands on Greg’s face. It’s a tentative touch, careful fingers on his jaw, and it makes Greg go very quiet.
“I’m shutting you up,” Mycroft mumbles and then he’s kissing him and the entire world around them promptly disappears. Greg responds immediately on what he supposes is pure instinct, wrapping his arms around Mycroft and melting right into him.
He’s missed him so much. He’s missed this, he’s missed having him close, has missed the meticulous and oddly intense way he kisses and has missed the smell of his undoubtedly expensive cologne. If he could climb into him he would, fold himself up in the inside pocket of his jacket, just to get near and stay there. Mycroft breaks the kiss but Greg doesn’t allow it, chases it and captures Mycroft’s mouth again and kisses him with such despair he nearly bloody drowns the both of them in it. Mycroft’s hands grab a tight hold on the fabric of his jacket and Greg knows, just sort of knows, that he’s won.
Mycroft breaks the kiss again and this time Greg lets him, even if it’s just because breathing has its advantages. Mycroft drags his lips across his chin and Greg thinks his knees might buckle out from underneath him with sheer insane giddy joy.
“You can stop rambling now, you stupid, lovely idiot,” Mycroft mumbles against the corner of Greg’s mouth. “Everything I know aches for you and it’s utterly dreadful and I blame you. You’re an awful, horrible person for making me want you like this.”
“I’m entirely too well-snogged right now to be able to make sense of that,” Greg says and Mycroft laughs.
“You had me at early riser. Well, more or less.” He presses his face into Greg’s neck and breathes deeply. Greg blinks his eyes open, arms tightly wrapped around Mycroft’s shoulder, and realises something of such glaring importance he feels immensely silly for not catching it before.
They’re in public. Mycroft is kissing him, hugging him, and from how it appears just sort of completely submitting himself to him, in public. The sun warms the tops of their heads, squirrels are hopping about not giving a fuck, and an odd-looking hippie girl sitting on a bench across the park feeding her peanut butter sandwich to the pigeons is watching them with somewhat endeared amusement. None of this could possibly be escaping Mycroft, simply because nothing ever does, and he’s clinging to him like the world might end if he didn’t anyway. Greg smiles and tightens his hold on him and thinks he may never have loved anything as much as he loves Mycroft Holmes right now.
“I’m going to be difficult,” Mycroft mumbles into his neck.
“I know. I don’t mind. I’m no picnic either.”
“You might hate me from time to time. I’m gone a lot.”
“As long as I know you’ll come back to me eventually.”
“I’m... eccentric.”
“There’s a surprise.”
Mycroft chuckles into his neck, fingers gripping Greg’s jacket so tightly Greg thinks the fabric might tear. Everything Greg is made of is humming, like his soul is playing some kind of epic overture, and he searches the right words to tell Mycroft all about that.
His phone rings. He snorts out a giggle and disentangles himself from Mycroft to fish it out his pocket again. Mycroft coughs softly, smoothing his jacket and his shirt with his palms, fidgeting with his tie. He’s ever so flustered and doing his best to shuffle himself back into his usual appearance, and it’s so endearing Greg just wants to kiss him again to ruffle him up more. He grins and answers his phone.
Donovan. Crime scene. Lovely. He hangs up again with a sigh. “Of course. I have to go. Work.”
“Try not to involve my brother?”
“No need. Domestic dispute gone bad. Not every case needs a Holmes to solve it.”
He grabs Mycroft by the lapels of his jacket and pulls him into another kiss, closed-mouthed but firm, with just about enough longing to leave him wanting more.
“I expect to see you at my flat tonight, you hear me?”
“Absolutely,” Mycroft murmurs.
“Even if it’s late. Even if civil war erupts in Canada. I don’t give a damn, you’re coming over even if I have to fly across the globe to fetch you myself.”
“Canada?”
“You know what I mean.”
Mycroft smiles and nods, and Greg steps backwards still grinning at him. He waves, turns with a bit more sashay than strictly necessary, but turns back after just a few steps.
“Mycroft?”
“Yes?”
“Where do you live?”
Mycroft throws his head back and laughs.
~~~
Mycroft shows up far earlier than Greg expects him to. That’s so lovely Greg can’t even find words for it, and they then kiss leisurely for a good ten minutes, Mycroft’s back against Greg’s front door. The kiss is lazy, and slow, and speaks of ages to come where they might allow more passion to take over. All the time in the world for that, for making out, and for wandering hands, for sex and all the urgency that comes with it. Now, they are just kissing, just tasting and nibbling and their hearts beat in perfectly content unison. Mycroft is wearing a different suit than he had done that afternoon, a handsome pinstripe this time, which is weird and Greg can’t even imagine why anyone would go through so much trouble, but then there’s a bit of mystery to it as well and he can’t say that doesn’t tickle him a bit.
Greg is bursting with things to say and to ask, and he flits back and forth across his flat not saying any of them. Mycroft takes his jacket off, folds it neatly on top of a box and stands in his shirtsleeves and Greg has to take a moment to appreciate that because that, actually, is new. It was always either full three piece suit or no suit at all, and while both certainly have their merits there’s something really very intimate about this. He no longer looks like a visitor.
Mycroft eyes the abused, dented box shoved into a corner with some alarm. Greg sort of shrugs at it by means of explanation and steps into his kitchen. “Drink? I have. Well. Water. And beer, actually, but I doubt... I could make tea?”
“Water will do fine,” Mycroft says, gingerly lifting the flap on one of the other boxes and peering inside as if he expects something might jump out and snap at him.
“You’re nice and early though. I could make us dinner. Would you like to have dinner?”
“Are you a decent cook?”
Greg grins. “I’m not a bad cook, that good enough?”
“I think I can learn to live with that,” Mycroft says, and Greg doesn’t have to turn to know he’s smiling. He can hear it in his voice, like a warm sort of lilt to his words.
Greg takes a saucepan out of a box and puts it on the stove. “I can make pasta, if you like? May have to pop down to the shop for some fresh veg. I do a mean Bolognese.”
“All right.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Mycroft is behind him then, sliding his hands around Greg’s waist with a possessiveness Greg has to admit he likes, until his arms are wrapped loosely around Greg’s middle and his chest is warm against Greg’s back. It makes Greg’s heart skip a beat, as if it fluttered about like a giddy little butterfly inside his ribcage for a second. He thinks it’s a bit odd, to still feel like this at his age, but then it might be one of those things others would envy him for so that’s all good.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he says with a relieved sort of sigh as he pours Mycroft his water.
“I must say I am glad to be here,” Mycroft says, resting his chin on Greg’s shoulder.
“Are you really? Cause I sure did have to fight to get you here.”
Mycroft is quiet, his mouth pressed against the collar of Greg’s shirt. Greg can feel his chest move as he breathes, calm and even, and desperately wants to know what he’s thinking but doesn’t dare ask.
“When you first asked me for a drink, I asked you why,” Mycroft says, so very carefully Greg can just about hear him weigh every word four times before speaking. “You told me you were lonely, and said you thought I might be, too.”
“Yes.”
“You were right.”
Greg doesn’t know how to respond to that right away, letting the words sink in as he covers one of Mycroft’s hands with his own.
“I don’t let people get close to me. It’s a habit of mine I don’t necessarily enjoy, but also not one I can afford to shake,” Mycroft says.
“I’m close to you now,” Greg says, pushing his fingers between Mycroft’s.
“You rather wrestled yourself in, yes,” Mycroft says, entangling their fingers further and squeezing lightly. “I am… glad you did.”
“I’m glad you let me.”
“Well, I am exceedingly fond of you,” Mycroft murmurs, pressing his nose behind Greg’s ear.
Greg snorts softly. “Oh, goody. You’re fond of me. How very kind of you, dear sir.”
Mycroft is quiet again but Greg can feel him smile into his hair.
“I love you,” Greg says with a sigh and a boneless sort of lean backwards into him. “You don’t have to say it back, but you know. I do.”
“I know,” Mycroft whispers.
“I think I’ve done so for a long time, kind of. Like this weird sort of slow burn in the back of my head that I could only allow to turn up after the divorce… wait, that sounds bad. I mean –“
“Gregory?”
“Yes?”
“Do stop talking.”
Greg laughs and gently elbows Mycroft in the side. Mycroft laughs quietly into the back of his neck and tightens his arms around Greg’s waist. They stand like that for a while, until the itch to touch back nearly consumes Greg entirely and he wriggles himself around within Mycroft’s embrace. He takes Mycroft’s face between his hands and kisses him, then slides his hands around his shoulders and hugs him close.
They stand, faces pressed in each other’s necks, just breathing and holding and making up for weeks and weeks of having missed this, and Greg feels his universe slot into place not unlike the satisfying slide of a key into a lock. Mycroft pulls back and presses a kiss to his eyebrow.
“Perhaps we ought to make ourselves a bit more useful,” he says.
“I don’t know, this is a pretty quality way to waste time,” Greg says with a grin. He nips at Mycroft’s jaw, runs the tips of his fingers down the back of his neck. Mycroft shivers appreciatively, hmm’s softly.
“You’re spending the night, yeah?”
“I do have to leave early.”
“As always, that’s fine. As long as I get to fall asleep with you.”
“Frightfully romantic notion, Gregory. Then, after your delightful speech about spooning that perhaps shouldn’t be too much of a surprise.”
“Oh, funny,” Greg says with a grin and he lets go somewhat reluctantly. He hands Mycroft his glass of water and turns back to his kitchen counter, getting out a pot and going through his cabinets for things he’ll need to make a meal he might impress Mycroft with. Tomatoes, he thinks. He needs to get some tomatoes, and onions. Possibly some basil.
Mycroft drinks his water standing up, looking around Greg’s living room. Greg watches as his gaze stops at the sofa, the horrid blue ogre, and feels a peculiar, almost shameful sort of distaste for the thing. He can tell Mycroft doesn’t like it either, can tell from the way the corners of his mouth twitch downwards for just a second, and it bothers him. He wants Mycroft to be comfortable in his home.
“I really hate that sofa,” he sighs, the apology shining through in his voice.
Mycroft eyes it a bit longer, looking down his lovely nose at the thing. “We’ll go buy a new one tomorrow. A bigger one.” He says it with a kind of finality – this isn’t something he’d appreciate Greg arguing with him about, but why on earth would Greg argue getting rid of the plush abomination in his living room? He wonders if Mycroft would let him burn it. Actually, he thinks he rather will. Might even get him a pack of matches for it.
Mycroft sets his glass down and wordlessly opens one of the boxes stacked against the wall. It turns out to be full of CD’s, and he begins neatly placing them on an empty shelf on Greg’s wall. Greg watches him and comes home.