Fic: Power Play (5/5)
Title: Power Play (5/5)
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Relationships/Characters: Mycroft/Lestrade, John Watson, Mummy Holmes, assorted others
Warnings: none
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Mycroft and Greg come home, and maybe, just maybe, the game is even.
Chapter One ~ Chapter Two ~ Chapter Three ~ Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Greg swore as the putty knife slipped for the third time and ripped the paper. He threw the length of wallpaper in his hands to the floor, and picked at the small scrap still hanging on the wall with his fingernails until he managed to get enough to pull again. Slowly, he started to pull the damp wallpaper away from the wall again, working the putty knife underneath to help free it.
It was nearing midnight, and Greg was tired. The day had been too long, too much, too busy, too quiet, with too much company and too much solitary time in which to brood. He needed to sleep, and it was the farthest thing from his mind.
Not for the first time, he wondered what the hell he was doing, anyway, stripping wallpaper from a room in a house he apparently owned with a man who had up and left ten minutes after some frankly fantastic sex, possibly never to return.
Well, it was something to do, anyway, and Greg didn’t particularly want to sit in his flat or return to work before he bloody well had to, so wallpaper it was.
Returning to his flat that afternoon, even for just long enough to shower and change, had been something like stepping back into time. The man who woke up in the Spartan flat that morning wasn’t the same as the man who returned to it later that day. Greg wondered if Mycroft had changed his DNA, or just the way he’d seen his own life. He’d thrown an extra change of clothes into a bag, called for a taxi, and then carried the bag, a box containing food supplies and a radio, and two floor lamps down to the street to wait, not particularly willing to stay in the bare rooms a moment more than absolutely necessary.
He refused to admit that part of his desire to get back to the house was the thought of what would happen if Mycroft returned, and didn’t find him there. It was almost as if both Mycroft and the house would disappear forever, and even though the thought was ridiculous, Greg didn’t want to take the chance.
Every light in the dining room was on, including the floor lamps he’d brought from home. The radio was in the center of the room, blaring something loud and obnoxious, because it was easier to concentrate on the wallpaper if he couldn’t think properly. The last thing Greg wanted to do was think properly.
The wallpaper didn’t pull particularly easily away from the wall, but as long as Greg worked slowly, and used plenty of the solution he’d been recommended at the DIY store, it came off in large chunks, which was at least more satisfying than small strips. Of course, no sooner had he peeled off one layer, but another layer appeared - almost as bad as the first, if not quite as dark. Considering the age of the house, Greg supposed he should be grateful there were only two layers of wallpaper; the Holmes family apparently wasn’t much into change.
And there it was, metaphors aplenty for just about every aspect of the day he could imagine. Reluctance to change, peeling back layers of lies to discover truth, moving slowly to reach a desired outcome. Not that their courtship had been anything resembling slow. Greg pulled the wallpaper away from the wall in one large sheath, and let it drop to the ground at his feet. Half the room done, half to go.
And then…Greg didn’t know what was next, metaphorically or realistically. For himself, sleep, probably, it was well past midnight, not that Greg much wanted to think about where he’d be sleeping that night.
For the room - well, that was trickier. He’d need to fill in any holes left by nails, and then sand down the walls to make sure they were smooth and even. That alone could take all day, and only then would he be able to start with the primer, before finally applying color. Not that Greg had any idea what color to choose. He’d walked past the paint samples at the store, and even took two or three, but it didn’t seem right to choose anything, without Mycroft.
Greg didn’t know what he’d do, if he got that far and Mycroft wasn’t home. Greg decided not to think about it too hard.
The music was loud enough that Greg didn’t hear the door close; it was only when he turned to pick up the spray bottle to wet the next bit of wallpaper that he saw Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. Greg’s hand gripped the spray bottle, and for a moment, he wondered if he was dreaming.
“Mycroft,” he said, unable to think of anything else, and when Mycroft’s gaze turned from Greg to the wall, Greg felt the relief flood through him.
“What are you doing?” asked Mycroft.
“Obvious, I thought,” said Greg. “I’m stripping the wallpaper.”
“I can see that, Greg,” said Mycroft, and stepped over the curls of discarded wallpaper to turn off the radio. The silence was sudden enough to make Greg’s head hurt. “I meant why are you doing it at all?”
Greg’s head pounded; it might have been the silence, or something biological, to do with the way his heart was pumping blood through his body. It was likely both, but Greg wasn’t impressed. “I thought we agreed the wallpaper had to go. So I’m taking it out.”
“I wasn’t sure I’d find you here.”
“Well, that’s fair,” countered Greg. “I wasn’t sure you’d come back.”
“Of course I was coming back,” said Mycroft, managing to sound insulted that Greg even questioned it. “It’s my house.”
“Good. Great. Bloody fantastic,” said Greg, and he turned back to the wall and began to spray. “Then I’ll just keep stripping the wallpaper from your house.”
“Our house.”
Greg didn’t answer.
“You’ve been working on the wallpaper for a while.”
“All night,” said Greg, testily.
Mycroft turned away and examined the wall where the exposed wallpaper was still waiting to be removed. “The room’s been redecorated. The older paper is quite nice. I suspect we could find a similar pattern and use that if you’d rather not paint-”
“Mycroft,” groaned Greg, and he rubbed his face. “Stop talking about the bloody wallpaper.”
“You were right. Sherlock is alive.”
Greg set down the spray bottle and hung his head. The pounding in his head was lessened, but he still felt somewhat sick. “Shite,” he said finally. “It’s one thing to think it, it’s another to hear it confirmed.”
“I very much understand,” said Mycroft dryly.
Greg snorted. “I’m not sure how to react to this.”
“Glad that he’s alive?” suggested Mycroft. “Glad that your deductions were correct? Or-”
“Pissed off as all hell that he’s been lying to us for four months,” said Greg, and stood up. He turned to face Mycroft. “Did you see him?”
“No,” said Mycroft softly. “He didn’t want to see me.”
“You actually found the bloody bastard?” Greg frowned. “Where-?”
“The Cottage. Mummy has been helping him.”
“Shite,” said Greg again. He glanced at the wallpaper and then shrugged. “I need a beer for this conversation.”
Greg went into the kitchen; he heard Mycroft follow him. The pizza he’d ordered for his dinner was still in its cardboard box on the counter, half eaten, and Greg could see Mycroft out of the corner of his eye, staring at it disdainfully. The idea of Mycroft Holmes standing in the same hemisphere as a box of cold delivery pizza made Greg smile. He reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer, and then thought again. He put the beer back, walked over to the box he’d brought with him from the flat, and pulled out a bottle of scotch and two tumblers which he had no doubt were completely wrong for drinking scotch. If Mycroft could stand to be in the same room as cold delivery pizza, Greg could meet him halfway.
“You too,” he said firmly, and set it all down on the large oak table. “And don’t turn your nose up at the label, it’s all I had.”
“I’m amazed you had it at all,” said Mycroft. “The glasses, however-”
“Are perfectly capable of holding alcohol long enough to transfer it from the bottle to our mouths,” Greg said, pouring. “You can educate me about the proper protocol of drinking scotch later. Right now, I want you to tell me what happened with Sherlock.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” admitted Mycroft, and he sat at the table and held the glass between his hands. “You were correct. Your missing team member was a man named Ricardo Garcia Alegria, and he was working for James Moriarty until his death two months ago in Varna, Bulgaria. I wouldn’t feel too badly; he was wanted as a prime suspect in multiple murders by Interpol and the Argentinean police forces.”
Greg thought of the bright-eyed kid who had followed him around for days on end, and tried to imagine him as a cold-blooded murderer. It didn’t quite compute, except in an odd way, it did. “Shite,” he said, and drained his glass of scotch, before beginning to cough.
“You’re meant to sip it,” said Mycroft.
“Moriarty?”
“The connecting thread, of course. It’s worth noting that repairs at 221 Baker Street halted the day after Sherlock’s death, due to the disappearance of the men that Mrs Hudson contracted. Incidentally, gentlemen matching their descriptions were found dead in Cornwall approximately one week later. In the company of a group of men known to be part of Moriarty’s circle.”
Greg swallowed, still trying to catch his breath. “He’s taking them down. He’s dismantling Moriarty’s web.”
“Piece by piece, yes. By faking his death, he has ensured that they will never see him coming.”
Greg closed his eyes and let out a breath. “And we’re supposed to just…let him?”
“Apparently so, yes.”
Greg let out a laugh and opened his eyes to reach for the bottle of scotch. “Christ. John’s going to kill him.”
Mycroft smiled. “If Sherlock is very lucky, yes. I believe John will.”
Greg waved the bottle of scotch at Mycroft. “You sound like the cat who caught the canary.”
“Do I?” Mycroft smiled. It sent chills down Greg’s back. “I rather thought we could sell tickets. I dare say we’d have quite the bidding war.”
“How’d he do it?” wondered Greg. “He jumped off a bloody building.”
“That I could not determine. Though I do believe you were correct that Miss Hooper assisted to some degree. She might be able to shed some light on the subject.”
Greg snorted. “Molly Hooper. I never would have thought-” He shook his head. “What do we do now? Does he know we know?”
“Yes,” said Mycroft, and paused, still rolling the glass of scotch between his hands. “He knows that we know about him. And I should tell you that he knows about us.”
“Ah,” said Greg, and thought about that. He watched Mycroft continue to play with the glass of scotch. “You’re meant to sip that, you know.”
Mycroft allowed a small smile to slip through the mask. “He was in the house the day of the luncheon. He intended to reveal himself to both of us then.”
Greg opened his mouth, about to ask why he hadn’t, and then remembered the day of the luncheon.
“Ah,” he said, and Mycroft nodded.
“Exactly.”
“Is he all right with…us?”
“He refused to come out to speak to me,” said Mycroft wryly. “So I rather think no. But my brother does tend to be possessive about his things, and I suspect he considered you to be very much one of his things. Alegria was killed with a single bullet through his forehead, close range.”
Greg blinked, and drained his second glass of scotch, only to come back up coughing. Mycroft sighed.
“Really, Greg.”
“Did Sherlock think Alegria was going to - no, don’t answer that.” Greg rubbed his face. “Christ.”
“I agree with his assessment, if that helps.”
“Not really, no,” said Greg, and reached for the scotch again. Mycroft watched him with eagle eyes. “I’ve just been informed that my ownership has been transferred from one Holmes to the other. I’m allowed to get pissed on scotch, ta very much.”
“I hardly classify my relationship with you as owning you.”
Greg rested his hand on the scotch bottle, thoughts swimming. “What do we do?”
“We carry on,” said Mycroft.
“No. What do you want to do?”
Mycroft paused. “Why were you stripping the wallpaper from the dining room?”
“You’re dodging the question,” said Greg, and poured a third glass of scotch. The buzz had reached his head now, mixing with the swimming thoughts and the faint pounding from before, and Greg thought if he had one more dram, he’d probably fall off his chair. Considering he’d only half believed that Sherlock was still alive anyway, it wouldn’t be the most surprising thing to happen that day.
“What I want depends on how you answer my question.”
“What question?”
“The wallpaper, Gregory.”
“You know,” said Greg, “you only call me Gregory when you’re mildly annoyed by me. When you’re really annoyed, you call me Detective Inspector. It’s a tell. You should work on that.”
“You’re inebriated.”
“The word is pissed. And I’m well on the way, yes.”
“Why?”
Greg snorted. “You’re Mycroft Bloody Holmes. You tell me.”
Mycroft reached for his hand and stopped Greg from drinking his third scotch. “Sherlock is alive. And therefore, you are questioning everything you have been told in the last four months.”
Greg sighed, and let his head hit the table. “Blimey.” It was a tame word, but Greg didn’t have the energy for worse. Mycroft didn’t say anything; his hand was warm on Greg’s, comforting and solid, and Greg rolled his head on the table to look at him. “How do you do that? I didn’t even know-how? Is this something you Holmes brothers drank in as infants?”
Mycroft’s eyebrow quirked; another tell, Greg knew, but his head refused to translate. “This afternoon, we both agreed to change the wallpaper in the dining room. When I returned, you were stripping the wallpaper. Perhaps impetuously, as you also said you weren’t certain I would return. Clearly, you are committed to this relationship. But upon hearing of my brother’s non-demise, you stopped, and have been drinking yourself into a stupor. An already shaky confidence has been shattered. You were about to drown your insecurities in beer, but instead chose the scotch, which you know is my preferred drink, and so I believe you are trying to reach out to me to determine whether or not I, like my brother, am capable of deception.”
“Wrong,” said Greg, but it took a moment for him to determine why. “I know you’re capable of deception.”
“Not with you,” said Mycroft.
Greg snorted.
“Not any more,” amended Mycroft.
Greg looked at him, squinting a little to see past the blur of the alcohol. Mycroft looked…tired. Sad. And something else - not quite resignation or resolve, something not so confident.
“That’s not why I went for the scotch,” said Greg finally.
“No?”
“Think you would have known that,” said Greg. “I’m not worried about you deceiving me.”
“You should be.”
Greg shook his head. “You can’t deceive me. I know you. I knew you long before today. You drinking that scotch - that has nothing to do with you trying to deceive me.”
Mycroft let go of the glass for a moment, and then slowly wrapped his fingers around it again.
“I’m the one who was deceiving you,” said Greg.
Mycroft glanced up. “You had no way of knowing that I was not part of the deception surrounding Sherlock’s supposed death. In fact, you believed I was.”
“Not that,” said Greg. “I knew what you were doing. The opera tickets and turning up with a limo when it rained and the bloody emails where you never answered questions - you still haven’t apologized, you know.”
“I fail to see the significance of this revelation.”
Greg leaned forward. “Because. I knew what you were doing. With all of that. And I didn’t stop you.”
Mycroft’s mouth dropped open, just a little.
“I could have,” said Greg, falling back to his seat. “But I didn’t.”
“Why didn’t you?” asked Mycroft quietly.
“Bloody hell, I don’t know. To call your bluff?” Greg snorted. “I was deceiving both of us. Made you think I was hard to get. Made me think I didn’t want you all along.”
Greg caught the ghost of a smile on Mycroft’s mouth. Or it could have been the lighting in the kitchen. He wasn’t sure.
“I didn’t think you were playing hard to get,” said Mycroft finally. “And I never thought you didn’t want me all along.”
If he’d been sober, that might have made sense. As it was, Greg didn’t want to try to think straight about it. “So. Are you going to drink my sub-par scotch? Or not?”
Mycroft’s smile was easier to see now. He drank the scotch.
It was enough for Greg.
Greg pushed up from the table, turning his hand so that he was able to grasp Mycroft’s. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”
“The wallpaper…”
“Can wait until morning. I’d rather seduce you.”
“Greg, I’m not sure you’ll be able to seduce me with two scotches and no food in your bloodstream.”
“I’ve had pizza.”
“Hours ago, and quite a bit of alcohol since.”
“Then you can seduce me.”
“I’d rather you remember the experience.”
Greg tugged on Mycroft’s arm. “Bloody hell, Mycroft, stop being logical and take me to bed. This is supposed to be a bloody honeymoon, isn’t it?”
Mycroft smiled, and let Greg lead him out of the kitchen, and to the bedroom upstairs.
*
It was the crash that woke Greg the next morning. Sunlight streamed in through the chinks in the heavy white curtains, and Mycroft snored beside him, spread out on his stomach. Greg blinked, wondered if he’d imagined the noise, and then heard it again. It was distinct and sharp, a bit like a chair being knocked over in an empty room, and Greg sat up, wondering if they’d remembered to lock the doors.
Probably not. He swung his legs out of the bed, pulled on his jeans, and shrugged on a shirt as he slipped out the door and into the hall.
The house was silent. Greg didn’t take any chances, and kept close to the wall, every inch of training (and a good deal of cop movies besides) coming back in a rush. Long before he reached the ground level, however, he was able to determine that the intruder was alone (one person walking), likely male (heavy footsteps), cheeky enough to feel comfortable, not to mention cold and/or thirsty (sound of the kettle), and in the kitchen (the only location with chairs).
Greg had an idea of the intruder’s identity, but decided not to think too hard about it until he peered into the kitchen, at which point it became fairly obvious.
“Do I have to call you brother now?” asked Sherlock Holmes, holding a cup of tea in his gloved hands, and wearing a weary and vaguely disgusted look on his face. He was nearly exactly as Greg remembered him - dark hair mussed and curly, impeccable suit, the top buttons of his shirt undone. The coat and scarf were draped over a chair at the table, and the idea that Sherlock was alive hit Greg directly in the stomach.
“Sherlock,” said Greg, still on guard. “What are you doing in my kitchen?”
“Oh, your kitchen, is it?”
“Seeing as that’s my mug and my kettle and my tea, yes. The kitchen is mine. And you’re supposed to be dead. Answer the question.”
“You knew I wasn’t.”
“I strongly suspected,” said Greg, and stepped into the kitchen. There was a second mug near the kettle, with teabag already in it. Greg poured the water in and watched as the tea began to steep.
“One doesn’t leave messages for people who aren’t dead.”
“Tell it to John. He visits your grave every week or so, I hear tell.”
Silence from Sherlock, and Greg felt sorry for having said anything. He sighed and leaned against the counter.
“I don’t know where to start with you.”
“It was dangerous, leaving that note. Anyone could have seen it.”
“You saw it,” said Greg. “I figured no one else would know what it meant.”
“Reckless,” said Sherlock. “Leaving public apologies for dead men. Not that the apology meant so much to you - you went and married him after.”
Greg stiffened, and turned to look at Sherlock. “You think I was apologizing for Mycroft?”
Sherlock’s mouth opened, just barely, and then he clamped his mouth shut and folded his arms. “Clearly not.”
Greg let out a laugh. “You great git. I was apologizing for not believing in you before. I should never have-” He shook his head. “Never mind. Take the apology any way you like. Let yourself out when you’re done.”
He grabbed his mug of tea, and turned to go back upstairs, but Sherlock surged forward a step and held Greg’s arm fast.
“Lestrade,” he said, swallowed, and tried again. “Greg.”
Greg looked at Sherlock, calm.
“You…”
Greg held his breath.
“I didn’t save you for him,” said Sherlock in a rush.
Greg swallowed. “This better not be a confession of undying love.”
“No,” spat Sherlock. He let go of Greg’s arm and stormed to the opposite side of the kitchen. “God, no. What do you-” Sherlock grabbed his hair and pulled. “I’m trying-”
“All right, calm down,” said Greg, and put down the mug of tea again. “You don’t love me. I’ll manage to get on.”
Sherlock’s shoulders tensed, and Greg pulled the teabag out of the mug and dropped it onto a nearby saucer, already adorned with several teabags from Sherlock’s morning wait.
“You needed to be saved,” said Sherlock finally. “I was in a position to do it.”
“So I was convenient.”
“Yes. No. You were…not disposable.”
“Well, that’s something,” said Greg dryly, and then glanced back at Sherlock, who was leaning against the island, looking incredibly pained. And thin, and paler than usual, and his hair hung in ropey strands around his collar. There were dark circles under his eyes and the way he held himself was off, a bit like he was favoring one side over the other.
“Hey,” said Greg suddenly. “Thanks.”
Sherlock looked up at him, eyes wide. “Sorry?”
“Thanks,” said Greg, and he went to Sherlock’s mug of tea and dumped the cold brew down the drain. He started to prepare a new cup. “Sit down, you look like hell.”
Sherlock slowly walked to the table and sat down, eyes darting back to Greg as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of him.
“My brother-”
“Is still asleep. You can wait for him, but I’m not waking him up.”
“Put him through his paces?” asked Sherlock innocently, and Greg could almost believe that Sherlock was back to his normal Sherlocky self. He grinned and slammed the milk on the table.
“Oi,” said Greg idly. “I’m your brother-in-law now. I could kick your arse.”
“Doubtful,” said Sherlock.
The kettle clicked off, and Greg poured out the water and brought the mug to the table. He sat down on the hard wooden chair, and thought he’d managed to hide the wince. The evening’s activities, after the wallpaper, had been particularly…vigorous.
Sherlock, however, wasn’t fooled. “A whole drawer full of supplies, and you can’t even sit down,” he said into his tea, and drank down a gulp.
“Leave it,” said Greg shortly, and reached for the milk. “I’m not going to apologize for loving Mycroft. Let alone apologize to you for marrying him.”
Sherlock looked up sharply. “So you do love him?”
Greg, startled, thought about what he’d said. “Yeah,” he said, voice still firm and resolute. “I do. And don’t bother threatening to break my legs if I break his heart. We both know he’s scarier than you.”
“Please,” scoffed Sherlock. “But I’d help him hide the body.”
“Fair enough,” said Greg, and started to smile, thinking how ridiculous it was that his loving Mycroft Holmes kept sneaking up on him. He wondered if there would ever come a day that it didn’t take him by surprise. He half hoped not.
“I don’t care,” said Sherlock suddenly. “What you do. What my brother does. I suppose it’s fitting that you married each other. You both tried to sell me out.”
“We do have that in common, I suppose,” agreed Greg. “You know what else we have in common? Regret.”
Sherlock ignored him, which Greg thought was well enough. Far too sentimental, anyway. Greg gulped a mouthful of tea, which thankfully wasn’t too hot anymore.
“I have given it much consideration. I have decided that I might forgive you.”
“Ta,” said Greg. He wondered if Sherlock meant for the marriage or the lack of faith, and then decided it didn’t matter.
“Eventually.”
“I look forward to it.” Greg spun the mug. “Are you going to tell John you’re alive?”
Sherlock froze. “No,” he said at last.
Greg frowned. “Is John in danger?”
Sherlock shook his head and bit his lip.
“Then he should know you’re alive.”
“He can’t,” said Sherlock. “Not until I’m finished.”
“You can’t leave him alone in the cold, Sherlock.”
“He’s hardly alone; Mrs Hudson doesn’t know. Most of London doesn’t know.”
“That’s not the point.”
“The only people who know now are family. Well, and Molly Hooper, but-”
“Are you honestly going to sit at my kitchen table and tell me that John Watson isn’t family?” demanded Greg. “Because I won’t believe you.”
“Not in the strictest sense of the word,” defended Sherlock.
“Have you seen John lately, Sherlock? He’s shattered. He’s a shell of the man he became when he came home from Afghanistan. The man you made him to be. He’s barely functioning.”
“Oh, come now,” scoffed Sherlock. “He’s going to work and he’s doing the shopping and he’s even assisting you at crime scenes. He ignores his sister’s texts unless she’s falling over with drink, at which point he picks her back up again and throws out all her liquor and hopes to hell she’s fixed, but he knows she never will be. He has tea with Mrs Hudson every Sunday and they watch their ridiculous reality television same as they always did. John is fine.”
Greg stared at Sherlock. “So you have seen him, then.”
“Of course I have,” snapped Sherlock. “Did you think I’d really have ever left?”
“He goes to the cemetery every week,” said Greg.
Sherlock turned his face away, and did not answer.
“Tell him,” said Greg softly. “If you’ve seen him, you know why you need to tell him.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if he knew-”
There was movement upstairs; Sherlock jumped, eyes instantly on the door. The way he held himself didn’t indicate nervousness about seeing his brother.
“Sherlock,” Greg began, but Sherlock was already tightening the blue scarf around his neck, the frightened demeanor shed for something far more armored.
“I should go.”
“I can tell Mycroft-”
“Whatever you like,” said Sherlock. “But don’t say anything to John. Please.”
And then he was gone, as quietly as he’d come in, and Greg listened until he heard the footsteps on the stairs. Mycroft appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, and frowned at the kitchen table.
“You made me tea?”
“Not exactly,” said Greg, and had it been anyone but Mycroft, he would have had to decide whether or not to tell him about Sherlock. But Mycroft was Mycroft.
“Sherlock.” Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned against the doorframe for a moment, and then sprang to attention again. “He didn’t poison the tea, did he?”
“He didn’t even touch it.”
“Well, then,” said Mycroft. Mycroft crossed into the kitchen and over to the box with the food supplies. “I assume he’s gone.”
Greg caught the undertone in Mycroft’s voice, the thin, sharp one that Mycroft had when he was trying to hide a hurt. “Mycroft-“
“He’ll find me when he’s ready,” said Mycroft. He turned, holding the sugar, and walked over to the table. “I assume he talked to you?”
“I told him to tell John.”
Mycroft set the sugar on the table, and didn’t look at Greg. “Ah.”
“He didn’t like that idea.”
“He wouldn’t,” said Mycroft carefully.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Greg. “I don’t think he’s listening to me at the moment.”
Mycroft nodded, and gripped the back of the chair where Sherlock had sat. Greg wondered if the chair was still warm from Sherlock.
“Did he-“ Mycroft swallowed. “How did he look?”
Greg imagined Sherlock still in the chair, sitting with Mycroft leaning over him. “He looked all right. Pale. Thinner. Not quite living rough, but not very well, either.”
“Do you think…?” Mycroft couldn’t finish.
“No,”
said Greg firmly, knowing what he was thinking anyway. “I don’t. He was clean, Mycroft. Dead sober.”
Mycroft let go of the chair and ran a hand over his face. He sighed with relief, and Greg drank his tea instead of going over to comfort him. It was what he wanted to do, but somehow, he knew that it wasn’t what Mycroft wanted just then.
“All right then,” said Mycroft finally, his voice completely normal again, as if Greg had told him there would be chicken for supper. He sat in Sherlock’s chair, and began to spoon sugar into Sherlock’s tea.
Greg watched Mycroft perch on the chair, somewhat gingerly.
A whole drawer full of supplies.
Greg couldn’t help it. He began to laugh.
Mycroft looked up, eyebrows raised.
“Am I missing something?”
“Your mother,” said Greg, and couldn’t continue for a moment. He caught hold of himself, and tried again. “Didn’t pack the drawer next to our bed.”
Mycroft waited patiently.
Greg grinned at him, and drank some of his tea.
“If my mother didn’t leave us the supplies,” said Mycroft slowly. “Who did?”
Greg nodded at the mug of tea.
Mycroft nearly dropped it.
“Answers the question, at least,” said Greg. “Whether or not your brother approves of us.” He thought for a moment. “Well, at least whether or not he approves of last night’s activities.”
“I should check the lube for laxatives,” said Mycroft dryly.
“Not at the breakfast table,” said Greg, and leaned over to give Mycroft a kiss.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Relationships/Characters: Mycroft/Lestrade, John Watson, Mummy Holmes, assorted others
Warnings: none
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Mycroft and Greg come home, and maybe, just maybe, the game is even.
Chapter One ~ Chapter Two ~ Chapter Three ~ Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Greg swore as the putty knife slipped for the third time and ripped the paper. He threw the length of wallpaper in his hands to the floor, and picked at the small scrap still hanging on the wall with his fingernails until he managed to get enough to pull again. Slowly, he started to pull the damp wallpaper away from the wall again, working the putty knife underneath to help free it.
It was nearing midnight, and Greg was tired. The day had been too long, too much, too busy, too quiet, with too much company and too much solitary time in which to brood. He needed to sleep, and it was the farthest thing from his mind.
Not for the first time, he wondered what the hell he was doing, anyway, stripping wallpaper from a room in a house he apparently owned with a man who had up and left ten minutes after some frankly fantastic sex, possibly never to return.
Well, it was something to do, anyway, and Greg didn’t particularly want to sit in his flat or return to work before he bloody well had to, so wallpaper it was.
Returning to his flat that afternoon, even for just long enough to shower and change, had been something like stepping back into time. The man who woke up in the Spartan flat that morning wasn’t the same as the man who returned to it later that day. Greg wondered if Mycroft had changed his DNA, or just the way he’d seen his own life. He’d thrown an extra change of clothes into a bag, called for a taxi, and then carried the bag, a box containing food supplies and a radio, and two floor lamps down to the street to wait, not particularly willing to stay in the bare rooms a moment more than absolutely necessary.
He refused to admit that part of his desire to get back to the house was the thought of what would happen if Mycroft returned, and didn’t find him there. It was almost as if both Mycroft and the house would disappear forever, and even though the thought was ridiculous, Greg didn’t want to take the chance.
Every light in the dining room was on, including the floor lamps he’d brought from home. The radio was in the center of the room, blaring something loud and obnoxious, because it was easier to concentrate on the wallpaper if he couldn’t think properly. The last thing Greg wanted to do was think properly.
The wallpaper didn’t pull particularly easily away from the wall, but as long as Greg worked slowly, and used plenty of the solution he’d been recommended at the DIY store, it came off in large chunks, which was at least more satisfying than small strips. Of course, no sooner had he peeled off one layer, but another layer appeared - almost as bad as the first, if not quite as dark. Considering the age of the house, Greg supposed he should be grateful there were only two layers of wallpaper; the Holmes family apparently wasn’t much into change.
And there it was, metaphors aplenty for just about every aspect of the day he could imagine. Reluctance to change, peeling back layers of lies to discover truth, moving slowly to reach a desired outcome. Not that their courtship had been anything resembling slow. Greg pulled the wallpaper away from the wall in one large sheath, and let it drop to the ground at his feet. Half the room done, half to go.
And then…Greg didn’t know what was next, metaphorically or realistically. For himself, sleep, probably, it was well past midnight, not that Greg much wanted to think about where he’d be sleeping that night.
For the room - well, that was trickier. He’d need to fill in any holes left by nails, and then sand down the walls to make sure they were smooth and even. That alone could take all day, and only then would he be able to start with the primer, before finally applying color. Not that Greg had any idea what color to choose. He’d walked past the paint samples at the store, and even took two or three, but it didn’t seem right to choose anything, without Mycroft.
Greg didn’t know what he’d do, if he got that far and Mycroft wasn’t home. Greg decided not to think about it too hard.
The music was loud enough that Greg didn’t hear the door close; it was only when he turned to pick up the spray bottle to wet the next bit of wallpaper that he saw Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. Greg’s hand gripped the spray bottle, and for a moment, he wondered if he was dreaming.
“Mycroft,” he said, unable to think of anything else, and when Mycroft’s gaze turned from Greg to the wall, Greg felt the relief flood through him.
“What are you doing?” asked Mycroft.
“Obvious, I thought,” said Greg. “I’m stripping the wallpaper.”
“I can see that, Greg,” said Mycroft, and stepped over the curls of discarded wallpaper to turn off the radio. The silence was sudden enough to make Greg’s head hurt. “I meant why are you doing it at all?”
Greg’s head pounded; it might have been the silence, or something biological, to do with the way his heart was pumping blood through his body. It was likely both, but Greg wasn’t impressed. “I thought we agreed the wallpaper had to go. So I’m taking it out.”
“I wasn’t sure I’d find you here.”
“Well, that’s fair,” countered Greg. “I wasn’t sure you’d come back.”
“Of course I was coming back,” said Mycroft, managing to sound insulted that Greg even questioned it. “It’s my house.”
“Good. Great. Bloody fantastic,” said Greg, and he turned back to the wall and began to spray. “Then I’ll just keep stripping the wallpaper from your house.”
“Our house.”
Greg didn’t answer.
“You’ve been working on the wallpaper for a while.”
“All night,” said Greg, testily.
Mycroft turned away and examined the wall where the exposed wallpaper was still waiting to be removed. “The room’s been redecorated. The older paper is quite nice. I suspect we could find a similar pattern and use that if you’d rather not paint-”
“Mycroft,” groaned Greg, and he rubbed his face. “Stop talking about the bloody wallpaper.”
“You were right. Sherlock is alive.”
Greg set down the spray bottle and hung his head. The pounding in his head was lessened, but he still felt somewhat sick. “Shite,” he said finally. “It’s one thing to think it, it’s another to hear it confirmed.”
“I very much understand,” said Mycroft dryly.
Greg snorted. “I’m not sure how to react to this.”
“Glad that he’s alive?” suggested Mycroft. “Glad that your deductions were correct? Or-”
“Pissed off as all hell that he’s been lying to us for four months,” said Greg, and stood up. He turned to face Mycroft. “Did you see him?”
“No,” said Mycroft softly. “He didn’t want to see me.”
“You actually found the bloody bastard?” Greg frowned. “Where-?”
“The Cottage. Mummy has been helping him.”
“Shite,” said Greg again. He glanced at the wallpaper and then shrugged. “I need a beer for this conversation.”
Greg went into the kitchen; he heard Mycroft follow him. The pizza he’d ordered for his dinner was still in its cardboard box on the counter, half eaten, and Greg could see Mycroft out of the corner of his eye, staring at it disdainfully. The idea of Mycroft Holmes standing in the same hemisphere as a box of cold delivery pizza made Greg smile. He reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer, and then thought again. He put the beer back, walked over to the box he’d brought with him from the flat, and pulled out a bottle of scotch and two tumblers which he had no doubt were completely wrong for drinking scotch. If Mycroft could stand to be in the same room as cold delivery pizza, Greg could meet him halfway.
“You too,” he said firmly, and set it all down on the large oak table. “And don’t turn your nose up at the label, it’s all I had.”
“I’m amazed you had it at all,” said Mycroft. “The glasses, however-”
“Are perfectly capable of holding alcohol long enough to transfer it from the bottle to our mouths,” Greg said, pouring. “You can educate me about the proper protocol of drinking scotch later. Right now, I want you to tell me what happened with Sherlock.”
“There isn’t much to tell,” admitted Mycroft, and he sat at the table and held the glass between his hands. “You were correct. Your missing team member was a man named Ricardo Garcia Alegria, and he was working for James Moriarty until his death two months ago in Varna, Bulgaria. I wouldn’t feel too badly; he was wanted as a prime suspect in multiple murders by Interpol and the Argentinean police forces.”
Greg thought of the bright-eyed kid who had followed him around for days on end, and tried to imagine him as a cold-blooded murderer. It didn’t quite compute, except in an odd way, it did. “Shite,” he said, and drained his glass of scotch, before beginning to cough.
“You’re meant to sip it,” said Mycroft.
“Moriarty?”
“The connecting thread, of course. It’s worth noting that repairs at 221 Baker Street halted the day after Sherlock’s death, due to the disappearance of the men that Mrs Hudson contracted. Incidentally, gentlemen matching their descriptions were found dead in Cornwall approximately one week later. In the company of a group of men known to be part of Moriarty’s circle.”
Greg swallowed, still trying to catch his breath. “He’s taking them down. He’s dismantling Moriarty’s web.”
“Piece by piece, yes. By faking his death, he has ensured that they will never see him coming.”
Greg closed his eyes and let out a breath. “And we’re supposed to just…let him?”
“Apparently so, yes.”
Greg let out a laugh and opened his eyes to reach for the bottle of scotch. “Christ. John’s going to kill him.”
Mycroft smiled. “If Sherlock is very lucky, yes. I believe John will.”
Greg waved the bottle of scotch at Mycroft. “You sound like the cat who caught the canary.”
“Do I?” Mycroft smiled. It sent chills down Greg’s back. “I rather thought we could sell tickets. I dare say we’d have quite the bidding war.”
“How’d he do it?” wondered Greg. “He jumped off a bloody building.”
“That I could not determine. Though I do believe you were correct that Miss Hooper assisted to some degree. She might be able to shed some light on the subject.”
Greg snorted. “Molly Hooper. I never would have thought-” He shook his head. “What do we do now? Does he know we know?”
“Yes,” said Mycroft, and paused, still rolling the glass of scotch between his hands. “He knows that we know about him. And I should tell you that he knows about us.”
“Ah,” said Greg, and thought about that. He watched Mycroft continue to play with the glass of scotch. “You’re meant to sip that, you know.”
Mycroft allowed a small smile to slip through the mask. “He was in the house the day of the luncheon. He intended to reveal himself to both of us then.”
Greg opened his mouth, about to ask why he hadn’t, and then remembered the day of the luncheon.
“Ah,” he said, and Mycroft nodded.
“Exactly.”
“Is he all right with…us?”
“He refused to come out to speak to me,” said Mycroft wryly. “So I rather think no. But my brother does tend to be possessive about his things, and I suspect he considered you to be very much one of his things. Alegria was killed with a single bullet through his forehead, close range.”
Greg blinked, and drained his second glass of scotch, only to come back up coughing. Mycroft sighed.
“Really, Greg.”
“Did Sherlock think Alegria was going to - no, don’t answer that.” Greg rubbed his face. “Christ.”
“I agree with his assessment, if that helps.”
“Not really, no,” said Greg, and reached for the scotch again. Mycroft watched him with eagle eyes. “I’ve just been informed that my ownership has been transferred from one Holmes to the other. I’m allowed to get pissed on scotch, ta very much.”
“I hardly classify my relationship with you as owning you.”
Greg rested his hand on the scotch bottle, thoughts swimming. “What do we do?”
“We carry on,” said Mycroft.
“No. What do you want to do?”
Mycroft paused. “Why were you stripping the wallpaper from the dining room?”
“You’re dodging the question,” said Greg, and poured a third glass of scotch. The buzz had reached his head now, mixing with the swimming thoughts and the faint pounding from before, and Greg thought if he had one more dram, he’d probably fall off his chair. Considering he’d only half believed that Sherlock was still alive anyway, it wouldn’t be the most surprising thing to happen that day.
“What I want depends on how you answer my question.”
“What question?”
“The wallpaper, Gregory.”
“You know,” said Greg, “you only call me Gregory when you’re mildly annoyed by me. When you’re really annoyed, you call me Detective Inspector. It’s a tell. You should work on that.”
“You’re inebriated.”
“The word is pissed. And I’m well on the way, yes.”
“Why?”
Greg snorted. “You’re Mycroft Bloody Holmes. You tell me.”
Mycroft reached for his hand and stopped Greg from drinking his third scotch. “Sherlock is alive. And therefore, you are questioning everything you have been told in the last four months.”
Greg sighed, and let his head hit the table. “Blimey.” It was a tame word, but Greg didn’t have the energy for worse. Mycroft didn’t say anything; his hand was warm on Greg’s, comforting and solid, and Greg rolled his head on the table to look at him. “How do you do that? I didn’t even know-how? Is this something you Holmes brothers drank in as infants?”
Mycroft’s eyebrow quirked; another tell, Greg knew, but his head refused to translate. “This afternoon, we both agreed to change the wallpaper in the dining room. When I returned, you were stripping the wallpaper. Perhaps impetuously, as you also said you weren’t certain I would return. Clearly, you are committed to this relationship. But upon hearing of my brother’s non-demise, you stopped, and have been drinking yourself into a stupor. An already shaky confidence has been shattered. You were about to drown your insecurities in beer, but instead chose the scotch, which you know is my preferred drink, and so I believe you are trying to reach out to me to determine whether or not I, like my brother, am capable of deception.”
“Wrong,” said Greg, but it took a moment for him to determine why. “I know you’re capable of deception.”
“Not with you,” said Mycroft.
Greg snorted.
“Not any more,” amended Mycroft.
Greg looked at him, squinting a little to see past the blur of the alcohol. Mycroft looked…tired. Sad. And something else - not quite resignation or resolve, something not so confident.
“That’s not why I went for the scotch,” said Greg finally.
“No?”
“Think you would have known that,” said Greg. “I’m not worried about you deceiving me.”
“You should be.”
Greg shook his head. “You can’t deceive me. I know you. I knew you long before today. You drinking that scotch - that has nothing to do with you trying to deceive me.”
Mycroft let go of the glass for a moment, and then slowly wrapped his fingers around it again.
“I’m the one who was deceiving you,” said Greg.
Mycroft glanced up. “You had no way of knowing that I was not part of the deception surrounding Sherlock’s supposed death. In fact, you believed I was.”
“Not that,” said Greg. “I knew what you were doing. The opera tickets and turning up with a limo when it rained and the bloody emails where you never answered questions - you still haven’t apologized, you know.”
“I fail to see the significance of this revelation.”
Greg leaned forward. “Because. I knew what you were doing. With all of that. And I didn’t stop you.”
Mycroft’s mouth dropped open, just a little.
“I could have,” said Greg, falling back to his seat. “But I didn’t.”
“Why didn’t you?” asked Mycroft quietly.
“Bloody hell, I don’t know. To call your bluff?” Greg snorted. “I was deceiving both of us. Made you think I was hard to get. Made me think I didn’t want you all along.”
Greg caught the ghost of a smile on Mycroft’s mouth. Or it could have been the lighting in the kitchen. He wasn’t sure.
“I didn’t think you were playing hard to get,” said Mycroft finally. “And I never thought you didn’t want me all along.”
If he’d been sober, that might have made sense. As it was, Greg didn’t want to try to think straight about it. “So. Are you going to drink my sub-par scotch? Or not?”
Mycroft’s smile was easier to see now. He drank the scotch.
It was enough for Greg.
Greg pushed up from the table, turning his hand so that he was able to grasp Mycroft’s. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”
“The wallpaper…”
“Can wait until morning. I’d rather seduce you.”
“Greg, I’m not sure you’ll be able to seduce me with two scotches and no food in your bloodstream.”
“I’ve had pizza.”
“Hours ago, and quite a bit of alcohol since.”
“Then you can seduce me.”
“I’d rather you remember the experience.”
Greg tugged on Mycroft’s arm. “Bloody hell, Mycroft, stop being logical and take me to bed. This is supposed to be a bloody honeymoon, isn’t it?”
Mycroft smiled, and let Greg lead him out of the kitchen, and to the bedroom upstairs.
*
It was the crash that woke Greg the next morning. Sunlight streamed in through the chinks in the heavy white curtains, and Mycroft snored beside him, spread out on his stomach. Greg blinked, wondered if he’d imagined the noise, and then heard it again. It was distinct and sharp, a bit like a chair being knocked over in an empty room, and Greg sat up, wondering if they’d remembered to lock the doors.
Probably not. He swung his legs out of the bed, pulled on his jeans, and shrugged on a shirt as he slipped out the door and into the hall.
The house was silent. Greg didn’t take any chances, and kept close to the wall, every inch of training (and a good deal of cop movies besides) coming back in a rush. Long before he reached the ground level, however, he was able to determine that the intruder was alone (one person walking), likely male (heavy footsteps), cheeky enough to feel comfortable, not to mention cold and/or thirsty (sound of the kettle), and in the kitchen (the only location with chairs).
Greg had an idea of the intruder’s identity, but decided not to think too hard about it until he peered into the kitchen, at which point it became fairly obvious.
“Do I have to call you brother now?” asked Sherlock Holmes, holding a cup of tea in his gloved hands, and wearing a weary and vaguely disgusted look on his face. He was nearly exactly as Greg remembered him - dark hair mussed and curly, impeccable suit, the top buttons of his shirt undone. The coat and scarf were draped over a chair at the table, and the idea that Sherlock was alive hit Greg directly in the stomach.
“Sherlock,” said Greg, still on guard. “What are you doing in my kitchen?”
“Oh, your kitchen, is it?”
“Seeing as that’s my mug and my kettle and my tea, yes. The kitchen is mine. And you’re supposed to be dead. Answer the question.”
“You knew I wasn’t.”
“I strongly suspected,” said Greg, and stepped into the kitchen. There was a second mug near the kettle, with teabag already in it. Greg poured the water in and watched as the tea began to steep.
“One doesn’t leave messages for people who aren’t dead.”
“Tell it to John. He visits your grave every week or so, I hear tell.”
Silence from Sherlock, and Greg felt sorry for having said anything. He sighed and leaned against the counter.
“I don’t know where to start with you.”
“It was dangerous, leaving that note. Anyone could have seen it.”
“You saw it,” said Greg. “I figured no one else would know what it meant.”
“Reckless,” said Sherlock. “Leaving public apologies for dead men. Not that the apology meant so much to you - you went and married him after.”
Greg stiffened, and turned to look at Sherlock. “You think I was apologizing for Mycroft?”
Sherlock’s mouth opened, just barely, and then he clamped his mouth shut and folded his arms. “Clearly not.”
Greg let out a laugh. “You great git. I was apologizing for not believing in you before. I should never have-” He shook his head. “Never mind. Take the apology any way you like. Let yourself out when you’re done.”
He grabbed his mug of tea, and turned to go back upstairs, but Sherlock surged forward a step and held Greg’s arm fast.
“Lestrade,” he said, swallowed, and tried again. “Greg.”
Greg looked at Sherlock, calm.
“You…”
Greg held his breath.
“I didn’t save you for him,” said Sherlock in a rush.
Greg swallowed. “This better not be a confession of undying love.”
“No,” spat Sherlock. He let go of Greg’s arm and stormed to the opposite side of the kitchen. “God, no. What do you-” Sherlock grabbed his hair and pulled. “I’m trying-”
“All right, calm down,” said Greg, and put down the mug of tea again. “You don’t love me. I’ll manage to get on.”
Sherlock’s shoulders tensed, and Greg pulled the teabag out of the mug and dropped it onto a nearby saucer, already adorned with several teabags from Sherlock’s morning wait.
“You needed to be saved,” said Sherlock finally. “I was in a position to do it.”
“So I was convenient.”
“Yes. No. You were…not disposable.”
“Well, that’s something,” said Greg dryly, and then glanced back at Sherlock, who was leaning against the island, looking incredibly pained. And thin, and paler than usual, and his hair hung in ropey strands around his collar. There were dark circles under his eyes and the way he held himself was off, a bit like he was favoring one side over the other.
“Hey,” said Greg suddenly. “Thanks.”
Sherlock looked up at him, eyes wide. “Sorry?”
“Thanks,” said Greg, and he went to Sherlock’s mug of tea and dumped the cold brew down the drain. He started to prepare a new cup. “Sit down, you look like hell.”
Sherlock slowly walked to the table and sat down, eyes darting back to Greg as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of him.
“My brother-”
“Is still asleep. You can wait for him, but I’m not waking him up.”
“Put him through his paces?” asked Sherlock innocently, and Greg could almost believe that Sherlock was back to his normal Sherlocky self. He grinned and slammed the milk on the table.
“Oi,” said Greg idly. “I’m your brother-in-law now. I could kick your arse.”
“Doubtful,” said Sherlock.
The kettle clicked off, and Greg poured out the water and brought the mug to the table. He sat down on the hard wooden chair, and thought he’d managed to hide the wince. The evening’s activities, after the wallpaper, had been particularly…vigorous.
Sherlock, however, wasn’t fooled. “A whole drawer full of supplies, and you can’t even sit down,” he said into his tea, and drank down a gulp.
“Leave it,” said Greg shortly, and reached for the milk. “I’m not going to apologize for loving Mycroft. Let alone apologize to you for marrying him.”
Sherlock looked up sharply. “So you do love him?”
Greg, startled, thought about what he’d said. “Yeah,” he said, voice still firm and resolute. “I do. And don’t bother threatening to break my legs if I break his heart. We both know he’s scarier than you.”
“Please,” scoffed Sherlock. “But I’d help him hide the body.”
“Fair enough,” said Greg, and started to smile, thinking how ridiculous it was that his loving Mycroft Holmes kept sneaking up on him. He wondered if there would ever come a day that it didn’t take him by surprise. He half hoped not.
“I don’t care,” said Sherlock suddenly. “What you do. What my brother does. I suppose it’s fitting that you married each other. You both tried to sell me out.”
“We do have that in common, I suppose,” agreed Greg. “You know what else we have in common? Regret.”
Sherlock ignored him, which Greg thought was well enough. Far too sentimental, anyway. Greg gulped a mouthful of tea, which thankfully wasn’t too hot anymore.
“I have given it much consideration. I have decided that I might forgive you.”
“Ta,” said Greg. He wondered if Sherlock meant for the marriage or the lack of faith, and then decided it didn’t matter.
“Eventually.”
“I look forward to it.” Greg spun the mug. “Are you going to tell John you’re alive?”
Sherlock froze. “No,” he said at last.
Greg frowned. “Is John in danger?”
Sherlock shook his head and bit his lip.
“Then he should know you’re alive.”
“He can’t,” said Sherlock. “Not until I’m finished.”
“You can’t leave him alone in the cold, Sherlock.”
“He’s hardly alone; Mrs Hudson doesn’t know. Most of London doesn’t know.”
“That’s not the point.”
“The only people who know now are family. Well, and Molly Hooper, but-”
“Are you honestly going to sit at my kitchen table and tell me that John Watson isn’t family?” demanded Greg. “Because I won’t believe you.”
“Not in the strictest sense of the word,” defended Sherlock.
“Have you seen John lately, Sherlock? He’s shattered. He’s a shell of the man he became when he came home from Afghanistan. The man you made him to be. He’s barely functioning.”
“Oh, come now,” scoffed Sherlock. “He’s going to work and he’s doing the shopping and he’s even assisting you at crime scenes. He ignores his sister’s texts unless she’s falling over with drink, at which point he picks her back up again and throws out all her liquor and hopes to hell she’s fixed, but he knows she never will be. He has tea with Mrs Hudson every Sunday and they watch their ridiculous reality television same as they always did. John is fine.”
Greg stared at Sherlock. “So you have seen him, then.”
“Of course I have,” snapped Sherlock. “Did you think I’d really have ever left?”
“He goes to the cemetery every week,” said Greg.
Sherlock turned his face away, and did not answer.
“Tell him,” said Greg softly. “If you’ve seen him, you know why you need to tell him.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if he knew-”
There was movement upstairs; Sherlock jumped, eyes instantly on the door. The way he held himself didn’t indicate nervousness about seeing his brother.
“Sherlock,” Greg began, but Sherlock was already tightening the blue scarf around his neck, the frightened demeanor shed for something far more armored.
“I should go.”
“I can tell Mycroft-”
“Whatever you like,” said Sherlock. “But don’t say anything to John. Please.”
And then he was gone, as quietly as he’d come in, and Greg listened until he heard the footsteps on the stairs. Mycroft appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, and frowned at the kitchen table.
“You made me tea?”
“Not exactly,” said Greg, and had it been anyone but Mycroft, he would have had to decide whether or not to tell him about Sherlock. But Mycroft was Mycroft.
“Sherlock.” Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned against the doorframe for a moment, and then sprang to attention again. “He didn’t poison the tea, did he?”
“He didn’t even touch it.”
“Well, then,” said Mycroft. Mycroft crossed into the kitchen and over to the box with the food supplies. “I assume he’s gone.”
Greg caught the undertone in Mycroft’s voice, the thin, sharp one that Mycroft had when he was trying to hide a hurt. “Mycroft-“
“He’ll find me when he’s ready,” said Mycroft. He turned, holding the sugar, and walked over to the table. “I assume he talked to you?”
“I told him to tell John.”
Mycroft set the sugar on the table, and didn’t look at Greg. “Ah.”
“He didn’t like that idea.”
“He wouldn’t,” said Mycroft carefully.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Greg. “I don’t think he’s listening to me at the moment.”
Mycroft nodded, and gripped the back of the chair where Sherlock had sat. Greg wondered if the chair was still warm from Sherlock.
“Did he-“ Mycroft swallowed. “How did he look?”
Greg imagined Sherlock still in the chair, sitting with Mycroft leaning over him. “He looked all right. Pale. Thinner. Not quite living rough, but not very well, either.”
“Do you think…?” Mycroft couldn’t finish.
“No,”
said Greg firmly, knowing what he was thinking anyway. “I don’t. He was clean, Mycroft. Dead sober.”
Mycroft let go of the chair and ran a hand over his face. He sighed with relief, and Greg drank his tea instead of going over to comfort him. It was what he wanted to do, but somehow, he knew that it wasn’t what Mycroft wanted just then.
“All right then,” said Mycroft finally, his voice completely normal again, as if Greg had told him there would be chicken for supper. He sat in Sherlock’s chair, and began to spoon sugar into Sherlock’s tea.
Greg watched Mycroft perch on the chair, somewhat gingerly.
A whole drawer full of supplies.
Greg couldn’t help it. He began to laugh.
Mycroft looked up, eyebrows raised.
“Am I missing something?”
“Your mother,” said Greg, and couldn’t continue for a moment. He caught hold of himself, and tried again. “Didn’t pack the drawer next to our bed.”
Mycroft waited patiently.
Greg grinned at him, and drank some of his tea.
“If my mother didn’t leave us the supplies,” said Mycroft slowly. “Who did?”
Greg nodded at the mug of tea.
Mycroft nearly dropped it.
“Answers the question, at least,” said Greg. “Whether or not your brother approves of us.” He thought for a moment. “Well, at least whether or not he approves of last night’s activities.”
“I should check the lube for laxatives,” said Mycroft dryly.
“Not at the breakfast table,” said Greg, and leaned over to give Mycroft a kiss.