When the sun shines, we'll shine together, Chapter 5 - Profoundly part 1
Title: When the sun shines, we'll shine together, Chapter 5 - Profoundly
Fandom: Sherlock
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock nor am I earning any money from this work.
Pairing/Characters: Greg Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes; Sally Donovan, Anderson, Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Original Characters
Word Count: 13,084
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Greg is having problems with his wife, it's tough enough being a copper, and then Mycroft Holmes starts sending him gifts. (In which Mycroft Holmes courts Gregory Lestrade)
Chapter Summary: You all right?" Mycroft blinks and gives Greg a look as though he might jump up and run away from the table. "I take it you've not been having the best day?"
Mycroft chuckles breathlessly. "I am fine, Greg, only seeing you at times awakens something in me I thought absent."
"And what is that?"
"Honesty."
Author Notes: So the musical aid to this story is a mix by severussnap. Specifically the song "Umbrella" by The Baseballs, a cover which (in my opinion) surpasses the original and gives this story its title.
And this story is now COMPLETE.
Chapter 1 - Sincerely
Chapter 2 - Earnestly
Chapter 3 - Genuinely
Chapter 4 - Profoundly
Cross posted to AO3.
Greg wakes up to sunshine from his open blinds, instead of a more sleep appropriate closed. He smiles anyway if only for the fact that it is Friday. He picks up his watch off the bedside table and sees it is nearly seven. He would be annoyed at the sun for waking him but the chance to see Mycroft still asleep is a rare one, so thank you, sun. Greg watches Mycroft for a moment, face half obscured due to being buried in a pillow. Greg brushes a hand over Mycroft’s hair then gets out from under the covers which are half on the floor now exposing Mycroft’s ankles. Greg grabs his pants and t-shirt off the floor, partially dresses then walks toward the bathroom.
Greg squeezes some toothpaste onto his toothbrush and runs it over his teeth. Then he looks up in the mirror, “oh fuck.” Greg runs the water, spiting and rising his mouth out. He drops the toothbrush back into the holder on the sink corner then searches around for his comb.
"Come on..."
The looks on the shelves beside the sink, just towels and shaving cream, some magazines on the bottom. Then he remembers to open the medicine cabinet right in front of him. Greg opens the mirror, picks the comb up off the shelf and shakes his head at himself. He drags the comb through his hair a few times then decides a shower would probably be a better idea.
"After coffee," Greg mutters to himself and puts the comb back in the medicine cabinet.
Greg leaves the bathroom and glances back into the bedroom. Mycroft has rolled over and is now in the center of the bed, the covers slipping dangerously low. Greg pauses a moment at the view then turns back down the hall toward the kitchen. In the kitchen, Greg pulls the French press Mycroft gave him from the cabinet - he brought it home from work after its near lack of use there - and puts it on the counter.
"I need..." Greg blinks a few times to wake himself up then grabs the kettle off the stove. "Water... need water."
Greg sticks the kettle under the tap and lets it fill to a reasonable height. He should probably add enough in case Mycroft wakes up before Greg has to leave. He actually has no idea if he should be waking Mycroft up or not. Mycroft's hours of work are considerably indefinable. Greg shuts off the water, puts the kettle on the stove, then flips the eye on until the flame catches.
"Step one..." Greg sighs then stares at his press for a full minute before he remembers he should be getting out some coffee. "Shit, yeah." He rubs his eyes. "And this is why I don't wake up at seven."
Greg fumbles through his cabinets, knocks some tea onto the counter until he finally finds the bag of coffee Mycroft brought over last week. He opens it, sniffs it once and smiles.
"Good morning." Then he pours some into the press.
Two minutes later, Greg pours the boiling water into the press, watches for a few minutes as the coffee grounds float and mix and turn the water into a dark, rich color. Then he pushes the ball at the top of the press down, squeezing all the grounds to the bottom. Greg picks two MET mugs from his cabinet then moves to the refrigerator for some milk.
"I must request the first mug."
Greg jumps and turns around, milk in hand. "Jesus..."
In the kitchen doorway, Mycroft's hands work on tying his tie, gray dress trousers on and white shirt buttoned up to his chin.
"You're already dressed but now you need coffee?"
Mycroft smiles. "It is all a façade, my dear Greg. Trust me."
Greg walks back over the mugs, pours in some milk then pours coffee from the press on top. He grabs a spoon from the drying rack beside the sink and stirs the liquid twice. Then he taps the spoon on the edge, drops it in the other mug and steps over to Mycroft.
"Here, I'll trade you." He holds out the coffee. Mycroft takes the mug while Greg unknots the off kilter knot of Mycroft's tie. "Can't have your tie any less than perfect."
"Obviously not." Mycroft sips the coffee. "Ah yes."
Greg smiles, flipping one side of the tie over and around the back. "Well, it is the coffee you bought."
"Thank god."
Greg pulls the finished Windsor knot tie against Mycroft's collar. He drops his hands and tilts his head. "May I pour my own coffee now?"
"You may."
Greg snorts and turns back to the counter. He adds the milk then pours the rest of the press coffee into his mug, spilling just a little on the counter. He adds a bit of sugar to his mug then turns back around, leaning against the counter. He stirs the liquid then tosses the spoon back into the sink.
"You have time to eat or does Brazil need a new president?"
Mycroft raises an eyebrow as he sips his coffee again. "No on both points."
Greg gulps some of his coffee then hisses at the burn. "Shame. Could have made you an omelet."
"Hmm." Mycroft drinks some more of his coffee. "As tempting as that is, I have some early obligations to attend to. You may attempt to domesticate me at another time."
Greg snorts. "I don't think you need my help." Mycroft raises both eyebrows. "Both the press and coffee were bought by you."
Mycroft smiles. "I see your point."
Mycroft turns and walks out of the kitchen, mug still in hand. Greg hears Mycroft moving in the bedroom and he smiles; must have the waistcoat and suit jacket for the outfit to be complete. Greg takes a big gulp of his coffee and glances at the clock on the stove, just seven fifteen.
Greg rubs a hand over his face. "Damn mornings."
"Greg."
Greg drops his hand and looks at Mycroft in the doorway again, suit ensemble complete. Greg frowns as Mycroft holds out his mug. “Did you chug it?"
Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Caffeine is a necessary evil."
"Evil?"
"God send."
Greg snorts. "All right." He takes the empty mug and places it in the sink. "Well, go conquer the world for England then."
"Your humor knows no bounds."
"I know."
Mycroft sighs but Greg just keeps grinning. After a pause, Mycroft's lip quirks up then he steps forward and kisses Greg once. "You are infuriating."
"Thank you."
----------
The first press conference covering the crown jewel heist, break in, whatever the papers want to call it, is an absolute nightmare. The reporters talk over each other, spouting more accusations than questions, hardly waiting for a response before plowing ahead again. How could this happen? Who is this man? Does this relate to the break in at the Bank of England? What about Pentonville Prison? What does this mean? What about the security? Why weren’t you prepared? On and on and on and Greg nearly just tells them all to fuck off before the pony show is finally wrapped up and the press are shoved out.
“What the hell just happened?” Donovan mutters as they walk down the hall.
“You were there, tell me!” Greg snaps.
“He sat there waiting for us. What the hell does that mean? Was it some kind of plan?”
“Donovan, I’m not in his head.”
“As much as I hate to ask, what does Sherlock say?”
Greg scoffs loudly. “I’m sure he’ll be saying a whole lot more soon.”
“It was his name that -“
“I saw.”
“Sir.” Donovan gets ahead of him and stops in his path. “If Sherlock is at the center of this then -“
“We don’t know that.”
“Yes, we do! He could be involved more than you think.”
Greg sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. “This happened only yesterday, Donovan, keep the paranoia to a minimum, all right.” She opens her mouth but Greg waves a hand. “I know, I know, it’s insane enough already. But we do it by the numbers, all right? I’m sure every MP and their interns are going to be calling us for weeks so we have to get cracking now.”
“Cracking then.” Donovan nods then turns and marches away from him.
Greg checks his watch. He has about twenty minutes until his meeting with the superintendent. Greg turns around and walks back to the stairs. He goes all the way to the bottom and out the back of New Scotland Yard, a couple police cars parked by the curb. Greg pulls the pack of ‘emergency’ cigarettes from his coat pocket then takes out the lighter and one cigarette from inside. (Just the one, he’ll buy some more patches on his way home tonight). Greg holds the cigarette between his lips, lights the end then inhales deeply.
“Bloody…” He blows out smoke. “Yes.”
Greg puts the pack and lighter back in his pocket then pulls his mobile from his other. He clicks Mycroft’s number then puts the phone up to his ear.
Mycroft answers after three rings. “Lively press conference?”
“Oh yeah. I assume you already knew about all this?” Greg takes the cigarette from his mouth, absently knocking ash off the end.
“I have had several conference calls about it.”
“What, with the prime minister?”
“One of them.”
Greg sucks on the end of his cigarette again and breathes in and out. “Damn.”
“Quite.”
“Has Sherlock told you anything? It must be the same man from before with the bombings but…” Greg shakes his head and takes another drag of his cigarette. “It’s completely different.”
“When it comes to Jim Moriarty, it is best to expect the unexpected.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Suffice it say, he has hands in many pies and this is hardly an accident.”
“Wait... hardly an accident?"
"Never you mind, it is as I said. No need for you to bother about it."
"No need..." Greg paces a few steps to the left. “No, no ‘never you mind,’ what do you mean?”
“I should think it obvious he meant to be caught.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
Mycroft scoffs. “Oh, Greg.”
“Look, if you know more, you should tell me. It’s in my court now.”
Mycroft sighs. “This is above your pay grade.”
Greg blinks. “Above my….”
“Yes, of course, this little farce is showing what he is capable of, which I am already quite aware of. Message heard. I would think you would realize it is not something the MET will be able to handle.”
Greg stops dead. “You can’t mean... he’s in my jail! He’ll be going to trial.”
“A trial which he will undoubtedly walk away from free.”
“Mycroft!”
“When it comes to Jim Moriarty it takes a different branch of our government.”
“What, your kind?”
Mycroft huffs. “Just do what you do, Greg, use the law. You needn’t worry about what may happen regardless of the system. The wheels are in motion and I have plans -“
“Oh yes? Plans?”
“Which you do not need to know!”
“I’m a fucking police officer, of course I should know!” Greg shouts, pointing violently with his cigarette hand.
Mycroft laughs. “And who do you think I am?”
“I think we’re on the same side!”
Mycroft sighs yet again. “Could we possibly move on to a different topic of discussion?”
“No.” Greg quickly sucks more smoke in from his cigarette, raining ash as he paces back and forth. “No, Mycroft, Jim Moriarty is in police custody and we need all the information available to properly prosecute him. That is what the law is for.”
“There are levels of the law, Greg.”
Greg scoffs sharply. “And just how does this transfer to National Security?”
“You needn't know," Mycroft hisses.
Greg growls. “That is ridiculous, this is a case which -“
“Just let it go, Greg!” Mycroft suddenly snaps. “Jim Moriarty is not really your problem, he is mine! It will be out of your hands soon enough and you can return to your desk!”
Greg hangs up.
He breathes in an out quickly, mobile still fisted tight in his hand and cigarette burning closer to his fingers. He tries to slow his breathing down and resists the urge to kick the building wall or heave his mobile into the street.
Finally, he drops the arm holding his mobile and takes another deep drag of his cigarette before he drops it on the ground and grinds it into the cement with his shoe. Then he turns and walks back into the building.
----------
Greg and Mycroft sit across from each other at lunch. Mycroft has a salad with some sort of vinaigrette dressing. Greg wants to tell him it is unnecessary but Mycroft’s complex runs rather deeper than any assurances Greg would give could penetrate. Greg has no problem having a sandwich with meat and cheese, thanks.
Mycroft’s eyes tick to the watch on Greg’s wrist. He purses his lips and stabs more lettuce.
“We’ve only been here fifteen minutes,” Greg says, “don’t think you’re going to be late for anything yet.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Greg chuckles. “Oh, never am with you.”
“Is that some sort of passive aggressive insult?”
Greg sighs. “No, it’s not. I’m not Sherlock.”
Mycroft smiles. “No, his insults are hardly passive.”
“Don’t I know it.” Greg shakes his head. “He came in yesterday, stack of information from the cases before about Jim Mo-” Then Greg cuts himself off.
Mycroft glances up. “About?”
Greg rolls his eyes. “Nothing. Sherlock just being himself as usual.”
“Hmm.” Mycroft gazes at Greg a moment longer then looks back at his salad. “As long as he isn’t making any ill advised blog posts or taking interviews.”
“Doubt that.” Greg picks up his water. “Though some of us have to.”
Mycroft smiles. “Trust me, the private meetings can be far more loathsome than the daggers of the press.”
"Oh yeah? Talk to me again when you're forced into press conferences."
Mycroft laughs mirthlessly. "Those with status demand just as many answers as the uninformed masses."
“Right, you and your closed doors.”
Mycroft looks up sharply. “Doors are put in place for a reason.”
“What, to keep in or out?”
“That all depends which side of the door you’re on.”
Greg huffs. “Do we have to keep up the metaphor?”
“I believe you began it.” Mycroft spears a cherry tomato with his fork. "Though it is perfectly apt."
Greg rubs his forehead with one hand. “I’m just trying to have lunch.”
“And so we are.”
“But you’re -“ Greg cuts himself off and shakes his head.
"You brought up the case."
"You brought up the class divides."
Mycroft puts his fork down and leans back against his chair. “Really, Greg, will we let something like work come between us?”
“You sound like a cliché.” Greg frowns. “And it’s not just work to either of us, is it?”
Mycroft taps his teeth together and frowns. “Greg, when has my secrecy in regards to my work, my position, ever been a problem for you before?”
“When it wasn’t directly in conflict with mine.”
Mycroft scoffs. “Please.”
“Well!”
“There is no conflict. I would assume as one in civil service you would understand how hierarchy works."
"Hierarchy," Greg mutters, eating one crisp off his plate.
Mycroft frowns. "Yes, some of us can make headway." He waves a dismissive hand. "Or are you really so simple as to believe your police and court case will be anything but a useless sham?”
Greg bangs a hand on the table so their plates clatter and Mycroft’s fork falls to the ground. Greg bites his teeth together before he says anything rashly. Mycroft stares at him and actually has the sense to look somewhat regretful. Greg shakes his head and pulls out his wallet.
“Greg…”
“I have to get back to my desk.” Greg puts ten pounds on the table next to his plate. “Not hungry anymore.”
“You are being dramatic,” Mycroft insists.
Greg stands up and picks up his coat off the back of his chair. He puts it over his shoulders, arms through and glares at Mycroft, “and you're being a dick.” Then he walks away.
----------
Greg walks around the crime scene with Sergeant Bell behind him. She instructs the PCs, making sure the caution tape is up in all the right places. Greg sends Peters off to take care of crowd control until the crime scene techs are done with the photographs. Greg crouches down beside the body of the girl face down on the pavement. He tilts his head, looking at the long, deep gash on her forehead which is the least of her injuries.
“So, fall that killed her?” Bell asks. She turns and points up at the building of flats beside them. “I’d say that balcony up there if I’ve got the angle right.”
Greg turns and peers up. “I’d say right but don’t think it was the fall.”
Bell looks down at him. “No? All those broken bones aren’t enough for you after three stories?”
“Nope.” Greg points at her neck. “Look.”
Bell crouches down beside him, turning her head sideways. “Bruising.”
“Strangled.” Greg stands up again and points up at the building. “What’d you think, she was thrown?”
“During or after?”
Greg grins. “And this is why I like Sargent Bell.”
She smiles back. “I’ll get with forensics and see what we can figure it out.”
“Fabulous.” He looks around at some of the other officers. “Hurry it up so we can get her off the street.”
Greg walks back toward his car, blue light still spinning on the top. His mobile buzzes in his pocket. Greg pulls it out and sees ‘Mycroft’ on the ID. He stares at it for another buzz then clicks answer.
“Hi.”
“Greg.”
“That is me.”
Mycroft chuckles once in a polite way. “Are you free for dinner?”
“Oh, so right into it.” Greg chews the inside of his cheek. “Don’t you already know if I’m available or not?”
“I am not inside your head, Greg.”
“Thank God.”
Mycroft sighs.
“Look, I can’t talk right now. I’m at a crime scene.”
“Ah. I see.”
“I’ll call you back.” Greg hangs up and lets his arm fall to his side.
Greg turns and leans against his car. He looks at the crime scene, blood on the pavement and PCs all around. Greg grits his teeth and shakes his head. He balls his free hand into a fist then pulls his mobile up again. He clicks ‘recent’ and redials Mycroft.
“This seems quick for a crime scene?”
Greg rubs a hand in his hair. “I can talk for five minutes, still gathering physical evidence.”
“Charming.”
“So, you said dinner?”
“Yes, I… I wish to see you.”
Greg smiles a little. “Not too busy with National Security?”
“Greg, don’t descend into baiting. It is unattractive.”
Greg bites his lip and drops the mobile from his ear for a moment. Shaking his head, he rubs the bridge of his nose then pulls the mobile up to his ear again.
“I wasn’t trying to bait you.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Well, looks like it worked then.”
Mycroft sighs.
“You know, you sigh a lot.”
“You are not helping with that!”
Greg rolls his eyes. “It was actually a serious question. I know we are swamped in my small area of the law with this Moriarty trial coming up. It’s all hands on deck over here. So I don't know how busy you -”
“Must we talk about -“
“I wasn’t trying to -“
“And yet, you were.”
“Well, what you think I am working on every day, Mycroft?” Greg turns around to face the car and keeps his voice down as best he can. “And I know you say there are levels and divides and that our work does not crossover but why can’t it? Why do you need to have all your cloak and daggers when we have him in custody right now and with your help we can put it all to bed!”
Mycroft makes a growling sort of noise and Greg hears something smack in the background. “If you could hear yourself; you have absolutely no idea what is really going on!”
“Because you won’t tell me!”
“Why can’t you just accept that I cannot tell you everything!” Mycroft snaps.
Greg bangs a fist on the top of his car and stares at the ground. He understands. He does. He knows National Security and the Metropolitan Police are different, different crimes, different stakes, different access, different parts of the law. But when did cooperation fail as an option? When did a crime of national importance not lead to the letter of the law?
“This isn’t a bloody Bond film with exploding pens and SPECTRE. It’s the real world, Mycroft.”
“Never mind what I said about dinner,” Mycroft says crisply. “I find I am busy after all.” Then the line cuts off.
Greg drops his hand and puts his mobile right back into his coat pocket. Greg stares at the roof of the car, flashes of blue reflecting off the silver surface.
“Sir?” Greg turns around to see Bell standing behind him. She points at the scene, the body under a sheet now. “We’re ready to move the body.”
Greg nods, pats the hood of the car and stands up straighter. “Right, lets go.”
----------
Greg and David sit in a booth at a pub near David’s house. They both watch the football match on the screen behind the bar, the teams currently tied with one point each. David is nearly done his beer, having needed a bit of a rant about his wife when they first arrived, while Greg still has half of his. Greg glances at his mobile on the table then back at the game.
“They’re running slower now. Aren’t they running slower?” David knocks back the last of his beer. “They have to be.”
“They’re not running any slower.”
“They have to be.”
“Are you drunk already?”
David turns to Greg. “Why, what are you implying? Are you saying I’m an alcoholic?”
“Of course no -“
“Are you saying I have a problem?” David gasps and wraps his hands around his empty glass. “No, no please, just one more!”
Greg laughs. “Glad to be out of the house I see.”
“When you are a house husband you will understand.” David leans out of the booth a little, clearly looking for their server. “Why do you think my behavior keeps regressing? I only talk to the kids.”
“And that’s what you get for working from home.”
“I do an excellent load of laundry while on my tablet at the same time.” David slides his empty glass to the outside edge of the table. “It should be on my résumé.”
Then Judy, their server, reappears with two glasses of the same already in her hands. She puts them down on the table and picks up David’s empty glass. She looks at Greg’s and furrows her eyebrows accusingly.
Greg frowns. “Sorry.”
“Oh no, these are both for me.” David pulls both glasses toward himself then looks up at Judy. “You should be nominated for sainthood.”
She smiles. “What makes you think I’m not?” Then she swirls back around toward the bar.
“Hmm.” David takes a big chug out of one glass. “If I wasn’t married…”
Greg laughs. “Perish the thought.”
“Speaking of not married…”
“Oh no.”
“How’s Mycroft?”
Greg drinks some more from his glass and shakes his head. “Nice segue.”
“Shit, you’re fighting?”
Greg raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t say -“
“Didn’t you?”
Greg purses his lips and swirls the beer around in his glass. David ‘tut tuts’ then pushes the other full beer Judy left back to Greg’s side of the table. Greg raises his eyebrows.
“Finish that one and move on.”
“You’re talking about the beer, right?”
“So, what’s wrong?”
Greg sighs, tips his glass up and finishes his first beer. He puts the empty glass back on the tale then pushes it aside. “Do we have to talk about this?”
“Why? Are you cheating on him?”
“Oi!”
David grins. “See, has to be something not as bad.”
“Depends upon your view, I expect.”
David gives Greg a withering stare. “Just give up and tell me. You know I’ll only make up something far too ridiculous or worse, steal your mobile and call Mycroft.”
“All right, all right.” Greg rubs a finger along the edge of the second glass. “It’s work.”
David stares at him blankly for ten seconds until he speaks again, “work?”
“Yeah.”
“Work is causing the arguments?”
“Yeah.”
“God.” David shakes his head. “I thought you weren’t married anymore?”
“Look, if you’re not going to be helpful…”
“You’re supposed to enjoy the early stages, do stupid shit like stay out too late or send ostentatious flowers. You shouldn’t be getting into the ‘why were you working late’ or ‘did you clean the bathroom’ type arguments now.”
“It’s not like that, David, it’s…” Greg sighs. “You know how I am about being a copper.”
David scoffs. “Don’t I ever.”
“That’s Mycroft with the government but worse.”
“Are you saying his house is actually his office, because that’s the level I’m thinking?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Which one haven’t you been to, house or office?”
“House.”
David whistles. “Well, now that might be something more to fight about, I’d think, than your work. It’s been…” David looks at his hand as if counting though Greg knows it’s just show. “Four months, if you don’t count the wooing?”
“About that.”
“Hmm hmm.”
“The point is, he is being a complete dick which I shouldn’t be surprised about but -“
“But nothing, Greg, fix it up,” David interrupts. “I know you really care about him. Even Claire could see that.”
“You don’t know the whole -“
“I don’t need to know.”
“Could you stop interrupting me?
David shakes his head. “All fights are less about the subject matter of the fight and more about someone being hurt. You can hurt someone else a million ways and say that the thing that is wrong is work or how they didn’t make the bed, stupid shit. The real reason for the fight is feelings and if you can fix those then everything else falls into place.”
Greg stares at David. “Is this your philosopher brother routine?”
"I do it all the time.”
“True.”
“Seriously, we all have a finite amount of time, why waste it on stupid fighting when you could be happy? Look at mum and dad, took them twenty years to finally straighten that out.”
“And now they’re in the Bahamas.”
David frowns. “I thought it was Argentina?”
Greg shakes his head. “You’re two weeks behind, don’t you get the postcards?”
“Maybe they love you more.”
Greg glances at his mobile again, no light blinking with a missed call or text. Greg takes a sip of his beer but does not pick up the mobile. Then David leans over the table, picks up the mobile and holds it out to Greg. Greg snatches it, flips it around and clicks the screen to life. He hits Mycroft’s number and puts the mobile to his ear.
‘Good job,’ David mouths at him and takes another long drink of his beer.
Greg only raises his eyebrows as the phone keeps ringing. After the fifth ring it goes to voicemail. Greg listens to the computerized voice until the beep sounds. He opens his mouth but just huffs and hangs up the phone.
David frowns. “It is a two way thing, of course.”
Greg sticks his mobile back in his pocket. “Yup.”
They pick up their beers at the same time, take one gulp and turn back to the football match on the screen.
----------
Phone receiver against one ear, Greg sits in his office leaning his forehead on the palm of his other hand, arm propped up on his desk. The superintendent in his ear keeps harping on details about the Moriarty case coming up in less than two weeks. Greg has sent everything they had to the solicitors, witnesses set up as well. The superintendent keeps asking probing questions about Sherlock.
“Why should a private investigator be part of this trial? Just because his name was at the crime scene he becomes an expert witness?”
“I’d say that makes him important to the case, sir.”
“That seems more to me like he might be an accomplice. Has your division thoroughly vetted him? Do we need push back the trial date?” And on and on.
Greg wonders if this is what happens when a copper makes it up too high, all they can do is question and criticize? Finally, Greg is able to hang up and breathe freely after promises to send over information from the past cases involving Moriarty, though the solicitors already have those as well. Fortunately, the superintendent did not ask about Sherlock and any other cases.
“Micromanaging…” Greg mutters to himself as he e-mails Gupta to run the files up.
Suddenly, Greg’s office door swings open and Sherlock strides through.
“Knocking?” Greg says hands out to the side.
“Unnecessary,” Sherlock says then steps right up to Greg’s desk and holds out his mobile toward Greg.
“If you want me to fix your mobile, Sherlock, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
Sherlock sighs but does not move. Greg crosses his arms and shrugs. Sherlock gives Greg his ‘genius detective’ stare then shakes his wrist with the mobile once.
Greg leans forward and grabs the mobile. “Please tell me this isn’t someone you’ve kidnapped,” then into the mobile, “Hello?”
“Sherlock?” Says the voice, sounding confused.
“Mycroft,” Greg says at the same time that Mycroft on the other end of the line says, “Greg.”
Greg looks back to Sherlock. "What are you, Yente?"
"You and John…” Sherlock huffs. "Enough with the pop culture references.”
"It’s Fiddler on the Roof…”
“Whatever disagreement you are having, solve it. He is calling at least once a day, if not more, with…" Sherlock shakes his head then flicks his hand toward the mobile, "trivialities and I may be forced to commit familial murder if I must suffer to answer my mobile one more time with his voice on the other end!”
“Charming,” Mycroft says.
“So you heard that?” Greg replies.
“Good!” Sherlock snaps, leaning over the desk so he is closer to the mobile, then he straightens, turns and marches out of Greg’s office.
“Your mobile!” Greg calls but Sherlock does not return. Greg rubs a hand over his face. “Christ.”
Greg sits silently, mobile at his ear. The other end of the line stays silent as well, not even any kind of background noise filtering through. For a moment Greg considers just hanging up but this really is a childish game and, though Mycroft hides it most of the time, Greg is the more adult one.
“Look, I’ll start. I’m sorry.” Greg picks up a pen from his desk and twirls it around in his fingers. “I shouldn’t have been pushing you. I know there are things you can’t tell me and I need to just get past that.”
“Thank you,” Mycroft says quietly and Greg very much wishes he could see Mycroft right now.
“I know my job is high pressure but I can only imagine your end.”
“Yes. I suppose you could call it stressful at times. I am glad you realize the distinction. And I will note that it is not I wish to leave you in the dark but that I must.”
Greg nods even though Mycroft cannot see him.
Mycroft clears his throat. “I may have also been somewhat… harsh in my comments on my position on the subject.”
Greg huffs once quietly. “Well, I assume it is a family trait.”
“I do not mean to demean you,” Mycroft insists.
“Mycroft.” Greg puts his pen down and leans forward over his desk. “You haven’t broken me. I am fine. I was just angry, that’s all. One fight, however extended, does not a break up make.”
Mycroft makes a pleased noise much like a purr. “Ah. Well, good.”
“Good.”
“It has been just two weeks since we last saw each other but…” Mycroft clears his throat. “I have…”
“I miss you too, Mycroft.”
Mycroft makes a soft gasp and Greg can see that real smile on his face from here. “Then I shall see you tonight.”
“Dinner?” Greg asks.
“As long as you make it.”
Greg smiles. “Ask and you shall receive.” Then he clicks off the mobile.
That evening, dinner is butternut squash lasagna with sex and wine for dessert.
----------
Greg and Mycroft walk through the kitchen appliance section of the department store, microwaves on one side of them and an array of glass containers on the other. Mycroft walks swiftly down the aisle, stopping suddenly now and then, so Greg nearly crashes into him, to touch something on a shelf before moving on again.
“You know, you could tell me who we're shopping for.”
Mycroft grumbles. “It makes little difference.”
“Usually it does.”
Mycroft turns a corner out into one of the wider paths through the store. “I simply need something generic, something useful.”
“Well, the kitchen section's a good start, unless this person doesn't cook?”
“She cooks.”
“Oh, a she!” Greg jogs ahead of Mycroft then walks backwards in front of him, hands in pockets. “So, it’s a she and you need to buy her a present for…”
Mycroft sighs and stops walking. “Must you be so gleeful?”
“Well, you've sent me a lot of things I bet you’ve purchased yourself but I’ve never watched you actually buy any of them.”
“And this is an amusement for you?”
“When we’re doing it in a department store, yes.”
Mycroft clicks his teeth together then turns right down an aisle of dinner plates. Greg shifts his feet and follows after. Mycroft picks up one large red plate then puts it down again. He cocks his head at a set of square white plates then keeps walking.
“So, this ‘she,’ a family member? Work colleague? Foreign leader?”
Mycroft stops and turns part way. “I asked you to come to assist, not patronize.”
“I’m not patronizing and I can’t help if I don’t know who this is for or for what.”
Mycroft closes his eyes and rubs a hand over his forehead. “My mother’s birthday.”
“You have a mother?”
Mycroft opens his eyes again in surprise.
Greg grins. “Kidding. Sort of. Mother then. Your mother is she…” Greg clears his throat. “Is she… like you?”
“Like me?”
“Like you and Sherlock.”
Mycroft breathes in very deeply and tilts his head. “That is a question for the ages.”
Greg stares. “I am deciding to not follow up on that.”
“Wise.”
“Right, kitchen stuff’s good though?”
“We are in this section. I did not choose it at random.”
Greg steps forward and rubs a line down Mycroft’s arm. “Relax, it’s just a present. I know you're capable of buying them.”
“You and my mother are two very different things.”
“Thank God.”
Mycroft sighs. “Well, you have your details now. If you could pull yourself out of witty comebacks and assist me in selecting something that would be preferable.”
Greg kisses Mycroft's cheek then grips his arm. “Come on.”
Greg takes them out of the aisle into one of the open through ways again. He stops and cranes his neck to scan the area. Then he turns back to Mycroft. “Does your mother bake?”
“I had to learn from someone.”
“So, that’s a yes?”
“I hear mothers tend to bake.”
“Pies?”
“Does my mother bake pies?”
“No, do you bake pies?”
“I have.” Greg narrows his eyes until Mycroft smirks. “Yes, my mother can and has baked pies in her time.”
“Great.”
Greg pulls Mycroft along past two aisles then into the third. They pass cookie cutters, rolling pins, and lemon squeezers until they come out the other side close to the escalators. Greg weaves them around one display table and stops in front of another with boxes and one open example. Greg picks up a packaged box and hands it to Mycroft.
He glances down at the box then back up at Greg. “And what is this?”
Greg points at the one on the display. “A mini pie maker.”
Mycroft makes a discomforted face. “A what?”
“You can see it just fine, Mycroft.”
“And why would I buy this?”
“It can be useful and I have heard it called ‘cute.’” Greg taps the box. “Plus, doubt your mother already has one.”
“Very much doubt.”
“So?”
“And why would you think this a good present?”
“Mycroft, it’s somewhat thoughtful, can make delicious one serving size pies, and I do have a mother, sister, and ex-wife of experience to let you know that your mother will probably like it.”
“Because women prefer to bake in small sizes?”
Greg shrugs. “Maybe. I gave one to David and then I got pie.”
Mycroft smiles slowly. “Are you are suggesting your brother has feminine qualities or that I would like pie?”
“Are there people who do not want pie?”
Mycroft finally cracks and laughs. He sighs and looks down at the box. “Well, happy birthday, mother.”
----------
Greg hears a key in the lock of his front door as he comes out of his bedroom, shoes finally off and put away after a quick shopping trip coming from work that night. He walks out into the hall and sees Mycroft hanging up his coat on a hook by the door. Greg smiles and crosses his arms, watching Mycroft, then he notices the small leather case in Mycroft's hand.
"What's that?"
Mycroft looks up at Greg and smiles. "A surprise."
Greg cocks his head. "What kind of surprise?"
Mycroft just smiles, walks toward Greg and takes his hand. He turns them left toward Greg's bedroom. Greg tries very hard not to let his imagination go straight into the sex toy sewer but the case is leather.
"Um... Mycroft..."
"Do calm yourself, Greg, and trust me."
"Okay..."
Mycroft stops Greg just in front of the bed then lets go of his hand. He puts the case down on the bed and begins to unbutton his suit jacket. Greg raises his eyebrows but stays where he is. Mycroft takes off his jacket then drapes it over the chair beside Greg's dresser. He loosen the knot in his tie then yanks it off completely, slipping open his top button at the same time.
"You're giving me ideas."
Mycroft chuckles and places his tie with his suit jacket. He removes the black cufflinks from his cuffs and puts them on top of Greg's dresser. Greg smiles for a moment seeing the silver of the cufflinks match the metal of his watch. Then Mycroft rolls up his sleeves to his elbows and steps close to Greg.
"Well?" Greg asks.
Mycroft begins to unbutton Greg's shirt until he has it completely open, Greg doing a good job of keeping his breathing even. Then Mycroft slips it off Greg's shoulders and puts in on the chair. He tilts his head as he looks Greg up and down.
"I would suggest you take your trousers off as well. Beyond that is up to you."
Greg frowns. "Could I have some context?"
"No."
Greg blinks once. "Okay."
Greg pulls off his belt and unbuttons his trousers as Mycroft sits down slightly behind him on the bed and takes off his shoes. Greg bounces a little on one foot as he gets off his trousers and throws them toward his closet. Mycroft's lip twitches when they hit the floor but he says nothing. Greg looks down at himself, what the hell, and pulls his pants off too, throwing them over with the trousers. Mycroft pauses with his second shoe in hand to gaze at Greg. Greg smiles then Mycroft puts his shoe down on the floor.
"Sit," Mycroft says patting the bed beside him.
Greg sits, hands on the comforter, and peers around Mycroft. On Mycroft's other side is the leather case which he opens now. Inside is paint.
"Mycroft..."
Mycroft looks back to Greg. He nods to the side over the bed. "Scoot."
Greg frowns for a moment then scoots himself back across the covers and sits cross legged. Mycroft grazes Greg's hand with his then stands up. "One moment." He turns and walks out of the room.
Greg looks down at the open case, a usual rainbow of paints and three brushes of varying sizes down the middle. The case, while obviously not brand new, is not messy like one imagines paint sets to be. No spots of paint smear the wooden edges or the leather exterior. The hinges in the middle look worn but are not rusted or in disrepair. Greg isn't sure if this means Mycroft cleans his paint case very well or simply does not use it often. He favors the latter.
Mycroft reappears in the doorway with a glass of water in one hand and some paper towels in the other. He tilts his head as he looks at Greg sitting naked in the middle of the bed then walks in and puts the glass down on Greg's bedside table. He sits on the edge of the bed, puts down two paper towels and moves the paint case on top of one.
"Are you going to get paint in my bed?" Greg asks.
"Not if I can help it." Then he looks up and makes a circle motion with one finger in the air.
Greg narrows his eyes as Mycroft picks up the middle sized paint brush then he turns around toward the window. He hears Mycroft tap the water glass behind him and hears Mycroft doing something in the paint case. Then the wet paint brush touches his back.
"Shiiiii... okay," Greg hisses.
Mycroft chuckles. "It is not that cold."
"It was a surprise."
"What did you expect?"
"Initially or five seconds ago?"
Mycroft chuckles again.
Greg feels the paint brush swoop up and down his back, Greg quickly adjusting to the cool paint. He tries to figure out the shapes as Mycroft paints. Perhaps a circle? Just another line? Mycroft brushes up and across then lower, though not quite all the way to Greg's arse. Greg decides no pants was the better idea. Greg feels the brush change, the smaller one now as Mycroft makes quick, short strokes at the base of Greg's neck. He feels the brush circle, swirl, then stroke small and rapid under his left shoulder bone. Then the brush changes, a large long line up Greg's left side before the brush shifts again, smaller and on his right, swirling around. He really wishes he could see what was happening, what colors, what images, Mycroft's face as he paints.
"Am I going to have to scrape this off?" Greg asks.
Mycroft scoffs quietly. "Certainly not. It is washable paint."
"That's a thing?"
"It is meant to be used on surfaces such as skin."
"That explains why the case is so clean."
Mycroft ‘hmms’ and the brush swoops over Greg's shoulder. "That and I have had little occasion to use this set."
Greg smiles and watches the light change in the glass of his bedroom window. He whispers, "lucky me."
Mycroft paints for about twenty minutes, all three brushes used at some point over Greg's skin. After a while Greg stops trying to imagine what Mycroft is creating. Instead he narrows his focus down to the feel of the brush and paint on his skin, Mycroft's hand occasionally turning him slightly or dabbing at the paint on his back. Mycroft's finger tips are warm while the paint it cold and Greg feels content to never move.
"There." Greg hears the paint brushes clink in what must be the water glass.
Greg looks back over his shoulder at Mycroft. The paint case has some mess on it now but Greg sees no paint on the bed or on Mycroft's shirt. "Tidy painter."
Mycroft closes the paint case. "As possible." He touches Greg's back, rubbing a spot on Greg's left side. "Perhaps not as precise here as I could have been."
"You know I can't see it, right?"
Mycroft pulls his mobile from his trouser pocket. He reaches out and turns Greg's head back around. Greg laughs and hears the camera shutter noise from Mycroft's mobile. Then Mycroft taps Greg's shoulder. Greg reaches back and takes Mycroft's held out mobile.
Greg looks at the picture on the screen and hardly recognizes himself as the canvas. "Oh, Mycroft..."
"As we did not reach the beach on our holiday, I felt I could bring the beach to you." Mycroft strokes a line over the back of Greg's neck. "Somewhat."
The painting is indeed of a beach but it is more than that. On the left side are cliffs with green grass on the top, rocks at the base with swirling paint waves of whites and blues. The beach stretches around the base of Greg's back appearing out of the rocks and waves. The beach curves all the way to his side with the ocean, darker paint brushes of tiny waves out in the distance. Mycroft even painted the light blue and gray sky with the hint of a sun through smudges of yellow and orange at the base of Greg's neck.
"Is this real?"
"Well, it is on you, Greg."
Greg laughs. "No, the coast line."
"Ah, well, I would consider it more a combination than one place."
"So, no."
"As you say."
Greg turns around halfway so he can properly see Mycroft. "You know, this is the only painting of yours I have seen?"
"I find it better the first one you see is one made just for you."
Greg bites the edge of his lip and smiles slowly. "You have a point."
"I take it you like it?"
Greg laughs then leans forward and kisses Mycroft hard on the lips. "Oh Mycroft, you can't imagine how much."
Part 2
Fandom: Sherlock
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock nor am I earning any money from this work.
Pairing/Characters: Greg Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes; Sally Donovan, Anderson, Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Original Characters
Word Count: 13,084
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Greg is having problems with his wife, it's tough enough being a copper, and then Mycroft Holmes starts sending him gifts. (In which Mycroft Holmes courts Gregory Lestrade)
Chapter Summary: You all right?" Mycroft blinks and gives Greg a look as though he might jump up and run away from the table. "I take it you've not been having the best day?"
Mycroft chuckles breathlessly. "I am fine, Greg, only seeing you at times awakens something in me I thought absent."
"And what is that?"
"Honesty."
Author Notes: So the musical aid to this story is a mix by severussnap. Specifically the song "Umbrella" by The Baseballs, a cover which (in my opinion) surpasses the original and gives this story its title.
And this story is now COMPLETE.
Chapter 1 - Sincerely
Chapter 2 - Earnestly
Chapter 3 - Genuinely
Chapter 4 - Profoundly
Cross posted to AO3.
Greg wakes up to sunshine from his open blinds, instead of a more sleep appropriate closed. He smiles anyway if only for the fact that it is Friday. He picks up his watch off the bedside table and sees it is nearly seven. He would be annoyed at the sun for waking him but the chance to see Mycroft still asleep is a rare one, so thank you, sun. Greg watches Mycroft for a moment, face half obscured due to being buried in a pillow. Greg brushes a hand over Mycroft’s hair then gets out from under the covers which are half on the floor now exposing Mycroft’s ankles. Greg grabs his pants and t-shirt off the floor, partially dresses then walks toward the bathroom.
Greg squeezes some toothpaste onto his toothbrush and runs it over his teeth. Then he looks up in the mirror, “oh fuck.” Greg runs the water, spiting and rising his mouth out. He drops the toothbrush back into the holder on the sink corner then searches around for his comb.
"Come on..."
The looks on the shelves beside the sink, just towels and shaving cream, some magazines on the bottom. Then he remembers to open the medicine cabinet right in front of him. Greg opens the mirror, picks the comb up off the shelf and shakes his head at himself. He drags the comb through his hair a few times then decides a shower would probably be a better idea.
"After coffee," Greg mutters to himself and puts the comb back in the medicine cabinet.
Greg leaves the bathroom and glances back into the bedroom. Mycroft has rolled over and is now in the center of the bed, the covers slipping dangerously low. Greg pauses a moment at the view then turns back down the hall toward the kitchen. In the kitchen, Greg pulls the French press Mycroft gave him from the cabinet - he brought it home from work after its near lack of use there - and puts it on the counter.
"I need..." Greg blinks a few times to wake himself up then grabs the kettle off the stove. "Water... need water."
Greg sticks the kettle under the tap and lets it fill to a reasonable height. He should probably add enough in case Mycroft wakes up before Greg has to leave. He actually has no idea if he should be waking Mycroft up or not. Mycroft's hours of work are considerably indefinable. Greg shuts off the water, puts the kettle on the stove, then flips the eye on until the flame catches.
"Step one..." Greg sighs then stares at his press for a full minute before he remembers he should be getting out some coffee. "Shit, yeah." He rubs his eyes. "And this is why I don't wake up at seven."
Greg fumbles through his cabinets, knocks some tea onto the counter until he finally finds the bag of coffee Mycroft brought over last week. He opens it, sniffs it once and smiles.
"Good morning." Then he pours some into the press.
Two minutes later, Greg pours the boiling water into the press, watches for a few minutes as the coffee grounds float and mix and turn the water into a dark, rich color. Then he pushes the ball at the top of the press down, squeezing all the grounds to the bottom. Greg picks two MET mugs from his cabinet then moves to the refrigerator for some milk.
"I must request the first mug."
Greg jumps and turns around, milk in hand. "Jesus..."
In the kitchen doorway, Mycroft's hands work on tying his tie, gray dress trousers on and white shirt buttoned up to his chin.
"You're already dressed but now you need coffee?"
Mycroft smiles. "It is all a façade, my dear Greg. Trust me."
Greg walks back over the mugs, pours in some milk then pours coffee from the press on top. He grabs a spoon from the drying rack beside the sink and stirs the liquid twice. Then he taps the spoon on the edge, drops it in the other mug and steps over to Mycroft.
"Here, I'll trade you." He holds out the coffee. Mycroft takes the mug while Greg unknots the off kilter knot of Mycroft's tie. "Can't have your tie any less than perfect."
"Obviously not." Mycroft sips the coffee. "Ah yes."
Greg smiles, flipping one side of the tie over and around the back. "Well, it is the coffee you bought."
"Thank god."
Greg pulls the finished Windsor knot tie against Mycroft's collar. He drops his hands and tilts his head. "May I pour my own coffee now?"
"You may."
Greg snorts and turns back to the counter. He adds the milk then pours the rest of the press coffee into his mug, spilling just a little on the counter. He adds a bit of sugar to his mug then turns back around, leaning against the counter. He stirs the liquid then tosses the spoon back into the sink.
"You have time to eat or does Brazil need a new president?"
Mycroft raises an eyebrow as he sips his coffee again. "No on both points."
Greg gulps some of his coffee then hisses at the burn. "Shame. Could have made you an omelet."
"Hmm." Mycroft drinks some more of his coffee. "As tempting as that is, I have some early obligations to attend to. You may attempt to domesticate me at another time."
Greg snorts. "I don't think you need my help." Mycroft raises both eyebrows. "Both the press and coffee were bought by you."
Mycroft smiles. "I see your point."
Mycroft turns and walks out of the kitchen, mug still in hand. Greg hears Mycroft moving in the bedroom and he smiles; must have the waistcoat and suit jacket for the outfit to be complete. Greg takes a big gulp of his coffee and glances at the clock on the stove, just seven fifteen.
Greg rubs a hand over his face. "Damn mornings."
"Greg."
Greg drops his hand and looks at Mycroft in the doorway again, suit ensemble complete. Greg frowns as Mycroft holds out his mug. “Did you chug it?"
Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Caffeine is a necessary evil."
"Evil?"
"God send."
Greg snorts. "All right." He takes the empty mug and places it in the sink. "Well, go conquer the world for England then."
"Your humor knows no bounds."
"I know."
Mycroft sighs but Greg just keeps grinning. After a pause, Mycroft's lip quirks up then he steps forward and kisses Greg once. "You are infuriating."
"Thank you."
----------
The first press conference covering the crown jewel heist, break in, whatever the papers want to call it, is an absolute nightmare. The reporters talk over each other, spouting more accusations than questions, hardly waiting for a response before plowing ahead again. How could this happen? Who is this man? Does this relate to the break in at the Bank of England? What about Pentonville Prison? What does this mean? What about the security? Why weren’t you prepared? On and on and on and Greg nearly just tells them all to fuck off before the pony show is finally wrapped up and the press are shoved out.
“What the hell just happened?” Donovan mutters as they walk down the hall.
“You were there, tell me!” Greg snaps.
“He sat there waiting for us. What the hell does that mean? Was it some kind of plan?”
“Donovan, I’m not in his head.”
“As much as I hate to ask, what does Sherlock say?”
Greg scoffs loudly. “I’m sure he’ll be saying a whole lot more soon.”
“It was his name that -“
“I saw.”
“Sir.” Donovan gets ahead of him and stops in his path. “If Sherlock is at the center of this then -“
“We don’t know that.”
“Yes, we do! He could be involved more than you think.”
Greg sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. “This happened only yesterday, Donovan, keep the paranoia to a minimum, all right.” She opens her mouth but Greg waves a hand. “I know, I know, it’s insane enough already. But we do it by the numbers, all right? I’m sure every MP and their interns are going to be calling us for weeks so we have to get cracking now.”
“Cracking then.” Donovan nods then turns and marches away from him.
Greg checks his watch. He has about twenty minutes until his meeting with the superintendent. Greg turns around and walks back to the stairs. He goes all the way to the bottom and out the back of New Scotland Yard, a couple police cars parked by the curb. Greg pulls the pack of ‘emergency’ cigarettes from his coat pocket then takes out the lighter and one cigarette from inside. (Just the one, he’ll buy some more patches on his way home tonight). Greg holds the cigarette between his lips, lights the end then inhales deeply.
“Bloody…” He blows out smoke. “Yes.”
Greg puts the pack and lighter back in his pocket then pulls his mobile from his other. He clicks Mycroft’s number then puts the phone up to his ear.
Mycroft answers after three rings. “Lively press conference?”
“Oh yeah. I assume you already knew about all this?” Greg takes the cigarette from his mouth, absently knocking ash off the end.
“I have had several conference calls about it.”
“What, with the prime minister?”
“One of them.”
Greg sucks on the end of his cigarette again and breathes in and out. “Damn.”
“Quite.”
“Has Sherlock told you anything? It must be the same man from before with the bombings but…” Greg shakes his head and takes another drag of his cigarette. “It’s completely different.”
“When it comes to Jim Moriarty, it is best to expect the unexpected.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Suffice it say, he has hands in many pies and this is hardly an accident.”
“Wait... hardly an accident?"
"Never you mind, it is as I said. No need for you to bother about it."
"No need..." Greg paces a few steps to the left. “No, no ‘never you mind,’ what do you mean?”
“I should think it obvious he meant to be caught.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
Mycroft scoffs. “Oh, Greg.”
“Look, if you know more, you should tell me. It’s in my court now.”
Mycroft sighs. “This is above your pay grade.”
Greg blinks. “Above my….”
“Yes, of course, this little farce is showing what he is capable of, which I am already quite aware of. Message heard. I would think you would realize it is not something the MET will be able to handle.”
Greg stops dead. “You can’t mean... he’s in my jail! He’ll be going to trial.”
“A trial which he will undoubtedly walk away from free.”
“Mycroft!”
“When it comes to Jim Moriarty it takes a different branch of our government.”
“What, your kind?”
Mycroft huffs. “Just do what you do, Greg, use the law. You needn’t worry about what may happen regardless of the system. The wheels are in motion and I have plans -“
“Oh yes? Plans?”
“Which you do not need to know!”
“I’m a fucking police officer, of course I should know!” Greg shouts, pointing violently with his cigarette hand.
Mycroft laughs. “And who do you think I am?”
“I think we’re on the same side!”
Mycroft sighs yet again. “Could we possibly move on to a different topic of discussion?”
“No.” Greg quickly sucks more smoke in from his cigarette, raining ash as he paces back and forth. “No, Mycroft, Jim Moriarty is in police custody and we need all the information available to properly prosecute him. That is what the law is for.”
“There are levels of the law, Greg.”
Greg scoffs sharply. “And just how does this transfer to National Security?”
“You needn't know," Mycroft hisses.
Greg growls. “That is ridiculous, this is a case which -“
“Just let it go, Greg!” Mycroft suddenly snaps. “Jim Moriarty is not really your problem, he is mine! It will be out of your hands soon enough and you can return to your desk!”
Greg hangs up.
He breathes in an out quickly, mobile still fisted tight in his hand and cigarette burning closer to his fingers. He tries to slow his breathing down and resists the urge to kick the building wall or heave his mobile into the street.
Finally, he drops the arm holding his mobile and takes another deep drag of his cigarette before he drops it on the ground and grinds it into the cement with his shoe. Then he turns and walks back into the building.
----------
Greg and Mycroft sit across from each other at lunch. Mycroft has a salad with some sort of vinaigrette dressing. Greg wants to tell him it is unnecessary but Mycroft’s complex runs rather deeper than any assurances Greg would give could penetrate. Greg has no problem having a sandwich with meat and cheese, thanks.
Mycroft’s eyes tick to the watch on Greg’s wrist. He purses his lips and stabs more lettuce.
“We’ve only been here fifteen minutes,” Greg says, “don’t think you’re going to be late for anything yet.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Greg chuckles. “Oh, never am with you.”
“Is that some sort of passive aggressive insult?”
Greg sighs. “No, it’s not. I’m not Sherlock.”
Mycroft smiles. “No, his insults are hardly passive.”
“Don’t I know it.” Greg shakes his head. “He came in yesterday, stack of information from the cases before about Jim Mo-” Then Greg cuts himself off.
Mycroft glances up. “About?”
Greg rolls his eyes. “Nothing. Sherlock just being himself as usual.”
“Hmm.” Mycroft gazes at Greg a moment longer then looks back at his salad. “As long as he isn’t making any ill advised blog posts or taking interviews.”
“Doubt that.” Greg picks up his water. “Though some of us have to.”
Mycroft smiles. “Trust me, the private meetings can be far more loathsome than the daggers of the press.”
"Oh yeah? Talk to me again when you're forced into press conferences."
Mycroft laughs mirthlessly. "Those with status demand just as many answers as the uninformed masses."
“Right, you and your closed doors.”
Mycroft looks up sharply. “Doors are put in place for a reason.”
“What, to keep in or out?”
“That all depends which side of the door you’re on.”
Greg huffs. “Do we have to keep up the metaphor?”
“I believe you began it.” Mycroft spears a cherry tomato with his fork. "Though it is perfectly apt."
Greg rubs his forehead with one hand. “I’m just trying to have lunch.”
“And so we are.”
“But you’re -“ Greg cuts himself off and shakes his head.
"You brought up the case."
"You brought up the class divides."
Mycroft puts his fork down and leans back against his chair. “Really, Greg, will we let something like work come between us?”
“You sound like a cliché.” Greg frowns. “And it’s not just work to either of us, is it?”
Mycroft taps his teeth together and frowns. “Greg, when has my secrecy in regards to my work, my position, ever been a problem for you before?”
“When it wasn’t directly in conflict with mine.”
Mycroft scoffs. “Please.”
“Well!”
“There is no conflict. I would assume as one in civil service you would understand how hierarchy works."
"Hierarchy," Greg mutters, eating one crisp off his plate.
Mycroft frowns. "Yes, some of us can make headway." He waves a dismissive hand. "Or are you really so simple as to believe your police and court case will be anything but a useless sham?”
Greg bangs a hand on the table so their plates clatter and Mycroft’s fork falls to the ground. Greg bites his teeth together before he says anything rashly. Mycroft stares at him and actually has the sense to look somewhat regretful. Greg shakes his head and pulls out his wallet.
“Greg…”
“I have to get back to my desk.” Greg puts ten pounds on the table next to his plate. “Not hungry anymore.”
“You are being dramatic,” Mycroft insists.
Greg stands up and picks up his coat off the back of his chair. He puts it over his shoulders, arms through and glares at Mycroft, “and you're being a dick.” Then he walks away.
----------
Greg walks around the crime scene with Sergeant Bell behind him. She instructs the PCs, making sure the caution tape is up in all the right places. Greg sends Peters off to take care of crowd control until the crime scene techs are done with the photographs. Greg crouches down beside the body of the girl face down on the pavement. He tilts his head, looking at the long, deep gash on her forehead which is the least of her injuries.
“So, fall that killed her?” Bell asks. She turns and points up at the building of flats beside them. “I’d say that balcony up there if I’ve got the angle right.”
Greg turns and peers up. “I’d say right but don’t think it was the fall.”
Bell looks down at him. “No? All those broken bones aren’t enough for you after three stories?”
“Nope.” Greg points at her neck. “Look.”
Bell crouches down beside him, turning her head sideways. “Bruising.”
“Strangled.” Greg stands up again and points up at the building. “What’d you think, she was thrown?”
“During or after?”
Greg grins. “And this is why I like Sargent Bell.”
She smiles back. “I’ll get with forensics and see what we can figure it out.”
“Fabulous.” He looks around at some of the other officers. “Hurry it up so we can get her off the street.”
Greg walks back toward his car, blue light still spinning on the top. His mobile buzzes in his pocket. Greg pulls it out and sees ‘Mycroft’ on the ID. He stares at it for another buzz then clicks answer.
“Hi.”
“Greg.”
“That is me.”
Mycroft chuckles once in a polite way. “Are you free for dinner?”
“Oh, so right into it.” Greg chews the inside of his cheek. “Don’t you already know if I’m available or not?”
“I am not inside your head, Greg.”
“Thank God.”
Mycroft sighs.
“Look, I can’t talk right now. I’m at a crime scene.”
“Ah. I see.”
“I’ll call you back.” Greg hangs up and lets his arm fall to his side.
Greg turns and leans against his car. He looks at the crime scene, blood on the pavement and PCs all around. Greg grits his teeth and shakes his head. He balls his free hand into a fist then pulls his mobile up again. He clicks ‘recent’ and redials Mycroft.
“This seems quick for a crime scene?”
Greg rubs a hand in his hair. “I can talk for five minutes, still gathering physical evidence.”
“Charming.”
“So, you said dinner?”
“Yes, I… I wish to see you.”
Greg smiles a little. “Not too busy with National Security?”
“Greg, don’t descend into baiting. It is unattractive.”
Greg bites his lip and drops the mobile from his ear for a moment. Shaking his head, he rubs the bridge of his nose then pulls the mobile up to his ear again.
“I wasn’t trying to bait you.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Well, looks like it worked then.”
Mycroft sighs.
“You know, you sigh a lot.”
“You are not helping with that!”
Greg rolls his eyes. “It was actually a serious question. I know we are swamped in my small area of the law with this Moriarty trial coming up. It’s all hands on deck over here. So I don't know how busy you -”
“Must we talk about -“
“I wasn’t trying to -“
“And yet, you were.”
“Well, what you think I am working on every day, Mycroft?” Greg turns around to face the car and keeps his voice down as best he can. “And I know you say there are levels and divides and that our work does not crossover but why can’t it? Why do you need to have all your cloak and daggers when we have him in custody right now and with your help we can put it all to bed!”
Mycroft makes a growling sort of noise and Greg hears something smack in the background. “If you could hear yourself; you have absolutely no idea what is really going on!”
“Because you won’t tell me!”
“Why can’t you just accept that I cannot tell you everything!” Mycroft snaps.
Greg bangs a fist on the top of his car and stares at the ground. He understands. He does. He knows National Security and the Metropolitan Police are different, different crimes, different stakes, different access, different parts of the law. But when did cooperation fail as an option? When did a crime of national importance not lead to the letter of the law?
“This isn’t a bloody Bond film with exploding pens and SPECTRE. It’s the real world, Mycroft.”
“Never mind what I said about dinner,” Mycroft says crisply. “I find I am busy after all.” Then the line cuts off.
Greg drops his hand and puts his mobile right back into his coat pocket. Greg stares at the roof of the car, flashes of blue reflecting off the silver surface.
“Sir?” Greg turns around to see Bell standing behind him. She points at the scene, the body under a sheet now. “We’re ready to move the body.”
Greg nods, pats the hood of the car and stands up straighter. “Right, lets go.”
----------
Greg and David sit in a booth at a pub near David’s house. They both watch the football match on the screen behind the bar, the teams currently tied with one point each. David is nearly done his beer, having needed a bit of a rant about his wife when they first arrived, while Greg still has half of his. Greg glances at his mobile on the table then back at the game.
“They’re running slower now. Aren’t they running slower?” David knocks back the last of his beer. “They have to be.”
“They’re not running any slower.”
“They have to be.”
“Are you drunk already?”
David turns to Greg. “Why, what are you implying? Are you saying I’m an alcoholic?”
“Of course no -“
“Are you saying I have a problem?” David gasps and wraps his hands around his empty glass. “No, no please, just one more!”
Greg laughs. “Glad to be out of the house I see.”
“When you are a house husband you will understand.” David leans out of the booth a little, clearly looking for their server. “Why do you think my behavior keeps regressing? I only talk to the kids.”
“And that’s what you get for working from home.”
“I do an excellent load of laundry while on my tablet at the same time.” David slides his empty glass to the outside edge of the table. “It should be on my résumé.”
Then Judy, their server, reappears with two glasses of the same already in her hands. She puts them down on the table and picks up David’s empty glass. She looks at Greg’s and furrows her eyebrows accusingly.
Greg frowns. “Sorry.”
“Oh no, these are both for me.” David pulls both glasses toward himself then looks up at Judy. “You should be nominated for sainthood.”
She smiles. “What makes you think I’m not?” Then she swirls back around toward the bar.
“Hmm.” David takes a big chug out of one glass. “If I wasn’t married…”
Greg laughs. “Perish the thought.”
“Speaking of not married…”
“Oh no.”
“How’s Mycroft?”
Greg drinks some more from his glass and shakes his head. “Nice segue.”
“Shit, you’re fighting?”
Greg raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t say -“
“Didn’t you?”
Greg purses his lips and swirls the beer around in his glass. David ‘tut tuts’ then pushes the other full beer Judy left back to Greg’s side of the table. Greg raises his eyebrows.
“Finish that one and move on.”
“You’re talking about the beer, right?”
“So, what’s wrong?”
Greg sighs, tips his glass up and finishes his first beer. He puts the empty glass back on the tale then pushes it aside. “Do we have to talk about this?”
“Why? Are you cheating on him?”
“Oi!”
David grins. “See, has to be something not as bad.”
“Depends upon your view, I expect.”
David gives Greg a withering stare. “Just give up and tell me. You know I’ll only make up something far too ridiculous or worse, steal your mobile and call Mycroft.”
“All right, all right.” Greg rubs a finger along the edge of the second glass. “It’s work.”
David stares at him blankly for ten seconds until he speaks again, “work?”
“Yeah.”
“Work is causing the arguments?”
“Yeah.”
“God.” David shakes his head. “I thought you weren’t married anymore?”
“Look, if you’re not going to be helpful…”
“You’re supposed to enjoy the early stages, do stupid shit like stay out too late or send ostentatious flowers. You shouldn’t be getting into the ‘why were you working late’ or ‘did you clean the bathroom’ type arguments now.”
“It’s not like that, David, it’s…” Greg sighs. “You know how I am about being a copper.”
David scoffs. “Don’t I ever.”
“That’s Mycroft with the government but worse.”
“Are you saying his house is actually his office, because that’s the level I’m thinking?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Which one haven’t you been to, house or office?”
“House.”
David whistles. “Well, now that might be something more to fight about, I’d think, than your work. It’s been…” David looks at his hand as if counting though Greg knows it’s just show. “Four months, if you don’t count the wooing?”
“About that.”
“Hmm hmm.”
“The point is, he is being a complete dick which I shouldn’t be surprised about but -“
“But nothing, Greg, fix it up,” David interrupts. “I know you really care about him. Even Claire could see that.”
“You don’t know the whole -“
“I don’t need to know.”
“Could you stop interrupting me?
David shakes his head. “All fights are less about the subject matter of the fight and more about someone being hurt. You can hurt someone else a million ways and say that the thing that is wrong is work or how they didn’t make the bed, stupid shit. The real reason for the fight is feelings and if you can fix those then everything else falls into place.”
Greg stares at David. “Is this your philosopher brother routine?”
"I do it all the time.”
“True.”
“Seriously, we all have a finite amount of time, why waste it on stupid fighting when you could be happy? Look at mum and dad, took them twenty years to finally straighten that out.”
“And now they’re in the Bahamas.”
David frowns. “I thought it was Argentina?”
Greg shakes his head. “You’re two weeks behind, don’t you get the postcards?”
“Maybe they love you more.”
Greg glances at his mobile again, no light blinking with a missed call or text. Greg takes a sip of his beer but does not pick up the mobile. Then David leans over the table, picks up the mobile and holds it out to Greg. Greg snatches it, flips it around and clicks the screen to life. He hits Mycroft’s number and puts the mobile to his ear.
‘Good job,’ David mouths at him and takes another long drink of his beer.
Greg only raises his eyebrows as the phone keeps ringing. After the fifth ring it goes to voicemail. Greg listens to the computerized voice until the beep sounds. He opens his mouth but just huffs and hangs up the phone.
David frowns. “It is a two way thing, of course.”
Greg sticks his mobile back in his pocket. “Yup.”
They pick up their beers at the same time, take one gulp and turn back to the football match on the screen.
----------
Phone receiver against one ear, Greg sits in his office leaning his forehead on the palm of his other hand, arm propped up on his desk. The superintendent in his ear keeps harping on details about the Moriarty case coming up in less than two weeks. Greg has sent everything they had to the solicitors, witnesses set up as well. The superintendent keeps asking probing questions about Sherlock.
“Why should a private investigator be part of this trial? Just because his name was at the crime scene he becomes an expert witness?”
“I’d say that makes him important to the case, sir.”
“That seems more to me like he might be an accomplice. Has your division thoroughly vetted him? Do we need push back the trial date?” And on and on.
Greg wonders if this is what happens when a copper makes it up too high, all they can do is question and criticize? Finally, Greg is able to hang up and breathe freely after promises to send over information from the past cases involving Moriarty, though the solicitors already have those as well. Fortunately, the superintendent did not ask about Sherlock and any other cases.
“Micromanaging…” Greg mutters to himself as he e-mails Gupta to run the files up.
Suddenly, Greg’s office door swings open and Sherlock strides through.
“Knocking?” Greg says hands out to the side.
“Unnecessary,” Sherlock says then steps right up to Greg’s desk and holds out his mobile toward Greg.
“If you want me to fix your mobile, Sherlock, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
Sherlock sighs but does not move. Greg crosses his arms and shrugs. Sherlock gives Greg his ‘genius detective’ stare then shakes his wrist with the mobile once.
Greg leans forward and grabs the mobile. “Please tell me this isn’t someone you’ve kidnapped,” then into the mobile, “Hello?”
“Sherlock?” Says the voice, sounding confused.
“Mycroft,” Greg says at the same time that Mycroft on the other end of the line says, “Greg.”
Greg looks back to Sherlock. "What are you, Yente?"
"You and John…” Sherlock huffs. "Enough with the pop culture references.”
"It’s Fiddler on the Roof…”
“Whatever disagreement you are having, solve it. He is calling at least once a day, if not more, with…" Sherlock shakes his head then flicks his hand toward the mobile, "trivialities and I may be forced to commit familial murder if I must suffer to answer my mobile one more time with his voice on the other end!”
“Charming,” Mycroft says.
“So you heard that?” Greg replies.
“Good!” Sherlock snaps, leaning over the desk so he is closer to the mobile, then he straightens, turns and marches out of Greg’s office.
“Your mobile!” Greg calls but Sherlock does not return. Greg rubs a hand over his face. “Christ.”
Greg sits silently, mobile at his ear. The other end of the line stays silent as well, not even any kind of background noise filtering through. For a moment Greg considers just hanging up but this really is a childish game and, though Mycroft hides it most of the time, Greg is the more adult one.
“Look, I’ll start. I’m sorry.” Greg picks up a pen from his desk and twirls it around in his fingers. “I shouldn’t have been pushing you. I know there are things you can’t tell me and I need to just get past that.”
“Thank you,” Mycroft says quietly and Greg very much wishes he could see Mycroft right now.
“I know my job is high pressure but I can only imagine your end.”
“Yes. I suppose you could call it stressful at times. I am glad you realize the distinction. And I will note that it is not I wish to leave you in the dark but that I must.”
Greg nods even though Mycroft cannot see him.
Mycroft clears his throat. “I may have also been somewhat… harsh in my comments on my position on the subject.”
Greg huffs once quietly. “Well, I assume it is a family trait.”
“I do not mean to demean you,” Mycroft insists.
“Mycroft.” Greg puts his pen down and leans forward over his desk. “You haven’t broken me. I am fine. I was just angry, that’s all. One fight, however extended, does not a break up make.”
Mycroft makes a pleased noise much like a purr. “Ah. Well, good.”
“Good.”
“It has been just two weeks since we last saw each other but…” Mycroft clears his throat. “I have…”
“I miss you too, Mycroft.”
Mycroft makes a soft gasp and Greg can see that real smile on his face from here. “Then I shall see you tonight.”
“Dinner?” Greg asks.
“As long as you make it.”
Greg smiles. “Ask and you shall receive.” Then he clicks off the mobile.
That evening, dinner is butternut squash lasagna with sex and wine for dessert.
----------
Greg and Mycroft walk through the kitchen appliance section of the department store, microwaves on one side of them and an array of glass containers on the other. Mycroft walks swiftly down the aisle, stopping suddenly now and then, so Greg nearly crashes into him, to touch something on a shelf before moving on again.
“You know, you could tell me who we're shopping for.”
Mycroft grumbles. “It makes little difference.”
“Usually it does.”
Mycroft turns a corner out into one of the wider paths through the store. “I simply need something generic, something useful.”
“Well, the kitchen section's a good start, unless this person doesn't cook?”
“She cooks.”
“Oh, a she!” Greg jogs ahead of Mycroft then walks backwards in front of him, hands in pockets. “So, it’s a she and you need to buy her a present for…”
Mycroft sighs and stops walking. “Must you be so gleeful?”
“Well, you've sent me a lot of things I bet you’ve purchased yourself but I’ve never watched you actually buy any of them.”
“And this is an amusement for you?”
“When we’re doing it in a department store, yes.”
Mycroft clicks his teeth together then turns right down an aisle of dinner plates. Greg shifts his feet and follows after. Mycroft picks up one large red plate then puts it down again. He cocks his head at a set of square white plates then keeps walking.
“So, this ‘she,’ a family member? Work colleague? Foreign leader?”
Mycroft stops and turns part way. “I asked you to come to assist, not patronize.”
“I’m not patronizing and I can’t help if I don’t know who this is for or for what.”
Mycroft closes his eyes and rubs a hand over his forehead. “My mother’s birthday.”
“You have a mother?”
Mycroft opens his eyes again in surprise.
Greg grins. “Kidding. Sort of. Mother then. Your mother is she…” Greg clears his throat. “Is she… like you?”
“Like me?”
“Like you and Sherlock.”
Mycroft breathes in very deeply and tilts his head. “That is a question for the ages.”
Greg stares. “I am deciding to not follow up on that.”
“Wise.”
“Right, kitchen stuff’s good though?”
“We are in this section. I did not choose it at random.”
Greg steps forward and rubs a line down Mycroft’s arm. “Relax, it’s just a present. I know you're capable of buying them.”
“You and my mother are two very different things.”
“Thank God.”
Mycroft sighs. “Well, you have your details now. If you could pull yourself out of witty comebacks and assist me in selecting something that would be preferable.”
Greg kisses Mycroft's cheek then grips his arm. “Come on.”
Greg takes them out of the aisle into one of the open through ways again. He stops and cranes his neck to scan the area. Then he turns back to Mycroft. “Does your mother bake?”
“I had to learn from someone.”
“So, that’s a yes?”
“I hear mothers tend to bake.”
“Pies?”
“Does my mother bake pies?”
“No, do you bake pies?”
“I have.” Greg narrows his eyes until Mycroft smirks. “Yes, my mother can and has baked pies in her time.”
“Great.”
Greg pulls Mycroft along past two aisles then into the third. They pass cookie cutters, rolling pins, and lemon squeezers until they come out the other side close to the escalators. Greg weaves them around one display table and stops in front of another with boxes and one open example. Greg picks up a packaged box and hands it to Mycroft.
He glances down at the box then back up at Greg. “And what is this?”
Greg points at the one on the display. “A mini pie maker.”
Mycroft makes a discomforted face. “A what?”
“You can see it just fine, Mycroft.”
“And why would I buy this?”
“It can be useful and I have heard it called ‘cute.’” Greg taps the box. “Plus, doubt your mother already has one.”
“Very much doubt.”
“So?”
“And why would you think this a good present?”
“Mycroft, it’s somewhat thoughtful, can make delicious one serving size pies, and I do have a mother, sister, and ex-wife of experience to let you know that your mother will probably like it.”
“Because women prefer to bake in small sizes?”
Greg shrugs. “Maybe. I gave one to David and then I got pie.”
Mycroft smiles slowly. “Are you are suggesting your brother has feminine qualities or that I would like pie?”
“Are there people who do not want pie?”
Mycroft finally cracks and laughs. He sighs and looks down at the box. “Well, happy birthday, mother.”
----------
Greg hears a key in the lock of his front door as he comes out of his bedroom, shoes finally off and put away after a quick shopping trip coming from work that night. He walks out into the hall and sees Mycroft hanging up his coat on a hook by the door. Greg smiles and crosses his arms, watching Mycroft, then he notices the small leather case in Mycroft's hand.
"What's that?"
Mycroft looks up at Greg and smiles. "A surprise."
Greg cocks his head. "What kind of surprise?"
Mycroft just smiles, walks toward Greg and takes his hand. He turns them left toward Greg's bedroom. Greg tries very hard not to let his imagination go straight into the sex toy sewer but the case is leather.
"Um... Mycroft..."
"Do calm yourself, Greg, and trust me."
"Okay..."
Mycroft stops Greg just in front of the bed then lets go of his hand. He puts the case down on the bed and begins to unbutton his suit jacket. Greg raises his eyebrows but stays where he is. Mycroft takes off his jacket then drapes it over the chair beside Greg's dresser. He loosen the knot in his tie then yanks it off completely, slipping open his top button at the same time.
"You're giving me ideas."
Mycroft chuckles and places his tie with his suit jacket. He removes the black cufflinks from his cuffs and puts them on top of Greg's dresser. Greg smiles for a moment seeing the silver of the cufflinks match the metal of his watch. Then Mycroft rolls up his sleeves to his elbows and steps close to Greg.
"Well?" Greg asks.
Mycroft begins to unbutton Greg's shirt until he has it completely open, Greg doing a good job of keeping his breathing even. Then Mycroft slips it off Greg's shoulders and puts in on the chair. He tilts his head as he looks Greg up and down.
"I would suggest you take your trousers off as well. Beyond that is up to you."
Greg frowns. "Could I have some context?"
"No."
Greg blinks once. "Okay."
Greg pulls off his belt and unbuttons his trousers as Mycroft sits down slightly behind him on the bed and takes off his shoes. Greg bounces a little on one foot as he gets off his trousers and throws them toward his closet. Mycroft's lip twitches when they hit the floor but he says nothing. Greg looks down at himself, what the hell, and pulls his pants off too, throwing them over with the trousers. Mycroft pauses with his second shoe in hand to gaze at Greg. Greg smiles then Mycroft puts his shoe down on the floor.
"Sit," Mycroft says patting the bed beside him.
Greg sits, hands on the comforter, and peers around Mycroft. On Mycroft's other side is the leather case which he opens now. Inside is paint.
"Mycroft..."
Mycroft looks back to Greg. He nods to the side over the bed. "Scoot."
Greg frowns for a moment then scoots himself back across the covers and sits cross legged. Mycroft grazes Greg's hand with his then stands up. "One moment." He turns and walks out of the room.
Greg looks down at the open case, a usual rainbow of paints and three brushes of varying sizes down the middle. The case, while obviously not brand new, is not messy like one imagines paint sets to be. No spots of paint smear the wooden edges or the leather exterior. The hinges in the middle look worn but are not rusted or in disrepair. Greg isn't sure if this means Mycroft cleans his paint case very well or simply does not use it often. He favors the latter.
Mycroft reappears in the doorway with a glass of water in one hand and some paper towels in the other. He tilts his head as he looks at Greg sitting naked in the middle of the bed then walks in and puts the glass down on Greg's bedside table. He sits on the edge of the bed, puts down two paper towels and moves the paint case on top of one.
"Are you going to get paint in my bed?" Greg asks.
"Not if I can help it." Then he looks up and makes a circle motion with one finger in the air.
Greg narrows his eyes as Mycroft picks up the middle sized paint brush then he turns around toward the window. He hears Mycroft tap the water glass behind him and hears Mycroft doing something in the paint case. Then the wet paint brush touches his back.
"Shiiiii... okay," Greg hisses.
Mycroft chuckles. "It is not that cold."
"It was a surprise."
"What did you expect?"
"Initially or five seconds ago?"
Mycroft chuckles again.
Greg feels the paint brush swoop up and down his back, Greg quickly adjusting to the cool paint. He tries to figure out the shapes as Mycroft paints. Perhaps a circle? Just another line? Mycroft brushes up and across then lower, though not quite all the way to Greg's arse. Greg decides no pants was the better idea. Greg feels the brush change, the smaller one now as Mycroft makes quick, short strokes at the base of Greg's neck. He feels the brush circle, swirl, then stroke small and rapid under his left shoulder bone. Then the brush changes, a large long line up Greg's left side before the brush shifts again, smaller and on his right, swirling around. He really wishes he could see what was happening, what colors, what images, Mycroft's face as he paints.
"Am I going to have to scrape this off?" Greg asks.
Mycroft scoffs quietly. "Certainly not. It is washable paint."
"That's a thing?"
"It is meant to be used on surfaces such as skin."
"That explains why the case is so clean."
Mycroft ‘hmms’ and the brush swoops over Greg's shoulder. "That and I have had little occasion to use this set."
Greg smiles and watches the light change in the glass of his bedroom window. He whispers, "lucky me."
Mycroft paints for about twenty minutes, all three brushes used at some point over Greg's skin. After a while Greg stops trying to imagine what Mycroft is creating. Instead he narrows his focus down to the feel of the brush and paint on his skin, Mycroft's hand occasionally turning him slightly or dabbing at the paint on his back. Mycroft's finger tips are warm while the paint it cold and Greg feels content to never move.
"There." Greg hears the paint brushes clink in what must be the water glass.
Greg looks back over his shoulder at Mycroft. The paint case has some mess on it now but Greg sees no paint on the bed or on Mycroft's shirt. "Tidy painter."
Mycroft closes the paint case. "As possible." He touches Greg's back, rubbing a spot on Greg's left side. "Perhaps not as precise here as I could have been."
"You know I can't see it, right?"
Mycroft pulls his mobile from his trouser pocket. He reaches out and turns Greg's head back around. Greg laughs and hears the camera shutter noise from Mycroft's mobile. Then Mycroft taps Greg's shoulder. Greg reaches back and takes Mycroft's held out mobile.
Greg looks at the picture on the screen and hardly recognizes himself as the canvas. "Oh, Mycroft..."
"As we did not reach the beach on our holiday, I felt I could bring the beach to you." Mycroft strokes a line over the back of Greg's neck. "Somewhat."
The painting is indeed of a beach but it is more than that. On the left side are cliffs with green grass on the top, rocks at the base with swirling paint waves of whites and blues. The beach stretches around the base of Greg's back appearing out of the rocks and waves. The beach curves all the way to his side with the ocean, darker paint brushes of tiny waves out in the distance. Mycroft even painted the light blue and gray sky with the hint of a sun through smudges of yellow and orange at the base of Greg's neck.
"Is this real?"
"Well, it is on you, Greg."
Greg laughs. "No, the coast line."
"Ah, well, I would consider it more a combination than one place."
"So, no."
"As you say."
Greg turns around halfway so he can properly see Mycroft. "You know, this is the only painting of yours I have seen?"
"I find it better the first one you see is one made just for you."
Greg bites the edge of his lip and smiles slowly. "You have a point."
"I take it you like it?"
Greg laughs then leans forward and kisses Mycroft hard on the lips. "Oh Mycroft, you can't imagine how much."
Part 2