Fic: In Silence (Chapter Two)
Title: In Silence (Chapter Two)
Word Count: approx 2,700 for this bit
A/N: Full story info and more author's notes here.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
It's light outside when he wakes up. The rest of the evening had passed like a fever dream. Mycroft's not entirely sure what has happened. When he wakes he is dressed in track suit bottoms (obviously not his own, as he does not own track suit bottoms) and a t-shirt. He does not feel like himself in these clothes.
He finds that he does not mind in the least.
It's easier, not being himself. Someone who is not Mycroft could take this opportunity to relax in his boyfriend's arms. Someone who is not Mycroft could turn and press a kiss to his boyfriend's cheek. Someone who is not Mycroft would not require himself to leave the bed, check his phone, or entertain any ideas of escape.
Mycroft has never been a master of disguise. (That was always his brother's arena.) He is, however, very skilled at compromise. His compromise: he will not move a muscle. He merely eyes the clock on the bedside table, noting the midmorning hour. (No alarm is set: Gregory must not be expected in these days. Not after the scandal. Moriarty's actions left no one important untouched.) He checks that he has not disturbed Gregory. (He hasn't.) Then he closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.
.
.
.
The next time Mycroft wakes it's nearly dinnertime.
It's rather embarrassing; Mycroft hasn't slept this long in years. It feels indulgent and childish, made only more so when Gregory brings him chicken noodle soup in bed.
"I'm not sick," Mycroft says. He eats a spoonful anyway, because it smells delicious and he hasn't had anything to eat in a very long time. He's immediately glad he decided to eat the soup. Gregory smiles, just the tiniest bit, as he eats.
Then Gregory shrugs. "Seemed appropriate," he says, which isn't exactly an explanation. Mycroft eats another spoonful and watches the smile return. Maybe an explanation isn't necessary. Mycroft has more of the soup. He watches Gregory watch him. He wonders if Gregory is aware that he's staring.
"Are you going to eat anything yourself?" Mycroft asks dryly.
Gregory ducks his head and smiles (ah, yes, he's aware) before he nods a little. "Good to have you back," Gregory calls out as he walks back to the kitchen.
Mycroft smirks a bit. Then his eyes drop back down to the soup. He frowns. It's warm and welcoming; Gregory wants to take care of him in his mourning.
It isn't supposed to be like this.
Mycroft remembers who he is, and what he's done. He feels himself sinking back into his body. He puts the bowl of soup down. He feels naked in the t-shirt. As Gregory pads back into the bedroom, carrying another bowl of soup with him (this bowl is for Gregory so that they might match), Mycroft leans over to the bedside table to pick up his mobile.
There's a small thunk as Gregory puts the second soup-bowl on the dresser. He comes back to bed and places a hand over the face of Mycroft's phone.
"Can it wait?" Gregory says. He doesn't give Mycroft time to answer, simply cups Mycroft's cheek in his fingertips. Mycroft finds himself leaning into the touch.
"I missed you," Gregory says. He kisses him.
The kiss starts slow, even sweet. Mycroft puts the phone back down on the table so he has both hands free. He reaches for the back of Gregory's neck, running a finger lightly up and down the skin. Gregory groans at that and climbs back into bed, on top of the sheets, as he deepens the kiss. Mycroft's other hand clutches Gregory's back. He's worried that if he lets go, the whole thing will shatter. Gregory has no idea what Mycroft's done to Sherlock, Gregory cares (cared) for Sherlock almost as much as Mycroft does (did). While they are kissing, Mycroft isn't responsible. He doesn't have to explain, because he physically can't. When Gregory's kissing him, his mouth is no longer his own.
He is aware he's deflecting.
He thinks, very distantly, that perhaps he should stop.
Then Gregory does something with his tongue (or rather, he does that thing with his tongue), and Mycroft feels himself go a bit boneless. Gregory reaches a hand under the sheets separating them and Mycroft comes back into himself. He takes Gregory's hand, the reaching one, and gently places it on his own neck. He takes control of the kiss, teasing it out and slowing it down. It takes him longer to pull away than he had intended.
"What?" Gregory whispers.
"Sherlock," Mycroft says simply, and his boyfriend deflates. Gregory rolls over to the other side of the bed and stares at the ceiling.
"Yeah," Gregory says.
Mycroft stares at the ceiling too, because it seems polite. Secretly, he'd rather look at Gregory. He wonders for the first time how Gregory is taking the loss. He wishes he could try to read it in his boyfriend's face.
Gregory cared for his brother. In granting Sherlock employment despite the worst of his addiction, in keeping an eye on Sherlock during more than one overdose, Gregory had been a better parent than Mycroft ever could. Gregory also exercised impressive discretion all the while, considering his colleagues' propensities for name-calling and gossip. It was one of the first things Mycroft had ever admired about the man. Gregory would never have given out Sherlock's secrets.
"It's my fault," Mycroft says, then closes his eyes. He hadn't intended to share that. Now that it's out, though, it seems only fair. They're in a relationship, but they do not have to be. After he learns the truth Gregory might not want to attach himself to Mycroft in any way.
Mycroft wouldn't blame him in the slightest.
Something brushes Mycroft's fingertips. He has to look down at his own hand to prove to himself that he's not going crazy. But no, Mycroft has just told Gregory that he killed his own brother, and Gregory is trying to hold his hand. In his shock, Mycroft lets him.
"I'm sorry you lost your brother," Gregory says.
"Gregory," Mycroft says slowly. "It's my fault."
Gregory brings his free hand up to stroke Mycroft's hair, and Mycroft wants to tell him no. He wants to tell him to stop. For some reason, he does neither of these things.
"Moriarty forced Sherlock to jump off St. Bart's," Gregory says. "I've been looking into it. I'll keep looking into it."
"Well then, here's something for your investigation: I helped Moriarty." Mycroft shuts his eyes. "I might as well have stood there and pushed Sherlock off the building myself."
Mycroft waits for Gregory to pull away, but his boyfriend continues stroking his hair as if Mycroft hasn't revealed anything at all. Oh. Mycroft opens his eyes.
"John's spoken to you," he says flatly. "No, my mistake. You've spoken to John."
Gregory nods slowly. "He doesn't much want to talk. Not yet."
"But he told you about me. About…" Mycroft clears his throat a bit. His voice sounds hoarse in his ears, but he's deflecting. He forces himself to actually say the words. "About what I did."
Gregory moves his thumb back and forth, running it slowly across the skin of Mycroft's hand. Mycroft dislikes that; it feels as though he's being coddled. "It wouldn't matter, My. I know you. You'd never do anything to hurt your brother. That's the last thing you'd do."
Mycroft snorts in disbelief. He pushes Gregory's hand away and sits up in bed. "But John must have told you. It doesn't matter that it was unintended. I was foolish enough to think I could win against Moriarty. I made the wrong choice."
"Yes, well, Moriarty is a bastard."
"Was," Mycroft corrects.
Gregory shuts his eyes. He takes a deep breath. Gregory frowns.
There; that's it. Now Gregory understands properly Mycroft's silence, his self-imprisonment. It would be different if there were some sort of mission. But, for once, Sherlock cleaned up his own mess. No reason it's worth investigating, and no hope of revenge.
Then Gregory huffs a laugh. He opens his eyes. "You know, I should have guessed. Of course Sherlock would go down fighting. Of course he gave as good as he got." He shakes his head back and forth, like he's disagreeing with something Mycroft has said, when Mycroft hasn't actually said anything.
Gregory laughs again, and for no reason Mycroft can fathom the sound catalyzes something in Mycroft. Something in his chest feels like it's breaking loose. Mycroft wonders if he needed it. Was it an important something? What was it, exactly? Mycroft hates the imprecision, this new need for metaphor. It's a deeply uncomfortable sensation.
"You know," Gregory says, "Sherlock would have had my hide for not guessing that."
"Would he?" Mycroft barely manages.
Gregory can't seem to stop laughing.
Mycroft is breathing a bit funny himself.
"No, you're right, he wouldn't have done. He'd have called me an idiot, or said it was typical, and then he would have stalked off with John in one of those big dramatic exits he liked."
Gregory's still laughing, and Mycroft can see tears in the corners of his boyfriend's eyes. Mycroft wants to wipe them away.
Gregory might not like that, however. Mycroft isn't sure if he is allowed.
When Gregory stops laughing and finally speaks again, his voice is hoarse. "I'm going to miss the tosser."
Mycroft places a hand lightly on Gregory's back. Gregory nods to Mycroft, just once. He bites his lip, and after a moment he starts breathing more deeply.
Maybe Mycroft doesn't need that piece inside him after all. It doesn't feel so important anymore. The empty metaphorical space feels pleasant, even. As if there's more room for the air he breathes.
(It doesn't make him hate metaphors any less.)
"Indeed," Mycroft says softly, once Gregory's breathing has fully slowed. Gregory quirks a smile his way.
"I missed you," Gregory repeats. There's something more to it this time, something different from before.
Mycroft, as is often the case when it comes to the detective, finds himself helpless to resist. He takes Gregory's hand and kisses the back of it. Gregory closes his eyes.
"Indeed," Mycroft says.
.
.
.
Gregory's miniscule flat bears distinct markings of an unused living space. The flat is effectively furnished and clean, but the higher surfaces could use a good dusting and the walls are bare. It's the polar opposite of Mycroft's own house. Here there are no high-backed chairs, no antique maps. Here there is merely Gregory making Mycroft tea, Gregory turning on Downton Abbey, Gregory leading Mycroft to the sofa.
It's more than enough.
Gregory and Mycroft spent most of the day in bed, napping and catching up in hushed voices. It's entirely unnecessary, their whispering, but neither one seems inclined to raise their voice. It's a kind of contract, but Mycroft isn't certain what kind.
Gregory whispered about his private investigation of Sherlock's "suicide." Gregory wants to clear Sherlock's name. Mycroft understands Gregory's logic even as he knows any investigation is useless now. No, Mycroft can appreciate Gregory's efforts. He can even admire it, in a way.
Mycroft isn't the only one searching for forgiveness.
The investigation is still in preliminary stages. Gregory's work tripled when the Yard cut off access to its resources, and moreover Gregory can't seem to locate any eyewitnesses for the event. "That's odd," he tells Mycroft. "I'd look into it, but where do I look?" No witnesses have come forward to the press-Gregory wonders aloud if that isn't Moriarty's doing. John's his best bet, but John's not ready to testify yet.
Even Molly Hooper, who examined the body, is proving difficult. When Gregory went into St. Bart's to interrogate her, the young mortician burst into tears before he could ask a single question.
Mycroft couldn't say he was surprised. Miss Hooper had been obsessed with his brother for going on six years now. If anything, he only expected that would intensify now that Sherlock was gone. Loves lost, and all; never mind his brother never could have loved the girl. "You should have seen her at their Christmas party," Gregory had said. Then he winced, remembering (quite correctly) that Mycroft hadn't been invited. Mycroft had merely nodded.
"It's understandable," Gregory said, but his deep sigh and the hand he pushed through his hair suggested frustration. "She needs time."
Mycroft nodded, sure in the knowledge that the same didn't apply to the pair of them. They are alike in that the way they live for their work, even as they date and have sex and sleep side by side. Mycroft wouldn't have it any other way. They're too sensible for Molly Hooper's brand of sentiment. It wouldn't suit them. When Gregory and Mycroft have their lie-ins after the death of Sherlock Holmes it's hardly the stuff of far-flung romance. It's Mycroft whispering to Gregory what little information he had gathered about the Fall. It's Gregory nodding, and whispering back. (He didn't tell Gregory any more about interrogating Moriarty. That was all classified, anyway, and Gregory knew better than to ask.)
It doesn't include sex. Mycroft hasn't initiated, and Gregory, ever the consummate gentlemen, hasn't pushed.
Mycroft isn't an idiot. He knows Gregory will push eventually. Gregory enjoys sex immensely. Previous sexual encounters, in fact, have left both parties utterly satisfied. In the past, much of this relationship has left both parties satisfied…
However, things are different now. Mycroft is in mourning. He hasn't any interest in carnal pleasures. Orgasms with Gregory have the power to wipe his mind clean, even for a few minutes, and Mycroft won't do that anymore.
Gregory kisses him sometimes, in between their whispers. Mycroft waits for Gregory to push further, wonders when the ultimatum will finally be issued.
Things were far simpler back in the Diogenes Club.
But for now Gregory offers tea, telly, and free space on the sofa. For now Gregory slings his arm around Mycroft and Mycroft focuses on keeping his breath even.
"Can I get you anything?" Gregory asks. Mycroft shakes his head, and Gregory sighs a bit and leans his head against Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft allows himself to be distracted by the story on the television set, by a fabrication (admittedly a high-budget fabrication) of England as it used to be. He sips the cup of tea Gregory made for him.
.
.
.
Even though Gregory hasn't pushed to have sex, Mycroft does his best to delay getting to bed. He takes a shower. He switches into his normal pyjamas, having located the pair he'd begun keeping at Gregory's place over the past month. (He'll have his PA bring him a fresh suit in the morning.) He sits up in bed, checking his messages and sending a few urgent texts. (Wouldn't do to call Buckingham, not at this hour…) Gregory watches Mycroft send the texts with a slight frown. Gregory is ostensibly reading a novel, of course, but Mycroft notes how infrequently he actually turns the pages. Normally Mycroft doesn't mind being watched, especially not by his boyfriend, but right now he feels like a still-living butterfly mistaken for dead and pinned under glass. He refuses to squirm, but he does wish the detective would look away.
Mycroft sends a few more texts. He checks his calendar. Eventually Gregory puts his book down. Mycroft thinks he has won their silly little battle, but then Gregory grabs Mycroft's arm. "You should go to sleep," he says.
Mycroft pauses for a second, wondering if this will throw Gregory off. It does not.
Finally Mycroft nods, short and sharp, and puts his phone down. Gregory smiles and he looks so grateful, so unnecessarily so, that Mycroft finds himself leaning over to kiss Gregory. It's a soft, simple kiss.
Just one.
Their quarrel is hardly over, but Gregory curls himself around Mycroft and snuggles into the back of Mycroft's neck.
It'll happen tomorrow morning, then. It must.
At least they'll be able to last the night.
Mycroft relaxes against his boyfriend's body, even though he knows it will only make the upcoming…negotiation all the more difficult. He feels helpless, in a way, and Gregory is so warm.
Even so, it's a long while before Mycroft shuts his eyes and allows sleep to claim him.
Chapter Three
Word Count: approx 2,700 for this bit
A/N: Full story info and more author's notes here.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
It's light outside when he wakes up. The rest of the evening had passed like a fever dream. Mycroft's not entirely sure what has happened. When he wakes he is dressed in track suit bottoms (obviously not his own, as he does not own track suit bottoms) and a t-shirt. He does not feel like himself in these clothes.
He finds that he does not mind in the least.
It's easier, not being himself. Someone who is not Mycroft could take this opportunity to relax in his boyfriend's arms. Someone who is not Mycroft could turn and press a kiss to his boyfriend's cheek. Someone who is not Mycroft would not require himself to leave the bed, check his phone, or entertain any ideas of escape.
Mycroft has never been a master of disguise. (That was always his brother's arena.) He is, however, very skilled at compromise. His compromise: he will not move a muscle. He merely eyes the clock on the bedside table, noting the midmorning hour. (No alarm is set: Gregory must not be expected in these days. Not after the scandal. Moriarty's actions left no one important untouched.) He checks that he has not disturbed Gregory. (He hasn't.) Then he closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.
.
.
.
The next time Mycroft wakes it's nearly dinnertime.
It's rather embarrassing; Mycroft hasn't slept this long in years. It feels indulgent and childish, made only more so when Gregory brings him chicken noodle soup in bed.
"I'm not sick," Mycroft says. He eats a spoonful anyway, because it smells delicious and he hasn't had anything to eat in a very long time. He's immediately glad he decided to eat the soup. Gregory smiles, just the tiniest bit, as he eats.
Then Gregory shrugs. "Seemed appropriate," he says, which isn't exactly an explanation. Mycroft eats another spoonful and watches the smile return. Maybe an explanation isn't necessary. Mycroft has more of the soup. He watches Gregory watch him. He wonders if Gregory is aware that he's staring.
"Are you going to eat anything yourself?" Mycroft asks dryly.
Gregory ducks his head and smiles (ah, yes, he's aware) before he nods a little. "Good to have you back," Gregory calls out as he walks back to the kitchen.
Mycroft smirks a bit. Then his eyes drop back down to the soup. He frowns. It's warm and welcoming; Gregory wants to take care of him in his mourning.
It isn't supposed to be like this.
Mycroft remembers who he is, and what he's done. He feels himself sinking back into his body. He puts the bowl of soup down. He feels naked in the t-shirt. As Gregory pads back into the bedroom, carrying another bowl of soup with him (this bowl is for Gregory so that they might match), Mycroft leans over to the bedside table to pick up his mobile.
There's a small thunk as Gregory puts the second soup-bowl on the dresser. He comes back to bed and places a hand over the face of Mycroft's phone.
"Can it wait?" Gregory says. He doesn't give Mycroft time to answer, simply cups Mycroft's cheek in his fingertips. Mycroft finds himself leaning into the touch.
"I missed you," Gregory says. He kisses him.
The kiss starts slow, even sweet. Mycroft puts the phone back down on the table so he has both hands free. He reaches for the back of Gregory's neck, running a finger lightly up and down the skin. Gregory groans at that and climbs back into bed, on top of the sheets, as he deepens the kiss. Mycroft's other hand clutches Gregory's back. He's worried that if he lets go, the whole thing will shatter. Gregory has no idea what Mycroft's done to Sherlock, Gregory cares (cared) for Sherlock almost as much as Mycroft does (did). While they are kissing, Mycroft isn't responsible. He doesn't have to explain, because he physically can't. When Gregory's kissing him, his mouth is no longer his own.
He is aware he's deflecting.
He thinks, very distantly, that perhaps he should stop.
Then Gregory does something with his tongue (or rather, he does that thing with his tongue), and Mycroft feels himself go a bit boneless. Gregory reaches a hand under the sheets separating them and Mycroft comes back into himself. He takes Gregory's hand, the reaching one, and gently places it on his own neck. He takes control of the kiss, teasing it out and slowing it down. It takes him longer to pull away than he had intended.
"What?" Gregory whispers.
"Sherlock," Mycroft says simply, and his boyfriend deflates. Gregory rolls over to the other side of the bed and stares at the ceiling.
"Yeah," Gregory says.
Mycroft stares at the ceiling too, because it seems polite. Secretly, he'd rather look at Gregory. He wonders for the first time how Gregory is taking the loss. He wishes he could try to read it in his boyfriend's face.
Gregory cared for his brother. In granting Sherlock employment despite the worst of his addiction, in keeping an eye on Sherlock during more than one overdose, Gregory had been a better parent than Mycroft ever could. Gregory also exercised impressive discretion all the while, considering his colleagues' propensities for name-calling and gossip. It was one of the first things Mycroft had ever admired about the man. Gregory would never have given out Sherlock's secrets.
"It's my fault," Mycroft says, then closes his eyes. He hadn't intended to share that. Now that it's out, though, it seems only fair. They're in a relationship, but they do not have to be. After he learns the truth Gregory might not want to attach himself to Mycroft in any way.
Mycroft wouldn't blame him in the slightest.
Something brushes Mycroft's fingertips. He has to look down at his own hand to prove to himself that he's not going crazy. But no, Mycroft has just told Gregory that he killed his own brother, and Gregory is trying to hold his hand. In his shock, Mycroft lets him.
"I'm sorry you lost your brother," Gregory says.
"Gregory," Mycroft says slowly. "It's my fault."
Gregory brings his free hand up to stroke Mycroft's hair, and Mycroft wants to tell him no. He wants to tell him to stop. For some reason, he does neither of these things.
"Moriarty forced Sherlock to jump off St. Bart's," Gregory says. "I've been looking into it. I'll keep looking into it."
"Well then, here's something for your investigation: I helped Moriarty." Mycroft shuts his eyes. "I might as well have stood there and pushed Sherlock off the building myself."
Mycroft waits for Gregory to pull away, but his boyfriend continues stroking his hair as if Mycroft hasn't revealed anything at all. Oh. Mycroft opens his eyes.
"John's spoken to you," he says flatly. "No, my mistake. You've spoken to John."
Gregory nods slowly. "He doesn't much want to talk. Not yet."
"But he told you about me. About…" Mycroft clears his throat a bit. His voice sounds hoarse in his ears, but he's deflecting. He forces himself to actually say the words. "About what I did."
Gregory moves his thumb back and forth, running it slowly across the skin of Mycroft's hand. Mycroft dislikes that; it feels as though he's being coddled. "It wouldn't matter, My. I know you. You'd never do anything to hurt your brother. That's the last thing you'd do."
Mycroft snorts in disbelief. He pushes Gregory's hand away and sits up in bed. "But John must have told you. It doesn't matter that it was unintended. I was foolish enough to think I could win against Moriarty. I made the wrong choice."
"Yes, well, Moriarty is a bastard."
"Was," Mycroft corrects.
Gregory shuts his eyes. He takes a deep breath. Gregory frowns.
There; that's it. Now Gregory understands properly Mycroft's silence, his self-imprisonment. It would be different if there were some sort of mission. But, for once, Sherlock cleaned up his own mess. No reason it's worth investigating, and no hope of revenge.
Then Gregory huffs a laugh. He opens his eyes. "You know, I should have guessed. Of course Sherlock would go down fighting. Of course he gave as good as he got." He shakes his head back and forth, like he's disagreeing with something Mycroft has said, when Mycroft hasn't actually said anything.
Gregory laughs again, and for no reason Mycroft can fathom the sound catalyzes something in Mycroft. Something in his chest feels like it's breaking loose. Mycroft wonders if he needed it. Was it an important something? What was it, exactly? Mycroft hates the imprecision, this new need for metaphor. It's a deeply uncomfortable sensation.
"You know," Gregory says, "Sherlock would have had my hide for not guessing that."
"Would he?" Mycroft barely manages.
Gregory can't seem to stop laughing.
Mycroft is breathing a bit funny himself.
"No, you're right, he wouldn't have done. He'd have called me an idiot, or said it was typical, and then he would have stalked off with John in one of those big dramatic exits he liked."
Gregory's still laughing, and Mycroft can see tears in the corners of his boyfriend's eyes. Mycroft wants to wipe them away.
Gregory might not like that, however. Mycroft isn't sure if he is allowed.
When Gregory stops laughing and finally speaks again, his voice is hoarse. "I'm going to miss the tosser."
Mycroft places a hand lightly on Gregory's back. Gregory nods to Mycroft, just once. He bites his lip, and after a moment he starts breathing more deeply.
Maybe Mycroft doesn't need that piece inside him after all. It doesn't feel so important anymore. The empty metaphorical space feels pleasant, even. As if there's more room for the air he breathes.
(It doesn't make him hate metaphors any less.)
"Indeed," Mycroft says softly, once Gregory's breathing has fully slowed. Gregory quirks a smile his way.
"I missed you," Gregory repeats. There's something more to it this time, something different from before.
Mycroft, as is often the case when it comes to the detective, finds himself helpless to resist. He takes Gregory's hand and kisses the back of it. Gregory closes his eyes.
"Indeed," Mycroft says.
.
.
.
Gregory's miniscule flat bears distinct markings of an unused living space. The flat is effectively furnished and clean, but the higher surfaces could use a good dusting and the walls are bare. It's the polar opposite of Mycroft's own house. Here there are no high-backed chairs, no antique maps. Here there is merely Gregory making Mycroft tea, Gregory turning on Downton Abbey, Gregory leading Mycroft to the sofa.
It's more than enough.
Gregory and Mycroft spent most of the day in bed, napping and catching up in hushed voices. It's entirely unnecessary, their whispering, but neither one seems inclined to raise their voice. It's a kind of contract, but Mycroft isn't certain what kind.
Gregory whispered about his private investigation of Sherlock's "suicide." Gregory wants to clear Sherlock's name. Mycroft understands Gregory's logic even as he knows any investigation is useless now. No, Mycroft can appreciate Gregory's efforts. He can even admire it, in a way.
Mycroft isn't the only one searching for forgiveness.
The investigation is still in preliminary stages. Gregory's work tripled when the Yard cut off access to its resources, and moreover Gregory can't seem to locate any eyewitnesses for the event. "That's odd," he tells Mycroft. "I'd look into it, but where do I look?" No witnesses have come forward to the press-Gregory wonders aloud if that isn't Moriarty's doing. John's his best bet, but John's not ready to testify yet.
Even Molly Hooper, who examined the body, is proving difficult. When Gregory went into St. Bart's to interrogate her, the young mortician burst into tears before he could ask a single question.
Mycroft couldn't say he was surprised. Miss Hooper had been obsessed with his brother for going on six years now. If anything, he only expected that would intensify now that Sherlock was gone. Loves lost, and all; never mind his brother never could have loved the girl. "You should have seen her at their Christmas party," Gregory had said. Then he winced, remembering (quite correctly) that Mycroft hadn't been invited. Mycroft had merely nodded.
"It's understandable," Gregory said, but his deep sigh and the hand he pushed through his hair suggested frustration. "She needs time."
Mycroft nodded, sure in the knowledge that the same didn't apply to the pair of them. They are alike in that the way they live for their work, even as they date and have sex and sleep side by side. Mycroft wouldn't have it any other way. They're too sensible for Molly Hooper's brand of sentiment. It wouldn't suit them. When Gregory and Mycroft have their lie-ins after the death of Sherlock Holmes it's hardly the stuff of far-flung romance. It's Mycroft whispering to Gregory what little information he had gathered about the Fall. It's Gregory nodding, and whispering back. (He didn't tell Gregory any more about interrogating Moriarty. That was all classified, anyway, and Gregory knew better than to ask.)
It doesn't include sex. Mycroft hasn't initiated, and Gregory, ever the consummate gentlemen, hasn't pushed.
Mycroft isn't an idiot. He knows Gregory will push eventually. Gregory enjoys sex immensely. Previous sexual encounters, in fact, have left both parties utterly satisfied. In the past, much of this relationship has left both parties satisfied…
However, things are different now. Mycroft is in mourning. He hasn't any interest in carnal pleasures. Orgasms with Gregory have the power to wipe his mind clean, even for a few minutes, and Mycroft won't do that anymore.
Gregory kisses him sometimes, in between their whispers. Mycroft waits for Gregory to push further, wonders when the ultimatum will finally be issued.
Things were far simpler back in the Diogenes Club.
But for now Gregory offers tea, telly, and free space on the sofa. For now Gregory slings his arm around Mycroft and Mycroft focuses on keeping his breath even.
"Can I get you anything?" Gregory asks. Mycroft shakes his head, and Gregory sighs a bit and leans his head against Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft allows himself to be distracted by the story on the television set, by a fabrication (admittedly a high-budget fabrication) of England as it used to be. He sips the cup of tea Gregory made for him.
.
.
.
Even though Gregory hasn't pushed to have sex, Mycroft does his best to delay getting to bed. He takes a shower. He switches into his normal pyjamas, having located the pair he'd begun keeping at Gregory's place over the past month. (He'll have his PA bring him a fresh suit in the morning.) He sits up in bed, checking his messages and sending a few urgent texts. (Wouldn't do to call Buckingham, not at this hour…) Gregory watches Mycroft send the texts with a slight frown. Gregory is ostensibly reading a novel, of course, but Mycroft notes how infrequently he actually turns the pages. Normally Mycroft doesn't mind being watched, especially not by his boyfriend, but right now he feels like a still-living butterfly mistaken for dead and pinned under glass. He refuses to squirm, but he does wish the detective would look away.
Mycroft sends a few more texts. He checks his calendar. Eventually Gregory puts his book down. Mycroft thinks he has won their silly little battle, but then Gregory grabs Mycroft's arm. "You should go to sleep," he says.
Mycroft pauses for a second, wondering if this will throw Gregory off. It does not.
Finally Mycroft nods, short and sharp, and puts his phone down. Gregory smiles and he looks so grateful, so unnecessarily so, that Mycroft finds himself leaning over to kiss Gregory. It's a soft, simple kiss.
Just one.
Their quarrel is hardly over, but Gregory curls himself around Mycroft and snuggles into the back of Mycroft's neck.
It'll happen tomorrow morning, then. It must.
At least they'll be able to last the night.
Mycroft relaxes against his boyfriend's body, even though he knows it will only make the upcoming…negotiation all the more difficult. He feels helpless, in a way, and Gregory is so warm.
Even so, it's a long while before Mycroft shuts his eyes and allows sleep to claim him.
Chapter Three