Yours is the only ocean [1/3] - part 1
Title: Yours is the only ocean [1/3] - part 1
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, John Watson, Original Characters
Word Count: 11,536
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sherlock jumped from the roof of Barts and Greg is left to try and help Mycroft. They are together and they are happy but will it last?
Chapter Summary: “You are a comfort, Greg, in simply being here.” Mycroft’s lips brush against the back of Greg’s neck. “And that is all I need.”
Greg squeezes Mycroft’s fingers under his hand. “Then I’ll be here.”
Author Notes: This is the Sequel to When the sun shines, we'll shine together.
I caved and decided to keep going on this track. I hope you enjoy seeing how these boys do. I may have also made two fanmixes that will follow this whole series if you need a musical add on: Please, please please part 1 and Please, please, please part 2
Cross posted to AO3.
Greg opens cabinets below the counter then stands up straight again to open some more above the counter. He already has a pan on the stove but, as Mycroft is not awake yet, Greg is going to use this opportunity to inspect every nook and cranny of Mycroft’s immense kitchen. If Greg had to guess he’d call it twice as large as the kitchen in the house he used to own with Anne and probably four times as large as the kitchen at his flat. Greg almost can’t believe such a kitchen can fit into a terraced townhouse, no matter how grand. It seems like a Doctor Who trick, especially with a table that can seat six in the middle of the room.
The sand marble counter top snakes across the right wall and around the corner to the back of the house. A large sink breaks up the counter at the end under a window with soft, white curtains. A standing cabinet halts the counter’s progress along the wall followed by double doors into the back garden. The counter starts up again on the left wall, hitting the refrigerator in the middle, another sink and a dish washer at the very end. (Greg guesses one sink is for cleaning dishes and the other for cooking)? The bit of wall left before the main arched door way has another tall cabinet with glass doors showing off some fancy dishware and tea sets. Greg plans on never touching those.
The counters are as clean as one would expect with Mycroft, lined with various appliances such as two coffee machines, Mycroft’s own French press, a four slot toaster, a blender, and a waffle iron. Ironically there does not appear to be a microwave. That is, until Greg opens a high cabinet and finds the microwave. Maybe Mycroft is trying to cut back on reheating? The cabinets, by and large, are more organized than Greg’s filing cabinets at work. The plates are stacked by size, as are the bowls. The glasses are in neat rows with the mugs in the next cabinet over. There also appears to be an even number of every piece of dishware.
“I should break one and see what happens,” Greg says to himself with a quiet snicker.
“I would prefer you did not.”
Greg tenses slightly and bites the edge of his lip. “You enjoy doing that.” He turns and looks at Mycroft standing in the entry way - it’s just bigger than a doorway, he can’t call it that. “How long have you been there?”
“Watching you rifle through my kitchen cabinets?”
“I wouldn’t say rifle.”
“Hmm.”
Greg closes the cabinet door in his hand then puts his hands in his pyjama pockets. “Would you believe I was going to cook you breakfast?”
“I would.”
Greg points to the pan waiting on the stove top behind him. “See.”
“I’ll make coffee,” Mycroft says as he walks into the kitchen toward the counter beside Greg.
Greg nods and eyes Mycroft up and down, tan trousers and white button up shirt. “And in only your shirt sleeves, practically naked.”
“As you’ve seen the real thing, I doubt it can be that enticing to you.”
Greg huffs. “Now you’re just being coy.”
Mycroft looks at Greg and rolls up his sleeves. Greg purses his lips but does not tackle Mycroft onto the marble tiled floor, this time. Instead, Greg turns, walks around the kitchen table, and goes to the refrigerator. He finds the eggs he automatically assumed would be there and brings them back over to the stove.
“What do you want?” Greg asks.
Mycroft tilts his head and clicks a button on the drip coffee machine. “Surprise me.”
“Okay.”
Mycroft turns to the cabinet above the coffee pot, pulling out one mug. Greg watches him, a red mug for the second one and then Mycroft closes the cabinet again. Mycroft places them both in front of the pot. He turns to Greg still looking at him.
“Yes, Greg?”
Greg touches Mycroft arm, sliding down to his hand. “Are you... you all right?” Mycroft frowns slightly. “It’s been a week now since the funeral.”
Mycroft clicks his teeth and looks down at the Greg’s hand on his. “I am fine.” He looks up again. “Are you?”
“He wasn’t my brother.”
“But you would consider him someone of value to you, perhaps even a friend.”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
Greg breathes in once and squeezes Mycroft’s hand. “I asked about you.”
“And I am fine.”
“Mycroft -“
“Greg,” Mycroft pulls his hand away, “I would prefer to not start this morning with a discussion about my feelings toward my brother.”
Greg runs his tongue over his teeth once and nods. “All right. Just breakfast then.”
“Good.”
Mycroft steps back from the counter toward the table where the paper for the day already lies. Greg watches Mycroft for a moment then turns back to the counter. He leans over and opens the breadbox, which is just so amusing, and pulls out the loaf inside. Greg reaches up to the cabinets again and takes out two plates. He puts a slice of bread on each then puts the loaf back.
“Could you get me butter?” Greg asks Mycroft over his shoulder.
Greg hears Mycroft’s chair slide across the floor as he stands. Greg opens a drawer and pulls out a butter knife. He carefully cuts a hole in the center of each piece of bread; the butter knife is sharp enough. He pops the circular pieces of bread in his mouth then lays the edge of the knife on one plate. Mycroft’s bread is very good.
Then the metal butter tray taps onto the counter beside the plates. Mycroft slides his arms around Greg’s waist from behind, hands low on Greg’s belly.
“Hi,” Greg whispers and tilts his head back just slightly.
Mycroft breathes softly into Greg’s hair, just a bit deeper on the inhale. Greg slides one hand off the counter and covers both of Mycroft’s hands.
“You are a comfort, Greg, in simply being here.” Mycroft’s lips brush against the back of Greg’s neck. “And that is all I need.”
Greg squeezes Mycroft’s fingers under his hand. “Then I’ll be here.”
----------
Greg knocks on the door of the flat, four cans of Carling in his other hand. Just as he's about to knock again after ten seconds the door opens. The woman who answers looks remarkably like John.
"Yeah?"
"Hi, you're John's sister?"
"Harry, yeah."
"Is John..."
Harry nods and waves a hand behind her. "Uh, yeah, yeah. You want to come in?" As she steps out of the doorway her eyes linger on the beer in his hand then she looks back to him. "Who are you again?"
"Uh, Greg... Lestrade, friend of John’s."
"Come on in then." She turns around letting go of the door so Greg has to put up a hand to catch it.
She walks down the hallway and Greg follows her, letting the door shut softly behind him. They only have to walk about two meters before her flat opens up into the living room area. John sits on the couch against the far wall, laptop on his legs. He isn't really looking at it though.
"John?" John does not move at Harry saying his name. She takes a step closer. "John?" He blinks and looks up at her. She points to Greg beside her. "Friend of yours is here."
John eyes shift onto Greg. "Greg."
"Hey." Greg nods and holds up the beer. "Brought you something."
John sighs. "I don't want it."
"You sure?"
"Really, I don't."
"Well, I'll take it," Harry says as she pulls the beer from Greg's hand.
"Harry, really?" John snaps suddenly.
"Not for me, Jesus!" She huffs and turns around back down the hall. "You'll want it later. Trust me."
Greg glances to the side as Harry walks away then back to John.
John shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”
Greg takes a few steps closer and puts his hands in his pockets. "So, how're you doing?"
"Oh, just great." John pushes his laptop off his legs onto the couch. "Can't you tell?"
"Hadn't seen you since the funeral..."
"Been too busy enjoying the solo life."
"John.”
John sighs. "What do you want me to say, Greg? Huh? Because you know I'm -" John cuts himself off and grits his teeth together, shaking his head.
“You don’t have to say anything; I just came to see how you’re doing.”
“Well,” John gestures with both hands to indicate the room around them, “Now you see.”
"Look," Greg walks over, slides John's laptop to the side, and sits next to John on the couch. "I want to help, how can -"
"You can fuck off, Greg, all right!" John says as he jumps up from the couch. "Why don't you just go take care of Mycroft?"
Something smashes to the floor in the kitchen. John puts a hand over his eyes and gasps once.
"I am helping him," Greg replies, keeping his voice low and calm. John makes a scoffing sort of noise but does not move or walk away. Greg lays his hands flat on his thighs. "Doesn't mean I can't try and help you too, right?"
John drops his hand. "Well, you can't. There is nothing you can do for me." John sweeps a hand through the air and sniffs loudly. "The only thing you could do for me would be bring him back. Can you do that?"
"John, I’m being serious."
“So am I!” John snaps.
Greg’s hands clench on his knees, a vision of Sherlock rolling his eyes and calling John idiotic flashing through his mind. Greg shakes his head. “Come on…”
“Can you find me a new flat?” John waves a hand at the wall. “I need that.”
“Do you really want me -”
“No!”
Greg blows out a breath of air. “Right.”
John smiles with his lips tight together and shrugs. "So."
Greg stands up from the couch. "Made your point."
John rubs a hand over his eyes. “I’m not saying I don’t appreciate…” He sighs again, “…your concern.” He drops his hand. “But just leave me alone.”
“With your charming sister?”
John almost cracks a smile at that, glancing over his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” Greg puts his hands in his pockets. “But…” John makes eye contact and Greg makes sure he keeps it. “Call, all right?” John grits his teeth. “All right?” Greg insists.
John nods. “All right.”
“Good.”
“So.” John holds out a hand toward the door. “Good bye.”
Greg nods and claps John on the shoulder giving it a brief shake. “Bye.” Then he walks past John toward the door.
----------
On Greg’s desk are two open cases, photographs clipped to the top and one with a postmortem. He needs to finish the review and confirm on the one before he can go make the arrest, though he's nearly certain. The second one still needs a few phone calls and alibi checks. However, Greg keeps glancing at a stack to the far left on his desk, the stack of files pertaining to Sherlock. Greg sighs and tries to focus on the girl fished out of the Thames instead. He makes notes in the margins, sticks a post it at the top to follow up with the initial officer on the scene.
Voices float in through his open office door, “…don’t think he was fake… and you know…”
“Come on!” Someone snaps louder, sounds like Gupta.
“I’m just say -“
“Seriously, remember that little girl…. And how she…”
Greg sighs and looks up at the windows of his office. He sees a few pairs of people talking, Clipton standing alone at the white board on the far side of the room. Donovan is sitting at her desk, hands on her keyboard but she isn’t typing. Peters happens to look up and catch his gaze. He smiles in an awkward way then jerks his head back down again.
Greg looks down at the case file in front of him. Cause of death was drowning but there were signs of drugs in her system.
“…but off a building, how can -”
“Because we... what we did to him!”
Someone scoffs and Greg knows that voice was Avery. “No, no…. and blaming…”
“But -”
“Would you both knock it off!” Bell snaps loud enough that some other people grumble, ‘all right,’ ‘really,’ from around the desks.
Greg clicks his teeth together and closes the one file, sliding the other into the center of his desk.
“I just think that if he really was… how could all of…”
“If D.I. Lestrade thinks…”
“You ask him? How do you know…”
“Bollocks, everyone knows…”
Greg puts his pen down and shoves his chair back from his desk. He stands up and walks over to his office door, making sure to hit the door into the wall with a loud whack. Half the office starts in surprise and nearly all turn sharply to look in his direction.
“Enough chatter! We have cases to solve.” A few people look sheepishly away. Clipton taps the white board with the dry erase marker in his hand. Greg crosses his arms. “We all have opinions on recent events but you have personal time to talk about that all you want.” He leans forward just slightly and pulls out his ‘angry copper stare.’ “Focus on what we can do now, not what is too late to fix!”
A few people mumble ‘yes, sir’ and nod. Greg nods back so they all turn around to their desk, hands typing faster and feet moving quicker. Donovan steps up beside Greg and holds out a stack of about ten case files.
“The cases Sherlock worked on with us through last year.”
Greg takes the stack from her hands. “Good. We still need the years before that.”
“Sir, I…” Donovan clears her throat. “I’m still going through the evidence and statements from the kidnapping.”
“Anything new with the daughter?”
“There is an issue with the solicitor and parents about giving us access to speak to her.”
Greg sighs. “Do they not understand -“
“It is their daughter.”
Greg glares at her. “Thank you, Donovan.”
She clears her throat and nods. “Right.”
Greg stares at her though she does not quite meet his eye. Greg holds the files against his chest with one arm and frowns. “Anderson?”
“He’s…” Donovan glances behind her as if Anderson were somehow suddenly standing behind her. “He’s in the forensics lab looking over evidence again from…” Donovan finally looks at Greg. “From Barts.”
Greg frowns more. “He has fifteen more minutes then you tell him to move on. I know he has more recent cases he needs to process.”
“Sir, he’s -“
“Over doing it.” Greg cocks his head. “I’ll go down there if I have to. If he really wants to back pedal and help Sherlock now, then he can go through all this with his fine tooth comb.” Greg motions with the stack of files.
Donovan swallows. “Yes, sir.”
“And you can too.”
“We were just trying to -“
“Save it, Donovan. I understand your reasons but it’s back to business now.”
She bites her lip but does not try to launch a speech again. Instead she nods and turns back toward her desk. Greg watches her walk away for a minute before turning around himself back into his office. He leaves the door open just in case anyone thinks they can start up the gossip again quietly enough so he won’t hear.
Greg puts the files from Donovan on top of the stack on the left of his desk. He stands in front of his desk, files on most of it and his laptop on the right. He sighs and pulls his mobile out of his pocket. He clicks the screen on and picks Mycroft’s number in text. He wants to text ‘I miss you,’ ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘come here.’ Instead he texts,
[11:39] We should get lunch today.
He clicks send then sits down. He puts the mobile on his desk and leans back in his chair, closing his eyes. Then his mobile vibrates. Greg sits up straight and looks at the screen.
Mycroft [11:40]: 15 minutes. I’ll send a car.
Greg smiles.
----------
Greg and Mycroft sit on the couch in Greg’s flat. Mycroft has a small stack of papers and his laptop open on Greg’s coffee table. Mycroft informed Greg that anything he might accidentally read or see off of any of the documents he, in fact, did not see. Greg only laughed and said ‘pour me some of that wine you brought and I’ll see nothing but you.’ The eyebrow raise Greg got back was both pleased and disdainful and Greg wishes he had a photograph.
Now, Mycroft leans back against the cushions with an iPad in one hand and his other on Greg’s chest as Greg lies with his head in Mycroft’s lap. He has his glass of wine in one hand and ‘Dr. No’ in the other.
“It is interesting that it is has apparently taken you months to read a 255 page book.”
Greg chuckles. “I was busy.”
“Hmm.”
Greg looks up at Mycroft. “Oh, you know, solving crimes, suffering press conferences, having sex.”
Mycroft looks down from the iPad. “And a lucky someone to be part of that last activity.”
“You would know.”
Mycroft smirks and turns back to his tablet, swiping the screen. “I would.” He returns his hand to Greg’s chest and rubs a circle once over Greg’s buttons.
Greg smiles and leans up slightly to sip some of his wine. He taps the stemless glass on the back of Mycroft’s hand and Mycroft takes it from him. Greg reaches up and turns a page of his book, holding it in place again with his thumb. Then he takes the glass back from Mycroft.
“Do avoid spilling that.”
“Expensive?” Mycroft only tilts his head. “Ah yes, silly question.” Greg sips the wine again. “But it’s no beer.”
“Do you consider beer to rank higher?”
“For me, yeah.”
Mycroft huffs quietly. “I suppose I hope in vain to make you sophisticated.”
Greg chuckles. “You do and you wouldn’t really want to change me anyway.”
“Perhaps only in your alcohol choices.”
Greg snorts. “Never.”
Mycroft sighs but Greg sees him smiling. Greg looks back at his book and reads on as Bond finally meets Honeychile Rider. Greg chuckles as he remembers the scene from the movie, that bikini. Mycroft sighs again and drops his arm holding the iPad down onto the arm of the couch.
“Had enough?” Greg asks.
“Enough of useless Americans.”
“Americans?”
“You would rather not hear about it. I can assure you.”
Greg closes his book then sits up, Mycroft’s hand dragging down his back as he does. Greg sets the book to the far side of the couch then leans back beside Mycroft, crossing his legs on the cushions and Mycroft’s hand on his thigh now.
“Claire lived in America for a few years.”
Mycroft raises both eyebrows and sets his iPad on the table. “Some girlish passion to become a designer in New York?”
Greg laughs out loud. “God, no, Seattle and it was some kind of non-profit.”
Mycroft frowns. “She felt the need to cross the ocean and a continent for that?”
Greg shrugs. “She went through a wanderer stage, lived in Spain and Brazil before that.”
“Not a stage you ever crossed.”
“No.”
Mycroft smiles.
“Came back with two dogs, vegetarianism, then met her husband Colin leading to my niece and nephew now.”
“A thrilling tale.”
Greg laughs. “Sorry, not trying to bore you with family history.”
“You are not.” Mycroft picks up his wine off the table and circles it around in the glass. He takes a drink, his fingertips tapping Greg’s legs. “We once had a dog.”
“You?”
“Strictly speaking it was Sherlock’s dog but as I lived in the same house I was party to the same…” Mycroft rocks his head then sips his wine again, “benefits.”
“He says with barely maintained control.”
“Hmm.” Mycroft squeezes Greg’s leg once. “Dogs require a great deal of work, feeding, walking, veterinarian visits.”
“But?”
Mycroft looks down at his hand. “To a boy with no friends and brother seven years his senior, a dog was a welcome companion.” Mycroft looks up again, sips his wine and purses his lips. “He made the dog several pirate hats.”
Greg blinks. “What?”
Mycroft smiles. “We all go through phases.”
“Uh huh, what was yours then?”
“Paisley.”
Greg begins to laugh, leaning his head back against the wall. He shakes his head while Mycroft smiles at him. “I'm buying you a paisley tie as soon as possible.”
“Oh, I am quite fine with the ties I have now.”
Greg puts his hand over Mycroft’s and shakes his head. “Too late.”
“And what about you?”
“What?”
“Your phase?”
“Ha,” Greg finishes his glass of wine. “I had several. Chalk it up to middle child, yeah?”
Mycroft takes his hand off Greg’s leg, slides a bit closer and runs his fingertips up Greg’s jaw into his hair. He rubs a line a few centimeters away from Greg’s eye, underneath his hair. Greg knows there is a scar there, no idea how Mycroft saw it.
“This?”
“Had a motorcycle for a few years.”
“Oh dear.” Mycroft pulls his hand back again, wrapping it with the other around his wine glass. “I am imagining you with a leather jacket, tight jeans and some cocky expression expecting women -” Greg raises his eyebrows. “And men to fall supplely at your feet awaiting the tender mercy of your ‘bad boy’ mystique.”
“Don’t forget my perfect hair.”
Mycroft smiles. “The most preferable part to retain.”
“Especially now that I work for the police.”
“True.”
Greg cocks his head to the side. “And are you saying you wouldn’t like me in tight jeans?”
Mycroft purses his lips. “We’ll have to see.”
Greg smirks. “I’ll put it on my ‘to do’ list.”
“Do.” Mycroft stands up, taking Greg’s empty wine glass from him. He walks away and into the kitchen, returning a minute later with both glasses full of wine and the nearly empty bottle under one arm. He hands Greg’s glass to him then sits down again, putting the bottle on the coffee table carefully avoiding all papers, iPad and laptop.
“Thank you,” Greg says.
“Of course.”
"Mycroft…" Mycroft sips his wine and raises his eyebrows at Greg. "Do you... are you..."
"Yes?"
Greg shakes his head. "Nothing. Never mind."
Mycroft's frowns slightly. "I am fine, Greg."
Greg clicks his teeth together. "Right, yeah. Not worrying."
"No?"
Greg clears his throat and sips some of his wine. Then he gestures with his wine glass over the table. “Lot more to read?”
Mycroft sighs deeply as he looks at the table. Then he turns back to Greg. “I would rather simply sit here with you.”
“I have nowhere to be.” He points at the table. “If you need to read more secret documents and spy reports, I can stay.” Greg picks up his book again. “It is my flat after all.”
Mycroft’s lip quirks up. “True.”
Mycroft leans forward and picks up the iPad again from the coffee table, setting it on the arm of the couch. Greg looks at the pile of papers, the laptop open and the lines under Mycroft’s eyes. He opens his mouth but closes it again and presses his lips tightly together. He slides closer on the couch and runs a hand over Mycroft’s hair. Mycroft glances at him but Greg cannot think of anything to say. Instead he kisses Mycroft once then turns and lies down with his head on Mycroft’s leg again.
----------
Greg calls Claire on a Wednesday night as he stares out of the window of his dark office, only a light on his desk lit. A faint glow comes from further out in the office, a few computers left on and the red exit signs, no one else working this late.
“Hi.” He can hear Claire is smiling. “How are you?”
“All right?”
She chuckles. “Oh yeah, you sure sound it. Long week on your side?”
“Had a question.”
“Yes, you look good in blue, don’t let David confuse you.”
Greg chuckles quietly. “Funny.”
“I learned from the best.” Something makes a noise in the background, plates maybe. “So, what’s up?”
“What did you do when Colin’s sister died?” Greg hears scuffling in the background, Claire’s daughter Kate laughing and a faint whistling kettle. He counts to five. “Claire?”
She sighs. “Yeah. Hold on.” The line is silent for a moment then Greg hears the distinct sound of a door closing. “All right, you want to know what I did?”
“What did you do for him? How did… how did you help him?”
“It’s not as simple as all that, Greg.”
Greg leans his forehead on the glass of the window. “Didn’t say it was simple, I’m just asking…”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Claire sighs again. “Just be there. What more can I say than that? It’s hard; you have to go by what he does, by what he says.”
“But he’s not saying anything, Claire.” Greg pulls his head back again and watches the cars on the street below. “He’s not talking.”
“I’m not saying he has to. Sometimes talking isn’t what someone needs. With Colin it was pretty quiet, sometimes I just had to sit with him so he didn’t feel alone or I would talk about nothing, stupid things to distract him so he’d stop being all up in his head with ‘what ifs.’”
Greg nods to himself. “Just be there.”
“Exactly. It’s never how you expect it to be. Yes, everyone has a cry or two, a big one probably when it first happens but no one thinks about the month later, or the month after that. It surprises you then. Colin cut down our kids' tire swing in the backyard out of nowhere one day because Lara used to push him on one when he was six.” She makes a soft noise like a laugh but not quite. “You just have to keep remembering that the loss is still there every day.”
“That’s deep, Claire.”
She huffs. “You asked.”
“Sorry, I know.” Greg rubs the spot between his eyebrows. “I just… just don’t know what to say.”
“In the end there is nothing you can really do but be there until he decides he needs to break down.”
Greg drops his hand and puts his palm on the window glass. “What if he never does?”
“He will, Greg.”
Greg breathes in and lets it out slowly. “Right.”
“Go to sleep, Greg.”
“Bye.” Greg drops the mobile from his ear and keeps staring at the cars passing by under the street lamps, slower and slower.
----------
Greg leans against his kitchen counter beside the oven with a beer in his hand. The timer for the oven has less than five minutes to go. Beside him, Mycroft chops cucumbers on a cutting board. Greg watches Mycroft’s hands, carefully chopping each slice the same size.
“Must you?”
Greg looks up at Mycroft’s face and smiles. “I like your hands.”
“Oh, I am aware.”
Greg chuckles. “And you chop like you’re going to be examined on the sizes of your slices.”
Mycroft purses his lips. “I see nothing wrong with preferring uniformity.”
“In your salad?”
Mycroft sighs.
Greg leans closer and kisses Mycroft’s lips. “Go ahead, sigh all you want.”
“I will.”
Greg kisses him again and runs his free hand down Mycroft’s back. Mycroft kisses Greg a third time then turns back to his cucumber. He picks up the cutting board and slides the cucumber into the salad bowl with the dull edge of the knife. Greg leans into Mycroft and watches him, tracing an indefinable pattern on Mycroft’s lower back.
“You know, you told me you baked, not cooked.”
“A salad is not cooking.”
“Still.”
Mycroft tilts his head then kisses Greg’s temple. “Perhaps I just wished to assist with the meal.”
“Well then, where is my pie?”
Mycroft chuckles and Greg feels the vibration against his skin. “Next time.”
The timer on the oven starts to beep behind Greg. Greg stands up straight, takes a drink of his beer then puts it down on the counter. He opens the drawer beside the stove, pulling out two oven gloves. He clicks off the timer then opens the oven. The heat hits him in the face but Greg turns his head to the side right away.
“Do avoid burning yourself,” Mycroft chides.
Greg shoots a glance in Mycroft’s direction then reaches in with the oven gloves and pulls out the flank steak on its pan. He closes the oven door with his hip and puts the pan on top of the two front rings of the hob.
“Should let it cool just a bit.”
Mycroft makes a ‘hmm’ noise from by the refrigerator as he closes the door. Greg looks at him and Mycroft holds up a vinaigrette dressing.
“I’ll make you a dressing next time if you want,” Greg says as Mycroft hands him the bottle.
Mycroft’s eyebrows fly up. “You make dressing?”
“Sometimes.” Greg puts the bottle down beside the salad bowl, goat cheese on top now to finish up. “Shall I toss it or would you like to?”
Mycroft chuckles. “Such a heavy responsibility.”
“It would help to have tongs, right?”
Mycroft side steps to the drawer beside the refrigerator. He roots around for a moment before he comes out with salad tongs. Greg watches him, palm on the counter and his other hand tapping on his thigh. Mycroft walks back over and cocks his head. He puts the tongs into the salad bowl.
“You are worrying.”
Greg cocks his head back at Mycroft. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Maybe.”
Mycroft touches Greg’s face. “Your expression is pensive and contemplative at once. I should paint you a picture.”
“You could.”
Mycroft steps into Greg’s personal space though not quite touching their bodies together. His hand traces lines slowly around Greg’s face. “I promise, you needn’t worry about me though I know despite what I say your fears will continue.”
“I wouldn’t call them fears.”
“Regardless, this is the longest relationship I have been in, Greg. You cannot expect me to change and open up like a book all at once.”
Greg shakes his head. “I don’t expect you to.”
“If I say I am fine, then I am.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
Mycroft brushes a hand over Greg’s hair. “Hmm, you did.”
“I am just glad you are here with me, okay?” Greg says.
“Good.” Mycroft runs his fingers along Greg’s jaw. “Though, I suppose it should please me that your concern runs so deeply.”
Greg smiles. “You are important to me, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“I have.” Mycroft kisses Greg. “And you still do surprise me, Greg.”
“Was it the steak?” Mycroft chuckles and presses closer to Greg so they touch and Greg’s back knocks softly into the counter. Greg’s hands settle on Mycroft’s waist. “Something else?”
Mycroft kisses Greg and smiles against his lips, “something else.”
“Oh? Are we talking specifics?” Greg kisses Mycroft, bites his lip gently. “What then?”
Mycroft runs a hand over Greg's stomach. "This is my shirt."
Greg pulls his head back and looks down. "I... god, really?"
Mycroft smiles. "How often do you wear French cuffs?"
Greg holds his wrist up in front of his face then he turns back to Mycroft. "Well."
"Surprise."
"I should give it back to you then."
Mycroft crushes a kiss onto Greg's mouth, hands on Greg's buttons at the same time that Greg grabs Mycroft's neck with one hand and reaches for Mycroft's tie with his other. Mycroft pushes Greg into the counter so Greg hikes up and sits on top, pulling Mycroft flush against the counter edge. Mycroft keeps steadily going down Greg's buttons as Greg sucks Mycroft's pulse point until he groans. Greg laughs low in his throat against Mycroft's skin and pulls off Mycroft's tie.
"Don't you -"
But Greg throws the tie over Mycroft's shoulder before he can finish his sentence.
"You were saying?"
Mycroft growls, kisses and bites Greg's lips so Greg gasps. Mycroft finishes with Greg's shirt buttons as Greg unbuttons Mycroft's collar, drags his nails along the hollow of Mycroft's throat. Then Mycroft snaps open Greg's belt following quickly with his trouser button and zipper. Greg reaches lower to get at Mycroft's waistcoat buttons but then Mycroft pulls Greg by his hips closer to the edge of the counter, knocking the salad bowl.
"Watch -"
Then Mycroft slides down to his knees and pushes Greg's legs open.
Greg breathes in sharply, bracing a hand on the cabinet beside him. "Oh god."
By the time they get to the steak it is cold.
----------
The caution tape makes a diamond shape around the crime scene, broken glass everywhere with blood accenting most shards. Greg tilts his head as he stares at the one body, no cuts which he should have with all this bloody glass. If the body did not break the window then what did? Greg looks up at the house again and the second body just visible inside where Donovan stands, mobile in her hand. Greg purses his lips then crouches low beside the body. He pulls on one latex glove and pushes back some of the man’s hair from his face. The victim has deep nail scratches on his cheek, likely from the dead woman inside.
“But how did you get out here…” Greg mutters.
He reaches into his pocket with his other hand and pulls out his mobile. He clicks the screen to life and pulls up Sherlock’s number. Greg’s thumb stops just a second soon enough before he dials. Greg stares at his mobile, at the numbers, at the name. It finally hits.
Greg sucks in a deep breath and jolts up to standing.
“Sergeant Brooks!” Greg barks and she whirls around where she stands near the edge of the caution tape. Greg points to the body. “Take a look, yeah?”
She nods. “Yes, sir.”
Greg turns stiffly and marches away, ducking under the caution tape. He breathes in deeply over and over, tries to slow it down. He yanks the latex glove off his hand and half throws it toward one of the PCs as he passes. He breathes in and out and in and out and he almost slams right into his car. Greg realizes he is clutching his mobile so hard he is starting to make dents in the skin of his hand. His hand shakes and he shoves his mobile back in his pocket.
He breathes in and out again, shallow and sharp. He reaches into an inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out his pack of cigarettes. He pulls out one cigarette and puts the pack back in his pocket. His fingers slip over the cigarette, his thumb tapping over and over the end. He searches through his pockets with his other hand until he finds his lighter logically in the same pocket which has the pack. He puts the cigarette between his teeth and holds up the lighter. He flicks it open, his hands shakes and the lighter falls out of his hands hitting the pavement with a clatter.
“Fuck…” Greg takes the cigarette from his teeth and rubs his fingers hard into his forehead. “Bloody fu…”
He breathes in deeply and blows it out slowly, once then twice. He fists his hand around the cigarette breaking it in half. His nails dig into the skin of his forehead and he absently wonders if he will leave marks. He uncurls his hand and the pieces of paper and tobacco slip from his hand.
Greg feels someone come up next to him on his left. He sees them bend down in the edge of his vision. Then a hand holds out his lighter. Greg turns his head slightly and sees Peters looking back at him. His hand falls away from his forehead.
Greg looks down at the lighter then takes it. “Thank you.”
Peters nods and says a quiet, “sir.”
Greg turns back and stares over the roof of his car. Across the street a few people cluster on a stoop watching the police scene. He wonders how many people watched from the edges while Sherlock bled on the pavement in front of Barts.
Greg clenches his teeth and flips the lighter around in his fingers three times. He passes the lighter to his other hand then looks down at it. He takes a step back then throws the lighter over his car into the street making Peters jump in surprise. A passing taxi runs over the lighter with an audible crunch.
“Status?” Greg asks.
Peters touches Greg’s arm. “Sir…”
Greg turns his head sharply and stares at Peters. Peters drops his hand.
“Status?” Greg repeats with more emphasis.
Peter stands up straighter. “Sergeant Brooks thinks she has something.”
Greg nods twice. “Good, let’s go.”
----------
Mycroft and Greg sit across from each other out at dinner. Mycroft has some angel hair pasta twirled on his fork while Greg cuts chicken. Both their mobiles are out on the table lined up against the wall. Fortunately, neither have buzzed since they sat down.
“Good?” Greg asks Mycroft with a point of his fork.
Mycroft peers down at his pasta then looks up again at Greg. “Enough.”
“So you hate it?”
Mycroft chuckles appropriately. “I did not say that.”
“No?”
“It is somewhat bland.”
Greg smiles. “I could add some paprika and thyme. Let me check my coat pockets.”
This time Mycroft laughs for real. He takes a bite of the pasta and raises his eyebrows at Greg. Greg picks up the salt and puts it down in front of Mycroft’s pate.
“Best I can do.”
Mycroft shakes his head. “It will not be enough.”
Greg shrugs a little and spears a carrot with his fork. “I think you’ll suffer through all right.”
“As I must.”
Greg smiles as Mycroft takes another dutiful bite. Greg holds his fork against his plate, carrot still on the end, but he does not put it in his mouth. He watches Mycroft twirling more noodles then he puts his fork down. Mycroft’s eyes tick up.
“Mycroft, are you…”
“Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
Mycroft huffs with a smile. “It is only a disappointing dish, Greg.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Mycroft looks away and shakes his head once before turning back. “I am fine.”
“Fine?”
“That is what I said.”
“Just fine?”
“What more would you wish me to say, Greg?”
Greg huffs. “You’re not fine, Mycroft, you can’t be.”
Mycroft drops his fork. “Greg, if I should wish to talk to you about my emotional state then I will.”
“But that’s just it, you haven’t, not at all!” Greg insists.
“You are being dramatic, do calm down.”
“Dramatic?” Greg lays his hands flat on the table and leans in. “Mycroft, your brother killed himself!”
Mycroft stares at him and says nothing.
Greg sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, that was… I’m sorry.” He looks down at the table and puts two fingers against his temple, elbow on the table. “I’m just worried.” He looks up again. “I don’t know what is going on in your head, if you’re just going to snap or…” He sighs and sits up straight again, dropping his hand down onto the table. “I want to be here and help you but you have to say something.”
Mycroft folds his hands together on the table. “Greg, my brother is dead, there is nothing to say. We all must move on.”
“But he was your brother!”
“Greg...”
“It’s not ‘nothing to say,’ Mycroft. Get upset, cry, be angry at him, something! It’s not just nothing and move on.”
Mycroft frowns. “My relationship with my brother is far different than yours with your siblings. You cannot expect me to react as you foresee you would.”
“But I expect you to react!”
“You cannot tell me how I should react, Greg!” Mycroft snaps. “There is no ‘should’ in such things!”
Greg stares at Mycroft for a beat then looks away at the wall, a crack snaking its way up from the height of their table to the molding at the ceiling. A small, generic painting of a wine bottle hangs on the wall centered over their table. Greg wants to knock it off kilter.
Greg nods once and turns back to Mycroft. “You’re right.”
“I understand you are concerned,” Mycroft says, “but you do not need to be.”
“But I’m going to be.”
Mycroft smiles, small as if Greg just told him he was beautiful. “I know.”
“I still want you to talk to me or know you can at least.”
“I know.”
“So, just…” Greg reaches out over the table and puts his hand on Mycroft’s clasped hands. “Don’t go breaking down without me there.”
Mycroft chuckles quietly as he looks down at their hands. “I assure you, I will not.”
“That’s all I ask.”
“But,” Mycroft looks up again, “do desist in pushing me; that is all I ask.”
"What if you need pushing?" Greg asks quietly.
"Please."
Greg stares at Mycroft, his face, their hands, wants to pull him close and keep him there. Greg swallows once then nods. “I won’t push.”
Greg squeezes Mycroft’s hands then Mycroft pulls his away to pick up his fork again. Greg lays his hand on the table for a moment then pulls back again.
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, John Watson, Original Characters
Word Count: 11,536
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sherlock jumped from the roof of Barts and Greg is left to try and help Mycroft. They are together and they are happy but will it last?
Chapter Summary: “You are a comfort, Greg, in simply being here.” Mycroft’s lips brush against the back of Greg’s neck. “And that is all I need.”
Greg squeezes Mycroft’s fingers under his hand. “Then I’ll be here.”
Author Notes: This is the Sequel to When the sun shines, we'll shine together.
I caved and decided to keep going on this track. I hope you enjoy seeing how these boys do. I may have also made two fanmixes that will follow this whole series if you need a musical add on: Please, please please part 1 and Please, please, please part 2
Cross posted to AO3.
Greg opens cabinets below the counter then stands up straight again to open some more above the counter. He already has a pan on the stove but, as Mycroft is not awake yet, Greg is going to use this opportunity to inspect every nook and cranny of Mycroft’s immense kitchen. If Greg had to guess he’d call it twice as large as the kitchen in the house he used to own with Anne and probably four times as large as the kitchen at his flat. Greg almost can’t believe such a kitchen can fit into a terraced townhouse, no matter how grand. It seems like a Doctor Who trick, especially with a table that can seat six in the middle of the room.
The sand marble counter top snakes across the right wall and around the corner to the back of the house. A large sink breaks up the counter at the end under a window with soft, white curtains. A standing cabinet halts the counter’s progress along the wall followed by double doors into the back garden. The counter starts up again on the left wall, hitting the refrigerator in the middle, another sink and a dish washer at the very end. (Greg guesses one sink is for cleaning dishes and the other for cooking)? The bit of wall left before the main arched door way has another tall cabinet with glass doors showing off some fancy dishware and tea sets. Greg plans on never touching those.
The counters are as clean as one would expect with Mycroft, lined with various appliances such as two coffee machines, Mycroft’s own French press, a four slot toaster, a blender, and a waffle iron. Ironically there does not appear to be a microwave. That is, until Greg opens a high cabinet and finds the microwave. Maybe Mycroft is trying to cut back on reheating? The cabinets, by and large, are more organized than Greg’s filing cabinets at work. The plates are stacked by size, as are the bowls. The glasses are in neat rows with the mugs in the next cabinet over. There also appears to be an even number of every piece of dishware.
“I should break one and see what happens,” Greg says to himself with a quiet snicker.
“I would prefer you did not.”
Greg tenses slightly and bites the edge of his lip. “You enjoy doing that.” He turns and looks at Mycroft standing in the entry way - it’s just bigger than a doorway, he can’t call it that. “How long have you been there?”
“Watching you rifle through my kitchen cabinets?”
“I wouldn’t say rifle.”
“Hmm.”
Greg closes the cabinet door in his hand then puts his hands in his pyjama pockets. “Would you believe I was going to cook you breakfast?”
“I would.”
Greg points to the pan waiting on the stove top behind him. “See.”
“I’ll make coffee,” Mycroft says as he walks into the kitchen toward the counter beside Greg.
Greg nods and eyes Mycroft up and down, tan trousers and white button up shirt. “And in only your shirt sleeves, practically naked.”
“As you’ve seen the real thing, I doubt it can be that enticing to you.”
Greg huffs. “Now you’re just being coy.”
Mycroft looks at Greg and rolls up his sleeves. Greg purses his lips but does not tackle Mycroft onto the marble tiled floor, this time. Instead, Greg turns, walks around the kitchen table, and goes to the refrigerator. He finds the eggs he automatically assumed would be there and brings them back over to the stove.
“What do you want?” Greg asks.
Mycroft tilts his head and clicks a button on the drip coffee machine. “Surprise me.”
“Okay.”
Mycroft turns to the cabinet above the coffee pot, pulling out one mug. Greg watches him, a red mug for the second one and then Mycroft closes the cabinet again. Mycroft places them both in front of the pot. He turns to Greg still looking at him.
“Yes, Greg?”
Greg touches Mycroft arm, sliding down to his hand. “Are you... you all right?” Mycroft frowns slightly. “It’s been a week now since the funeral.”
Mycroft clicks his teeth and looks down at the Greg’s hand on his. “I am fine.” He looks up again. “Are you?”
“He wasn’t my brother.”
“But you would consider him someone of value to you, perhaps even a friend.”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
Greg breathes in once and squeezes Mycroft’s hand. “I asked about you.”
“And I am fine.”
“Mycroft -“
“Greg,” Mycroft pulls his hand away, “I would prefer to not start this morning with a discussion about my feelings toward my brother.”
Greg runs his tongue over his teeth once and nods. “All right. Just breakfast then.”
“Good.”
Mycroft steps back from the counter toward the table where the paper for the day already lies. Greg watches Mycroft for a moment then turns back to the counter. He leans over and opens the breadbox, which is just so amusing, and pulls out the loaf inside. Greg reaches up to the cabinets again and takes out two plates. He puts a slice of bread on each then puts the loaf back.
“Could you get me butter?” Greg asks Mycroft over his shoulder.
Greg hears Mycroft’s chair slide across the floor as he stands. Greg opens a drawer and pulls out a butter knife. He carefully cuts a hole in the center of each piece of bread; the butter knife is sharp enough. He pops the circular pieces of bread in his mouth then lays the edge of the knife on one plate. Mycroft’s bread is very good.
Then the metal butter tray taps onto the counter beside the plates. Mycroft slides his arms around Greg’s waist from behind, hands low on Greg’s belly.
“Hi,” Greg whispers and tilts his head back just slightly.
Mycroft breathes softly into Greg’s hair, just a bit deeper on the inhale. Greg slides one hand off the counter and covers both of Mycroft’s hands.
“You are a comfort, Greg, in simply being here.” Mycroft’s lips brush against the back of Greg’s neck. “And that is all I need.”
Greg squeezes Mycroft’s fingers under his hand. “Then I’ll be here.”
----------
Greg knocks on the door of the flat, four cans of Carling in his other hand. Just as he's about to knock again after ten seconds the door opens. The woman who answers looks remarkably like John.
"Yeah?"
"Hi, you're John's sister?"
"Harry, yeah."
"Is John..."
Harry nods and waves a hand behind her. "Uh, yeah, yeah. You want to come in?" As she steps out of the doorway her eyes linger on the beer in his hand then she looks back to him. "Who are you again?"
"Uh, Greg... Lestrade, friend of John’s."
"Come on in then." She turns around letting go of the door so Greg has to put up a hand to catch it.
She walks down the hallway and Greg follows her, letting the door shut softly behind him. They only have to walk about two meters before her flat opens up into the living room area. John sits on the couch against the far wall, laptop on his legs. He isn't really looking at it though.
"John?" John does not move at Harry saying his name. She takes a step closer. "John?" He blinks and looks up at her. She points to Greg beside her. "Friend of yours is here."
John eyes shift onto Greg. "Greg."
"Hey." Greg nods and holds up the beer. "Brought you something."
John sighs. "I don't want it."
"You sure?"
"Really, I don't."
"Well, I'll take it," Harry says as she pulls the beer from Greg's hand.
"Harry, really?" John snaps suddenly.
"Not for me, Jesus!" She huffs and turns around back down the hall. "You'll want it later. Trust me."
Greg glances to the side as Harry walks away then back to John.
John shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”
Greg takes a few steps closer and puts his hands in his pockets. "So, how're you doing?"
"Oh, just great." John pushes his laptop off his legs onto the couch. "Can't you tell?"
"Hadn't seen you since the funeral..."
"Been too busy enjoying the solo life."
"John.”
John sighs. "What do you want me to say, Greg? Huh? Because you know I'm -" John cuts himself off and grits his teeth together, shaking his head.
“You don’t have to say anything; I just came to see how you’re doing.”
“Well,” John gestures with both hands to indicate the room around them, “Now you see.”
"Look," Greg walks over, slides John's laptop to the side, and sits next to John on the couch. "I want to help, how can -"
"You can fuck off, Greg, all right!" John says as he jumps up from the couch. "Why don't you just go take care of Mycroft?"
Something smashes to the floor in the kitchen. John puts a hand over his eyes and gasps once.
"I am helping him," Greg replies, keeping his voice low and calm. John makes a scoffing sort of noise but does not move or walk away. Greg lays his hands flat on his thighs. "Doesn't mean I can't try and help you too, right?"
John drops his hand. "Well, you can't. There is nothing you can do for me." John sweeps a hand through the air and sniffs loudly. "The only thing you could do for me would be bring him back. Can you do that?"
"John, I’m being serious."
“So am I!” John snaps.
Greg’s hands clench on his knees, a vision of Sherlock rolling his eyes and calling John idiotic flashing through his mind. Greg shakes his head. “Come on…”
“Can you find me a new flat?” John waves a hand at the wall. “I need that.”
“Do you really want me -”
“No!”
Greg blows out a breath of air. “Right.”
John smiles with his lips tight together and shrugs. "So."
Greg stands up from the couch. "Made your point."
John rubs a hand over his eyes. “I’m not saying I don’t appreciate…” He sighs again, “…your concern.” He drops his hand. “But just leave me alone.”
“With your charming sister?”
John almost cracks a smile at that, glancing over his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“Okay.” Greg puts his hands in his pockets. “But…” John makes eye contact and Greg makes sure he keeps it. “Call, all right?” John grits his teeth. “All right?” Greg insists.
John nods. “All right.”
“Good.”
“So.” John holds out a hand toward the door. “Good bye.”
Greg nods and claps John on the shoulder giving it a brief shake. “Bye.” Then he walks past John toward the door.
----------
On Greg’s desk are two open cases, photographs clipped to the top and one with a postmortem. He needs to finish the review and confirm on the one before he can go make the arrest, though he's nearly certain. The second one still needs a few phone calls and alibi checks. However, Greg keeps glancing at a stack to the far left on his desk, the stack of files pertaining to Sherlock. Greg sighs and tries to focus on the girl fished out of the Thames instead. He makes notes in the margins, sticks a post it at the top to follow up with the initial officer on the scene.
Voices float in through his open office door, “…don’t think he was fake… and you know…”
“Come on!” Someone snaps louder, sounds like Gupta.
“I’m just say -“
“Seriously, remember that little girl…. And how she…”
Greg sighs and looks up at the windows of his office. He sees a few pairs of people talking, Clipton standing alone at the white board on the far side of the room. Donovan is sitting at her desk, hands on her keyboard but she isn’t typing. Peters happens to look up and catch his gaze. He smiles in an awkward way then jerks his head back down again.
Greg looks down at the case file in front of him. Cause of death was drowning but there were signs of drugs in her system.
“…but off a building, how can -”
“Because we... what we did to him!”
Someone scoffs and Greg knows that voice was Avery. “No, no…. and blaming…”
“But -”
“Would you both knock it off!” Bell snaps loud enough that some other people grumble, ‘all right,’ ‘really,’ from around the desks.
Greg clicks his teeth together and closes the one file, sliding the other into the center of his desk.
“I just think that if he really was… how could all of…”
“If D.I. Lestrade thinks…”
“You ask him? How do you know…”
“Bollocks, everyone knows…”
Greg puts his pen down and shoves his chair back from his desk. He stands up and walks over to his office door, making sure to hit the door into the wall with a loud whack. Half the office starts in surprise and nearly all turn sharply to look in his direction.
“Enough chatter! We have cases to solve.” A few people look sheepishly away. Clipton taps the white board with the dry erase marker in his hand. Greg crosses his arms. “We all have opinions on recent events but you have personal time to talk about that all you want.” He leans forward just slightly and pulls out his ‘angry copper stare.’ “Focus on what we can do now, not what is too late to fix!”
A few people mumble ‘yes, sir’ and nod. Greg nods back so they all turn around to their desk, hands typing faster and feet moving quicker. Donovan steps up beside Greg and holds out a stack of about ten case files.
“The cases Sherlock worked on with us through last year.”
Greg takes the stack from her hands. “Good. We still need the years before that.”
“Sir, I…” Donovan clears her throat. “I’m still going through the evidence and statements from the kidnapping.”
“Anything new with the daughter?”
“There is an issue with the solicitor and parents about giving us access to speak to her.”
Greg sighs. “Do they not understand -“
“It is their daughter.”
Greg glares at her. “Thank you, Donovan.”
She clears her throat and nods. “Right.”
Greg stares at her though she does not quite meet his eye. Greg holds the files against his chest with one arm and frowns. “Anderson?”
“He’s…” Donovan glances behind her as if Anderson were somehow suddenly standing behind her. “He’s in the forensics lab looking over evidence again from…” Donovan finally looks at Greg. “From Barts.”
Greg frowns more. “He has fifteen more minutes then you tell him to move on. I know he has more recent cases he needs to process.”
“Sir, he’s -“
“Over doing it.” Greg cocks his head. “I’ll go down there if I have to. If he really wants to back pedal and help Sherlock now, then he can go through all this with his fine tooth comb.” Greg motions with the stack of files.
Donovan swallows. “Yes, sir.”
“And you can too.”
“We were just trying to -“
“Save it, Donovan. I understand your reasons but it’s back to business now.”
She bites her lip but does not try to launch a speech again. Instead she nods and turns back toward her desk. Greg watches her walk away for a minute before turning around himself back into his office. He leaves the door open just in case anyone thinks they can start up the gossip again quietly enough so he won’t hear.
Greg puts the files from Donovan on top of the stack on the left of his desk. He stands in front of his desk, files on most of it and his laptop on the right. He sighs and pulls his mobile out of his pocket. He clicks the screen on and picks Mycroft’s number in text. He wants to text ‘I miss you,’ ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘come here.’ Instead he texts,
[11:39] We should get lunch today.
He clicks send then sits down. He puts the mobile on his desk and leans back in his chair, closing his eyes. Then his mobile vibrates. Greg sits up straight and looks at the screen.
Mycroft [11:40]: 15 minutes. I’ll send a car.
Greg smiles.
----------
Greg and Mycroft sit on the couch in Greg’s flat. Mycroft has a small stack of papers and his laptop open on Greg’s coffee table. Mycroft informed Greg that anything he might accidentally read or see off of any of the documents he, in fact, did not see. Greg only laughed and said ‘pour me some of that wine you brought and I’ll see nothing but you.’ The eyebrow raise Greg got back was both pleased and disdainful and Greg wishes he had a photograph.
Now, Mycroft leans back against the cushions with an iPad in one hand and his other on Greg’s chest as Greg lies with his head in Mycroft’s lap. He has his glass of wine in one hand and ‘Dr. No’ in the other.
“It is interesting that it is has apparently taken you months to read a 255 page book.”
Greg chuckles. “I was busy.”
“Hmm.”
Greg looks up at Mycroft. “Oh, you know, solving crimes, suffering press conferences, having sex.”
Mycroft looks down from the iPad. “And a lucky someone to be part of that last activity.”
“You would know.”
Mycroft smirks and turns back to his tablet, swiping the screen. “I would.” He returns his hand to Greg’s chest and rubs a circle once over Greg’s buttons.
Greg smiles and leans up slightly to sip some of his wine. He taps the stemless glass on the back of Mycroft’s hand and Mycroft takes it from him. Greg reaches up and turns a page of his book, holding it in place again with his thumb. Then he takes the glass back from Mycroft.
“Do avoid spilling that.”
“Expensive?” Mycroft only tilts his head. “Ah yes, silly question.” Greg sips the wine again. “But it’s no beer.”
“Do you consider beer to rank higher?”
“For me, yeah.”
Mycroft huffs quietly. “I suppose I hope in vain to make you sophisticated.”
Greg chuckles. “You do and you wouldn’t really want to change me anyway.”
“Perhaps only in your alcohol choices.”
Greg snorts. “Never.”
Mycroft sighs but Greg sees him smiling. Greg looks back at his book and reads on as Bond finally meets Honeychile Rider. Greg chuckles as he remembers the scene from the movie, that bikini. Mycroft sighs again and drops his arm holding the iPad down onto the arm of the couch.
“Had enough?” Greg asks.
“Enough of useless Americans.”
“Americans?”
“You would rather not hear about it. I can assure you.”
Greg closes his book then sits up, Mycroft’s hand dragging down his back as he does. Greg sets the book to the far side of the couch then leans back beside Mycroft, crossing his legs on the cushions and Mycroft’s hand on his thigh now.
“Claire lived in America for a few years.”
Mycroft raises both eyebrows and sets his iPad on the table. “Some girlish passion to become a designer in New York?”
Greg laughs out loud. “God, no, Seattle and it was some kind of non-profit.”
Mycroft frowns. “She felt the need to cross the ocean and a continent for that?”
Greg shrugs. “She went through a wanderer stage, lived in Spain and Brazil before that.”
“Not a stage you ever crossed.”
“No.”
Mycroft smiles.
“Came back with two dogs, vegetarianism, then met her husband Colin leading to my niece and nephew now.”
“A thrilling tale.”
Greg laughs. “Sorry, not trying to bore you with family history.”
“You are not.” Mycroft picks up his wine off the table and circles it around in the glass. He takes a drink, his fingertips tapping Greg’s legs. “We once had a dog.”
“You?”
“Strictly speaking it was Sherlock’s dog but as I lived in the same house I was party to the same…” Mycroft rocks his head then sips his wine again, “benefits.”
“He says with barely maintained control.”
“Hmm.” Mycroft squeezes Greg’s leg once. “Dogs require a great deal of work, feeding, walking, veterinarian visits.”
“But?”
Mycroft looks down at his hand. “To a boy with no friends and brother seven years his senior, a dog was a welcome companion.” Mycroft looks up again, sips his wine and purses his lips. “He made the dog several pirate hats.”
Greg blinks. “What?”
Mycroft smiles. “We all go through phases.”
“Uh huh, what was yours then?”
“Paisley.”
Greg begins to laugh, leaning his head back against the wall. He shakes his head while Mycroft smiles at him. “I'm buying you a paisley tie as soon as possible.”
“Oh, I am quite fine with the ties I have now.”
Greg puts his hand over Mycroft’s and shakes his head. “Too late.”
“And what about you?”
“What?”
“Your phase?”
“Ha,” Greg finishes his glass of wine. “I had several. Chalk it up to middle child, yeah?”
Mycroft takes his hand off Greg’s leg, slides a bit closer and runs his fingertips up Greg’s jaw into his hair. He rubs a line a few centimeters away from Greg’s eye, underneath his hair. Greg knows there is a scar there, no idea how Mycroft saw it.
“This?”
“Had a motorcycle for a few years.”
“Oh dear.” Mycroft pulls his hand back again, wrapping it with the other around his wine glass. “I am imagining you with a leather jacket, tight jeans and some cocky expression expecting women -” Greg raises his eyebrows. “And men to fall supplely at your feet awaiting the tender mercy of your ‘bad boy’ mystique.”
“Don’t forget my perfect hair.”
Mycroft smiles. “The most preferable part to retain.”
“Especially now that I work for the police.”
“True.”
Greg cocks his head to the side. “And are you saying you wouldn’t like me in tight jeans?”
Mycroft purses his lips. “We’ll have to see.”
Greg smirks. “I’ll put it on my ‘to do’ list.”
“Do.” Mycroft stands up, taking Greg’s empty wine glass from him. He walks away and into the kitchen, returning a minute later with both glasses full of wine and the nearly empty bottle under one arm. He hands Greg’s glass to him then sits down again, putting the bottle on the coffee table carefully avoiding all papers, iPad and laptop.
“Thank you,” Greg says.
“Of course.”
"Mycroft…" Mycroft sips his wine and raises his eyebrows at Greg. "Do you... are you..."
"Yes?"
Greg shakes his head. "Nothing. Never mind."
Mycroft's frowns slightly. "I am fine, Greg."
Greg clicks his teeth together. "Right, yeah. Not worrying."
"No?"
Greg clears his throat and sips some of his wine. Then he gestures with his wine glass over the table. “Lot more to read?”
Mycroft sighs deeply as he looks at the table. Then he turns back to Greg. “I would rather simply sit here with you.”
“I have nowhere to be.” He points at the table. “If you need to read more secret documents and spy reports, I can stay.” Greg picks up his book again. “It is my flat after all.”
Mycroft’s lip quirks up. “True.”
Mycroft leans forward and picks up the iPad again from the coffee table, setting it on the arm of the couch. Greg looks at the pile of papers, the laptop open and the lines under Mycroft’s eyes. He opens his mouth but closes it again and presses his lips tightly together. He slides closer on the couch and runs a hand over Mycroft’s hair. Mycroft glances at him but Greg cannot think of anything to say. Instead he kisses Mycroft once then turns and lies down with his head on Mycroft’s leg again.
----------
Greg calls Claire on a Wednesday night as he stares out of the window of his dark office, only a light on his desk lit. A faint glow comes from further out in the office, a few computers left on and the red exit signs, no one else working this late.
“Hi.” He can hear Claire is smiling. “How are you?”
“All right?”
She chuckles. “Oh yeah, you sure sound it. Long week on your side?”
“Had a question.”
“Yes, you look good in blue, don’t let David confuse you.”
Greg chuckles quietly. “Funny.”
“I learned from the best.” Something makes a noise in the background, plates maybe. “So, what’s up?”
“What did you do when Colin’s sister died?” Greg hears scuffling in the background, Claire’s daughter Kate laughing and a faint whistling kettle. He counts to five. “Claire?”
She sighs. “Yeah. Hold on.” The line is silent for a moment then Greg hears the distinct sound of a door closing. “All right, you want to know what I did?”
“What did you do for him? How did… how did you help him?”
“It’s not as simple as all that, Greg.”
Greg leans his forehead on the glass of the window. “Didn’t say it was simple, I’m just asking…”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Claire sighs again. “Just be there. What more can I say than that? It’s hard; you have to go by what he does, by what he says.”
“But he’s not saying anything, Claire.” Greg pulls his head back again and watches the cars on the street below. “He’s not talking.”
“I’m not saying he has to. Sometimes talking isn’t what someone needs. With Colin it was pretty quiet, sometimes I just had to sit with him so he didn’t feel alone or I would talk about nothing, stupid things to distract him so he’d stop being all up in his head with ‘what ifs.’”
Greg nods to himself. “Just be there.”
“Exactly. It’s never how you expect it to be. Yes, everyone has a cry or two, a big one probably when it first happens but no one thinks about the month later, or the month after that. It surprises you then. Colin cut down our kids' tire swing in the backyard out of nowhere one day because Lara used to push him on one when he was six.” She makes a soft noise like a laugh but not quite. “You just have to keep remembering that the loss is still there every day.”
“That’s deep, Claire.”
She huffs. “You asked.”
“Sorry, I know.” Greg rubs the spot between his eyebrows. “I just… just don’t know what to say.”
“In the end there is nothing you can really do but be there until he decides he needs to break down.”
Greg drops his hand and puts his palm on the window glass. “What if he never does?”
“He will, Greg.”
Greg breathes in and lets it out slowly. “Right.”
“Go to sleep, Greg.”
“Bye.” Greg drops the mobile from his ear and keeps staring at the cars passing by under the street lamps, slower and slower.
----------
Greg leans against his kitchen counter beside the oven with a beer in his hand. The timer for the oven has less than five minutes to go. Beside him, Mycroft chops cucumbers on a cutting board. Greg watches Mycroft’s hands, carefully chopping each slice the same size.
“Must you?”
Greg looks up at Mycroft’s face and smiles. “I like your hands.”
“Oh, I am aware.”
Greg chuckles. “And you chop like you’re going to be examined on the sizes of your slices.”
Mycroft purses his lips. “I see nothing wrong with preferring uniformity.”
“In your salad?”
Mycroft sighs.
Greg leans closer and kisses Mycroft’s lips. “Go ahead, sigh all you want.”
“I will.”
Greg kisses him again and runs his free hand down Mycroft’s back. Mycroft kisses Greg a third time then turns back to his cucumber. He picks up the cutting board and slides the cucumber into the salad bowl with the dull edge of the knife. Greg leans into Mycroft and watches him, tracing an indefinable pattern on Mycroft’s lower back.
“You know, you told me you baked, not cooked.”
“A salad is not cooking.”
“Still.”
Mycroft tilts his head then kisses Greg’s temple. “Perhaps I just wished to assist with the meal.”
“Well then, where is my pie?”
Mycroft chuckles and Greg feels the vibration against his skin. “Next time.”
The timer on the oven starts to beep behind Greg. Greg stands up straight, takes a drink of his beer then puts it down on the counter. He opens the drawer beside the stove, pulling out two oven gloves. He clicks off the timer then opens the oven. The heat hits him in the face but Greg turns his head to the side right away.
“Do avoid burning yourself,” Mycroft chides.
Greg shoots a glance in Mycroft’s direction then reaches in with the oven gloves and pulls out the flank steak on its pan. He closes the oven door with his hip and puts the pan on top of the two front rings of the hob.
“Should let it cool just a bit.”
Mycroft makes a ‘hmm’ noise from by the refrigerator as he closes the door. Greg looks at him and Mycroft holds up a vinaigrette dressing.
“I’ll make you a dressing next time if you want,” Greg says as Mycroft hands him the bottle.
Mycroft’s eyebrows fly up. “You make dressing?”
“Sometimes.” Greg puts the bottle down beside the salad bowl, goat cheese on top now to finish up. “Shall I toss it or would you like to?”
Mycroft chuckles. “Such a heavy responsibility.”
“It would help to have tongs, right?”
Mycroft side steps to the drawer beside the refrigerator. He roots around for a moment before he comes out with salad tongs. Greg watches him, palm on the counter and his other hand tapping on his thigh. Mycroft walks back over and cocks his head. He puts the tongs into the salad bowl.
“You are worrying.”
Greg cocks his head back at Mycroft. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Maybe.”
Mycroft touches Greg’s face. “Your expression is pensive and contemplative at once. I should paint you a picture.”
“You could.”
Mycroft steps into Greg’s personal space though not quite touching their bodies together. His hand traces lines slowly around Greg’s face. “I promise, you needn’t worry about me though I know despite what I say your fears will continue.”
“I wouldn’t call them fears.”
“Regardless, this is the longest relationship I have been in, Greg. You cannot expect me to change and open up like a book all at once.”
Greg shakes his head. “I don’t expect you to.”
“If I say I am fine, then I am.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
Mycroft brushes a hand over Greg’s hair. “Hmm, you did.”
“I am just glad you are here with me, okay?” Greg says.
“Good.” Mycroft runs his fingers along Greg’s jaw. “Though, I suppose it should please me that your concern runs so deeply.”
Greg smiles. “You are important to me, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“I have.” Mycroft kisses Greg. “And you still do surprise me, Greg.”
“Was it the steak?” Mycroft chuckles and presses closer to Greg so they touch and Greg’s back knocks softly into the counter. Greg’s hands settle on Mycroft’s waist. “Something else?”
Mycroft kisses Greg and smiles against his lips, “something else.”
“Oh? Are we talking specifics?” Greg kisses Mycroft, bites his lip gently. “What then?”
Mycroft runs a hand over Greg's stomach. "This is my shirt."
Greg pulls his head back and looks down. "I... god, really?"
Mycroft smiles. "How often do you wear French cuffs?"
Greg holds his wrist up in front of his face then he turns back to Mycroft. "Well."
"Surprise."
"I should give it back to you then."
Mycroft crushes a kiss onto Greg's mouth, hands on Greg's buttons at the same time that Greg grabs Mycroft's neck with one hand and reaches for Mycroft's tie with his other. Mycroft pushes Greg into the counter so Greg hikes up and sits on top, pulling Mycroft flush against the counter edge. Mycroft keeps steadily going down Greg's buttons as Greg sucks Mycroft's pulse point until he groans. Greg laughs low in his throat against Mycroft's skin and pulls off Mycroft's tie.
"Don't you -"
But Greg throws the tie over Mycroft's shoulder before he can finish his sentence.
"You were saying?"
Mycroft growls, kisses and bites Greg's lips so Greg gasps. Mycroft finishes with Greg's shirt buttons as Greg unbuttons Mycroft's collar, drags his nails along the hollow of Mycroft's throat. Then Mycroft snaps open Greg's belt following quickly with his trouser button and zipper. Greg reaches lower to get at Mycroft's waistcoat buttons but then Mycroft pulls Greg by his hips closer to the edge of the counter, knocking the salad bowl.
"Watch -"
Then Mycroft slides down to his knees and pushes Greg's legs open.
Greg breathes in sharply, bracing a hand on the cabinet beside him. "Oh god."
By the time they get to the steak it is cold.
----------
The caution tape makes a diamond shape around the crime scene, broken glass everywhere with blood accenting most shards. Greg tilts his head as he stares at the one body, no cuts which he should have with all this bloody glass. If the body did not break the window then what did? Greg looks up at the house again and the second body just visible inside where Donovan stands, mobile in her hand. Greg purses his lips then crouches low beside the body. He pulls on one latex glove and pushes back some of the man’s hair from his face. The victim has deep nail scratches on his cheek, likely from the dead woman inside.
“But how did you get out here…” Greg mutters.
He reaches into his pocket with his other hand and pulls out his mobile. He clicks the screen to life and pulls up Sherlock’s number. Greg’s thumb stops just a second soon enough before he dials. Greg stares at his mobile, at the numbers, at the name. It finally hits.
Greg sucks in a deep breath and jolts up to standing.
“Sergeant Brooks!” Greg barks and she whirls around where she stands near the edge of the caution tape. Greg points to the body. “Take a look, yeah?”
She nods. “Yes, sir.”
Greg turns stiffly and marches away, ducking under the caution tape. He breathes in deeply over and over, tries to slow it down. He yanks the latex glove off his hand and half throws it toward one of the PCs as he passes. He breathes in and out and in and out and he almost slams right into his car. Greg realizes he is clutching his mobile so hard he is starting to make dents in the skin of his hand. His hand shakes and he shoves his mobile back in his pocket.
He breathes in and out again, shallow and sharp. He reaches into an inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out his pack of cigarettes. He pulls out one cigarette and puts the pack back in his pocket. His fingers slip over the cigarette, his thumb tapping over and over the end. He searches through his pockets with his other hand until he finds his lighter logically in the same pocket which has the pack. He puts the cigarette between his teeth and holds up the lighter. He flicks it open, his hands shakes and the lighter falls out of his hands hitting the pavement with a clatter.
“Fuck…” Greg takes the cigarette from his teeth and rubs his fingers hard into his forehead. “Bloody fu…”
He breathes in deeply and blows it out slowly, once then twice. He fists his hand around the cigarette breaking it in half. His nails dig into the skin of his forehead and he absently wonders if he will leave marks. He uncurls his hand and the pieces of paper and tobacco slip from his hand.
Greg feels someone come up next to him on his left. He sees them bend down in the edge of his vision. Then a hand holds out his lighter. Greg turns his head slightly and sees Peters looking back at him. His hand falls away from his forehead.
Greg looks down at the lighter then takes it. “Thank you.”
Peters nods and says a quiet, “sir.”
Greg turns back and stares over the roof of his car. Across the street a few people cluster on a stoop watching the police scene. He wonders how many people watched from the edges while Sherlock bled on the pavement in front of Barts.
Greg clenches his teeth and flips the lighter around in his fingers three times. He passes the lighter to his other hand then looks down at it. He takes a step back then throws the lighter over his car into the street making Peters jump in surprise. A passing taxi runs over the lighter with an audible crunch.
“Status?” Greg asks.
Peters touches Greg’s arm. “Sir…”
Greg turns his head sharply and stares at Peters. Peters drops his hand.
“Status?” Greg repeats with more emphasis.
Peter stands up straighter. “Sergeant Brooks thinks she has something.”
Greg nods twice. “Good, let’s go.”
----------
Mycroft and Greg sit across from each other out at dinner. Mycroft has some angel hair pasta twirled on his fork while Greg cuts chicken. Both their mobiles are out on the table lined up against the wall. Fortunately, neither have buzzed since they sat down.
“Good?” Greg asks Mycroft with a point of his fork.
Mycroft peers down at his pasta then looks up again at Greg. “Enough.”
“So you hate it?”
Mycroft chuckles appropriately. “I did not say that.”
“No?”
“It is somewhat bland.”
Greg smiles. “I could add some paprika and thyme. Let me check my coat pockets.”
This time Mycroft laughs for real. He takes a bite of the pasta and raises his eyebrows at Greg. Greg picks up the salt and puts it down in front of Mycroft’s pate.
“Best I can do.”
Mycroft shakes his head. “It will not be enough.”
Greg shrugs a little and spears a carrot with his fork. “I think you’ll suffer through all right.”
“As I must.”
Greg smiles as Mycroft takes another dutiful bite. Greg holds his fork against his plate, carrot still on the end, but he does not put it in his mouth. He watches Mycroft twirling more noodles then he puts his fork down. Mycroft’s eyes tick up.
“Mycroft, are you…”
“Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
Mycroft huffs with a smile. “It is only a disappointing dish, Greg.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Mycroft looks away and shakes his head once before turning back. “I am fine.”
“Fine?”
“That is what I said.”
“Just fine?”
“What more would you wish me to say, Greg?”
Greg huffs. “You’re not fine, Mycroft, you can’t be.”
Mycroft drops his fork. “Greg, if I should wish to talk to you about my emotional state then I will.”
“But that’s just it, you haven’t, not at all!” Greg insists.
“You are being dramatic, do calm down.”
“Dramatic?” Greg lays his hands flat on the table and leans in. “Mycroft, your brother killed himself!”
Mycroft stares at him and says nothing.
Greg sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, that was… I’m sorry.” He looks down at the table and puts two fingers against his temple, elbow on the table. “I’m just worried.” He looks up again. “I don’t know what is going on in your head, if you’re just going to snap or…” He sighs and sits up straight again, dropping his hand down onto the table. “I want to be here and help you but you have to say something.”
Mycroft folds his hands together on the table. “Greg, my brother is dead, there is nothing to say. We all must move on.”
“But he was your brother!”
“Greg...”
“It’s not ‘nothing to say,’ Mycroft. Get upset, cry, be angry at him, something! It’s not just nothing and move on.”
Mycroft frowns. “My relationship with my brother is far different than yours with your siblings. You cannot expect me to react as you foresee you would.”
“But I expect you to react!”
“You cannot tell me how I should react, Greg!” Mycroft snaps. “There is no ‘should’ in such things!”
Greg stares at Mycroft for a beat then looks away at the wall, a crack snaking its way up from the height of their table to the molding at the ceiling. A small, generic painting of a wine bottle hangs on the wall centered over their table. Greg wants to knock it off kilter.
Greg nods once and turns back to Mycroft. “You’re right.”
“I understand you are concerned,” Mycroft says, “but you do not need to be.”
“But I’m going to be.”
Mycroft smiles, small as if Greg just told him he was beautiful. “I know.”
“I still want you to talk to me or know you can at least.”
“I know.”
“So, just…” Greg reaches out over the table and puts his hand on Mycroft’s clasped hands. “Don’t go breaking down without me there.”
Mycroft chuckles quietly as he looks down at their hands. “I assure you, I will not.”
“That’s all I ask.”
“But,” Mycroft looks up again, “do desist in pushing me; that is all I ask.”
"What if you need pushing?" Greg asks quietly.
"Please."
Greg stares at Mycroft, his face, their hands, wants to pull him close and keep him there. Greg swallows once then nods. “I won’t push.”
Greg squeezes Mycroft’s hands then Mycroft pulls his away to pick up his fork again. Greg lays his hand on the table for a moment then pulls back again.
PART 2