Chapter Text
Sex. Sexual intercourse. Screwing. Coitus. There really wasn’t any elegant term with which to label the act, as Mycroft had come to believe. But such is the nature of humanity, carnal and banal in so many ways a man could get lost in the throes of madness.
And therein men become insultingly easy to manipulate… therefore making Mycroft’s job woefully simplistic. Though in all honesty it suited him fine, he was unlike his dear younger brother in that regard, less wont to throw his genius obscenely in the faces of the people. (No, he most certainly was not lazy.)
It isn’t that Mycroft so much detests the notion of sex as he finds himself indifferent to it. He’s no stranger to the act – he is, in fact, rather well-acquainted with it. Even if it is entirely indiscernible and unthinkable of a man of his standing, his breeding. Not with his perfectly tailored three piece suits and perfect posture and flawless poker face.
---
Sir, it isn’t my place to say this, I’m well aware, but you’ve not seen anyone since I’ve been in your employ.
And?
And your mother has been discreetly suggesting that you do.
Is that all, Anthea?
…Yes, sir.
Well, then, spare us both and put it from your mind. It hardly matters.
But-… yes, sir.
---
Mycroft has never had a relationship. Not with anyone, no matter the attraction. The closest, aside from his family (obligatory), would probably be his PA for all the fussing (impressively subtle) she does over him. That is to say, outside of The Incident, he has never engaged in any form of ‘mutual gratification’. One might even go so far as to think the man asexual. Save for the fact that Mycroft was just like any other hot-blooded male to populate the earth – except he really wasn’t quite like any other hot-blooded male.
The Incident, as it was thusly labeled by his fifteen-year-old brain, had been a mistake of such epic proportions. Looking back, his fear had been unnecessary, the lies so easily unraveled and transparent that there should not have been a threat at all. But chide as his older self may, Mycroft had been young and inexperienced and cripplingly out of his depth. The perfect set up for manipulation.
(The irony is not lost on Mycroft.)
At the time, keeping it a secret, bottling the physical… afflictions… had done things to him, things that remain stark and obvious beneath the layers of clothing should one manage to see beyond the crisp, white sleeve. Not that anyone stood a chance in achieving that much. But in controlling what he revealed, how much he could show, Mycroft had perfected all that he needed to get ahead. To hurtle through success so quickly that the attention was fixated on his accomplishments, rather than the imperfections.
And so, in the midst of praise and fawning, Mycroft silently locked away the memories, entombed them in walls of concrete where they were in no danger of ever surfacing again.
---
Mycroft is the British government, telling anyone he is anything but is simply a courtesy to the front. A very British covering if anything – not unlike how a person might deem the student who cannot shut up most vocal, or declare the finest essay ever written under the warlike conditions of an exam merely satisfactory. As such, he is incredibly busy, and his life is planned with deadly precision by his PA.
But there are, inevitably, certain things that cannot be foreseen; a phenomenon that Life has an annoying penchant for bestowing when it suddenly feels arsed enough to care.
Which is essentially how one Greg Lestrade storms into his life. (Well, not quite stormed as fumbled. Although to be completely accurate, it had started with the man’s nephew…)
---
The first time they meet (properly, by Lestrade’s standards), it is a Saturday and despite the general consensus on a five-day work week, it apparently doesn’t apply to those in the public sector. More specifically, to men like Mycroft. Especially, men like Mycroft.
He has only gotten out of the office and into the city centre when he encounters a gridlock. As usual. Only, in this circumstance, Mycroft is exceptionally tired from the severe lack of sleep, the blasted diet and the frustrating incompetence of his subjects. Yes, subjects.
In a moment of spontaneity, he informs Anthea that he is going to walk. There is a brief flicker of uncertainty in her usually blank features before she nods. The woman knows to expect his call later for a pick up after the traffic relents.
Mycroft ignores the guards that shadow him and walks. Past the city centre and multiple turnings, he finds himself at a grocer and decides, since he’s already chosen so brashly to walk amongst the commoners, to go for a mile. The hum of routine in those around him, the surprising quiet and emptiness of the modest store soothes his nerves somewhat and he finds himself gravitating towards the liquor section unknowingly.
“Why’re you dressed like that, mister?”
The high-pitched question causes Mycroft’s focus to swerve from the sad bottles to the little person nudging his perfectly poised umbrella.
“Dressed like what, exactly, young sir?” He asks quietly, amused.
The boy – judging by the height and features and the manner in which he holds himself; awkward footing... – whom Mycroft places around seven years of age, scrunches up his face in a show of deliberation. “Like a cartoon character. Ain’t nobody dresses up like that anymore.”
Mycroft merely blinks.
“Is that so?” Young as the child is, he has yet to understand that Mycroft hardly means it as a question and more of a statement.
“Aye, and it looks silly,” the child declares with a poke to Mycroft’s middle.
Under normal circumstances, Mycroft would never have allowed his brows to furrow (however fleeting) at the child’s slight, would never have allowed his irritation to fester, would have been able to handle it like the damn politician he is. But this day has been and is still far from the norm and Mycroft slips.
He flinches hard at the jab, and his fingers curl tightly around the handle of his brolly, knuckles turning white. He is a fraction away from giving the child a reply that would have him cowering in ten seconds flat, when a familiar voice hisses into the fray.
“Oh for fuck’s sake. Where the hell is that – ” Heavy footsteps skid to a halt abruptly behind Mycroft. “Bloody - There you are!”
The Detective Inspector that his younger brother frequently harangues steps into view from around him. In the civilian garb of faded midnight jeans and polo tee tucked smartly into them, the man looks… most peculiar. Different. Hmm.
“Billy, how many sodding times do I have to tell you not to – ”
“You said ‘sodding’. I’m telling mama,” the boy’s grating voice interrupts imperiously. It reminds Mycroft startlingly of Sherlock.
The DI all but growls before turning around to face the poor man who has been subjected to the child’s babbling, “God, I’m so sorry about that. I hope he – wha- aren’t you Sherlock’s brother?” The corner of Mycroft’s lips quirk as he witnesses the DI stumble from annoyance and exasperation to the likeness of a stunned guppy.
“Indeed. Mycroft Holmes, Detective Inspector. Is he yours?” he asks politely, raising a finger to nudge the other man’s jaw close.
A faint blush colors the Detective’s cheeks. Admirably, he attempts a cough to cover it up, “Er. Right. Greg, if you don’t mind. Er. And no, he’s my sister’s. Saddled with him for a week. That is, I mean, he’s not – I don’t hate him – er. What’re you doing here?”
“No need to explain yourself to me, Detective,” Mycroft grants a small smile. “Gridlock. Thought I might walk.”
“Right, right,” Lestrade mutters with a nervous chuckle.
“As charming as this has been, I’m afraid Billy’s run off again, Detective.” Only just, mind, he’d gotten bored sometime around the blushing. Lestrade’s head whips around and he notices the absence with a string of curses. With a nod and clap to the shoulder, he dashes off.
But not before he sees that look in Mycroft’s eyes and feels the man jump at the contact.
Not tense up, no, but jump.
---
On a Friday, there is a tag killer on the loose, and after a period of absolutely nothing, Sherlock takes to the case like a child to a candy store. But for the rest whom lack the luxury of turning down work simply because it’s boring, it has been a strenuously long week with Lestrade trudging by without even two hours of uninterrupted rest.
To top it all off, it is the middle of winter and the detective has left his gloves in his apartment in his rush to head down to the scene.
Fingers practically frozen, the cold biting the flesh, Lestrade is a picture of discontentment. In the pitiful sanctuary of his pockets, his fists are balled up in an attempt to refrain from strangling the overgrown man-child traipsing around the site. He takes a deep breath and exhales with a large puff of mist.
“Ah, I’d heard he’d finally gotten out of his funk,” a low voice says from his left.
Lestrade glances at Sherlock’s brother, and doesn’t bother trying to understand how the man has suddenly materialized beside him. As it is, he can summon only the energy to grunt in acknowledgement.
“Coffee, Detective?”
“Sorry?” Lestrade says absently, too intent on trying to keep warm.
A large, hot, hot cup of long black is presented to his nose and the glorious scent of espresso beans fills his senses. Lestrade stares down at the hand proffering the nectar of life and gratefully grabs hold of it, hand and cup alike. If he lets out a rather suspicious moan when his frigid fingers cradle the deliciously warm paper cup, Lestrade is beyond caring.
“Oh, bless you, Mycroft,” he mutters reverently to the cup. “Terribly sorry that I’ll have to say this, but you’re not getting the cuppa back.”
Lestrade doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t have the ability to when he’s relishing the warmth blossoming through him from a single mouthful of the drink. But the amusement is clear in the man’s voice when he says, “That’s quite alright.”
---
And life goes on. Mycroft somehow falls into a routine where he finds himself at the scene of some especially grotesque crime during his free time, observing idly with coffee in hand for the detective, watching his younger brother lope around with his doctor following more sedately (sanely) behind him. He tells himself he shows up like clockwork only for the particularly nasty cases in order to convince himself his brother is alright and as brilliant (not that he’ll ever admit to it) as he is when he’s busy and engaged. Because regardless of what Sherlock might proclaim, Mycroft does love his little brother and seeing him happy settles his own nerves on the worst of days.
“Coffee, Gregory?”
“Ta,” he takes a sip. “God, I might as well buy you an espresso machine with all the coffee you’ve gotten me.”
“I already have one, thank you. It really is no problem, Detective.”
“I dunno… I feel bad for swiping it from you,” he says.
And it is this moment in time that Mycroft Holmes can genuinely say his mouth had acted on its own accord. Because not in a million years would he have given in to the impulsivity.
“Have dinner with me, then.”
-x-
Sixteen hours after agreeing finds Gregory breaking abruptly into cold sweat. He is standing behind the kitchen sink, soapy dishes frozen in his hand and water running freely from the tap. He nearly drops the plate.
Mycroft Holmes is a veritable enigma, though it doesn’t take a genius to deduce that his tastes would naturally lean to the finer things in life, things Lestrade is either oblivious or ignorant to. He doesn’t listen to classical music, doesn’t delve into the Arts scene much; he cannot tell the difference between good wine and brilliant wine, and this applies likewise to food. To Gregory, there is just crap food and good food, wine that burns its way down your throat, and wine that doesn’t. Simple. He wouldn’t be accepted into all the finery of Mycroft’s world, and it worries him. (If there is one thing that discomforts Gregory, it is awkward silence.)
He is suited and ready an hour before Mycroft is meant to arrive, therefore giving Gregory an hour more to fret and pace. He feels like a bloody teenager all over again, and just for a dinner which might or might not actually be for work.
At precisely half past seven, there is a knock on the door behind which stands Mycroft in a smart black suit, charcoal waistcoat and the ever white shirt. Gregory tries his best not to stammer convulsively. (It really isn’t his fault he’s not been on anything resembling a date in an entire year.)
A sleek, yet nondescript black Mercedes is parked by the curb, and the man’s PA – Anthea, he remembers – stands patiently beside it, attention on her omnipresent Blackberry. At their footsteps, she lifts her head and opens the door with sharp, efficient movements.
There is an almost stifling quiet for most of the ride until the car suddenly swerves to the left and Gregory quite frankly flies to the right in spite of the safety belt. He feels the warmth of Mycroft pressed against him and the undeniable flinch that follows. His eyes dart up to meet the pair of silver-brown, and in that flicker of an instant, Gregory sees fear, unadulterated fear and vulnerability reflected in them that tightens his chest.
“Detective Inspector, are you hurt?”
The sharp question breaks Gregory out of his reverie and he flails back into his seat, the boundary rather clearly marked once more. Anthea, whose voice he has never actually heard until then, pins him with a decidedly hard stare, awaiting his answer.
“Nono, I’m fine.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the nigh imperceptible nod that Mycroft gives the woman.
-x-
“So… Sherlock’s been fine. Nothing unusually psychotic of late.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This is about Sherlock, yes? I figured this was… ” It is a terrible, terrible lie and Gregory winces even as the words leave his mouth.
“Oh no, this is most definitely not an interrogative… dinner… about Sherlock.”
“Oh. Oh, so it’s a social, erm, dinner, then?” Gregory wishes the ground would swallow him whole to spare the world from remembering how his voice reaches a new octave (higher) on the last word.
“Would you like a beer, Gregory?” Damn the man and his stupid grin.
-x-
After just a bottle of some deceivingly potent beer, Gregory feels much warmer and fuzzier around the edges and it eases the tension that had thrummed through him. His tongue loosens and they end up having a conversation Gregory could never picture having. They speak of siblings and their insanity, childhoods (or, well, Gregory does, anyway. Mycroft just sits pretty and smiles) and rugby of all things. (Mycroft only bothers when it’s the world cup)
It is when a second bottle is half empty before the detective that his brain decides it is appropriate dinner conversation to say, “When did it happen?”
Mycroft, not entirely sober, freezes. It is the one response that confirms his suspicions.
“Someone hurt you before, badly enough that it stuck. When?” Gregory is like a man possessed – how on earth is it alright to stampede through such delicate grounds?
“What makes you say that?” Mycroft asks softly, caution evident in the look he pins the detective with.
“I didn’t think much about it at the start, when I met you at the grocer. Figured you just weren’t expecting it. And that was alright. But then you gave me coffee and my fingers brushed yours and you jumped. Most people, the non touchy-feely sort, they jump, sometimes, but mostly their muscles tense up. Over time, they just stop jumping if it’s the same person. They get used to it; they learn to expect it from the person. But you, you jump every single time.”
Mycroft’s face is now a blank, absolutely unreadable.
“In the car, when some tosser made your driver swerve, and I was er, against you, you jumped again, then tensed up like a friggin wind-up toy. What sealed the whole idea was your reaction to my question.”
Mycroft says nothing for a long moment, expression tight. The edges around his eyes soften and he says, “You’re certainly not as dimwitted as my brother makes you out to be.”
“Thanks. I think,” Gregory swallows. He was expecting a punch for blabbering that whole spew.
“Fifteen.”
Gregory gives a nod of encouragement, patiently waits for a continuation Mycroft is evidently not set on conceding. Right. The admission is already more than he had hoped for.
-x-
It is drizzling when they leave the restaurant.
-x-
By the time the car pulls up by the curb of Lestrade’s apartment, the rain is coming down in a steady patter. Mycroft lifts a finger to halt Anthea, and reaches for the door handle himself. He snaps open his umbrella, and walks around to open the other door. He watches the detective duck the ceiling of the Mercedes, dislodging himself from the seat.
Mycroft walks him to the door of the building and it is the parting that has him on edge inside. After the stupid confession, he cannot fathom the judgment that has formed in the other man’s head; doesn’t wish to imagine the repulsion. He can only hope that it will not be used in some way against him – it would be a waste to have to do something to the man if it should get in the way of his work.
What he does not expect is for his name to be spoken in so gentle a fashion.
“Mycroft.” There is a question in the voice.
He looks Lestrade in the eye. The hand that rises slowly bears a caution, a request for permission. Mycroft blinks once. He feels the soft pressure of calloused fingertips on his jaw, the gentleness coaxing something in his chest that Mycroft thought he no longer possessed. Mycroft watches as Lestrade leans in closer, inch by excruciating inch, braces himself for the instinctive need to recoil.
But it never comes.
Mycroft feels the chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth in a tender brush of chapped lips, catalogues it with the blanketing scent that belongs only to Gregory Lestrade. He doesn’t realize his eyes have slipped close on their own accord until they fly open at the wet slosh of Lestrade taking a wary step back.
“Is that… alright?” Lestrade asks, both firm and hesitant.
His answer is a devastating smile.