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The restaurant’s bathroom is a little less luxurious than he’s used to, but it’s neat and clean and organised.
Facing himself in the mirror as he’s washing his hands, he ponders Gregory’s behaviour tonight. They have been seeing each other for the last seven months and generally the detective inspector is relaxed and easy company. Tonight, for some reason, he keeps falling silent, occasionally stroking the edge of the cloth napkin in front of him, or staring into the depths of his wineglass. It worries him.
He’s already asked if there’s something at work; New Scotland Yard can be demanding at times. But Gregory’s denied any trouble at work and there was nothing in his body language or anything else that would suggest he was not being truthful. When he asked directly what the matter was, he got a vague grin that was probably meant to be reassuring, but seeing that the other man’s attention had wandered again within two minutes, he was not convinced.
The only conclusion he can come to, is that Gregory doesn’t want to discuss whatever’s on his mind and, as a general rule, he’s fine with that. There is much he can’t discuss about his own work, after all, and he’d feel like the worst kind of hypocrite if he would demand total honesty from his partner. Likewise, he tries to refrain from overtly snooping into his life, although he cannot help but read him like a book whenever they meet in person. His job, however, has given him enough practice over the years for him to know when to keep his observations to himself.
Tonight feels different, though. Tonight, he is worried. Because it’s not work. And it’s not family since Gregory’s been to his brother’s birthday only last week and came back late and rather drunk. His other half is a loquacious and adorably honest drunk; if anything untoward had happened, he would have blurted it out as soon as he arrived home. So that leaves…them. Their relationship. Him.
He’s been going through the last week over and over again in his mind, trying to find anything amiss, trying to ascertain where he went wrong. He can’t come up with anything, but there must be something. So he goes over things again.
He ignores the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach with practised ease. It’s not as if his work always goes exactly according to plan. Goldfish can be so very unpredictable from time to time, after all. But at work, he has distance, he can be dispassionate. Nothing about his relationship with Gregory is dispassionate. It shouldn’t exist, should be impossible, seeing that he doesn’t like normal people, can barely tolerate Sherlock most days and his brother is as close to a peer as he’s ever likely to get. Yet somehow, Lestrade managed to slip past all his defences, his warm, earthy personality, his loyalty, his compassion, his kindness all bowling him over before he even realised his, normally impenetrable, defences were utterly useless.
He looks himself over in the mirror. He’s wearing a two-piece suit only, today; a concession to Gregory’s request for him to ‘relax a little’. It feels unfamiliar, less in control. His features are much what they have always been. He’s never had any illusions that he is in any way handsome. ‘Well-groomed’ is about the best he can hope to achieve and he thinks he manages that at least. Gregory seems to like his looks well enough, in any case, which is all that matters, he supposes. His gaze loses focus as he remembers the first time Gregory kissed him.
They hadn’t even been dating yet, he hadn’t consciously realised that Lestrade had managed to penetrate his walls when, after a particularly close call for Sherlock, they bumped into one another on the stairs of 221b. Lestrade had been on his way up, he had been leaving. He’d stepped aside on the middle of the stairs to let the detective inspector pass, but instead, Lestrade had taken one look at his face, deduced from its relaxed state that John and Sherlock were fine and snogged him.
He had been taken aback and he can still remember as if it had happened yesterday, the soft thump that his shoulders made as he bumped into the wall, the feeling of Lestrade’s fingers curled around the lapels of his coat and that generous mouth, slanted against his own thin, nearly colourless lips. He remembers heat and tingling and passion and want. And then, just as he’d started to truly participate into the kiss, tentatively traced his tongue against the seam of Gregory’s lips, the infuriating man had pulled back, grinned an easy and utterly devastating grin and said: “Ask me out to dinner first.”
While he had still been gaping and trying to regain his composure, as well as a response to that last remark - as if the inspector hadn’t started it all, out of the blue no less! – Gregory had easily scaled the rest of the stairs, taking the steps two at a time and disappeared into his brother’s flat without further ado. He would never admit it to anyone, but it had taken him a full two minutes before he’d gathered himself enough to start moving.
He did ask the detective inspector out to dinner two weeks later and he had never done anything easier in his life. Gregory seemed to not mind the undue formality of his speech sometimes, the coolness to his voice, his tendency to look at things from a purely rational point of view. He never seemed to notice that his skills as a lover were clumsy and unpractised when their relationship moved beyond kissing and a more patient and giving lover than Gregory Lestrade a person couldn't wish for.
Gregory was honest to a fault, valued integrity. He voiced his opinion confidently and spoke up when he didn’t agree with anything, but he was considerate and open to other people’s ideas. He was kind and generous and seemed to have an innate understanding of how to approach people. Mycroft had seen him talking to witnesses and it made him feel privileged, that this man, who could put everyone at ease, who surely could have his pick of romantic partners, had chosen him, of all people, a scarily clever, but emotionally dysfunctional man, to be his.
When his eyes focused again, his mirror image had a small, silly smile on his face. Thinking of Gregory did that to him. He decided he would just ask him once more what the matter was and remind him that he could discuss whatever he wanted with impunity.
Mind made up, he straightens his jacket one last time and walks back out into the restaurant.
As he nears their table, he finds that Gregory has got up from his seat and he’s talking to a tall brunet of about Mycroft’s age, although the man is about as different from himself in every other aspect as someone could possibly be. The hair is in a modern cut, full and artfully tousled, he’s wearing jeans and a shirt which should look slightly unkempt since it’s a nice restaurant, but instead makes the man look ruggedly handsome. And he hasn't even seen his face yet. As he comes closer still, he notices how the man lightly touches Gregory’s elbow with an ease that speaks of familiarity.
And then he sees Gregory’s face. The face that has been faintly worried and tense all evening is now fairly beaming in delight, he looks more relaxed than Mycroft has ever seen him outside of the bedroom. His eyes are sparkling as he speaks animatedly with the man and, so easily that Mycroft knows for sure he doesn’t even think about it, he touches the man in return, on the wrist, emphasising a point he’s making. The man replies something and Gregory’s smile is like the sun it is so bright.
It hits Mycroft all at once. This is an ex-boyfriend.
The inspector hasn’t noticed his approach yet, too enthralled with his old flame and the elder Holmes uses the opportunity to turn around and make his way towards the entrance of the restaurant. He’s already on his phone to summon the car and he just walks straight out, into the cold night air. He doesn’t notice the sudden commotion in the restaurant, walking up to the sleek black car sliding to a stop in front of him. He opens the door and gets in, tells the driver to take him home before he activates the privacy shield.
Only then, hidden from prying eyes of any kind, does he allow his composure to unravel. His eyes are burning, his hands are shaking and there’s an icy pain in his chest. Rationally, he knows that the interior of the car is a comfortable temperature, but he’s shivering and he feels cold, colder than he can remember ever feeling before.
The betrayal cuts deep. He knows he’s no price. Not much to look at, socially awkward and with a tendency to be condescending. The last seven months had convinced him, though, that Gregory didn’t mind any of that, that he was liked in spite of his inadequacies and to find out he was wrong is absolutely devastating.
He curls up in the corner of the seat, instinctively trying to battle the cold, but he knows it’s a cold that’s coming from inside of him and ordinary measures won’t do anything to fix it. He wonders if he will feel perpetually cold from now on.
He imagines Gregory, his Gregory, getting together with the brunet from the restaurant, imagines them going on dates together, imagines Gregory bestowing that brilliant smile on the other man again and again. His breath hitches and the ball of ice in his chest turns into a stabbing shard that makes it hard to breathe and he’s so cold, so very cold.
As the car slides to a stop in front of his town home, he stumbles out, barely aware of his surroundings and it’s only after the car has left and he’s standing on the steps in front of his own door that he realises his keys are in the pocket of his coat. The coat he left at the restaurant.
It’s the last thing he needs on a night that’s already one of the most miserable of his life. Sighing, he digs his phone back out of his pocket and texts Anthea. With nothing to do but wait, he sinks down onto the top step, his back against the door, legs pulled up to preserve as much heat as he can.
He is shivering in his lightweight suit, his warm coat missed for more than just the fact that they contain his keys and when he crosses his arms on top of his knees and buries his face in them, the tip of his nose feels icy through his shirt.
His thoughts keep returning to Lestrade’s expression in the restaurant. He looked so happy. Had he ever looked so happy looking at Mycroft? He tries hard to remember, but he can’t come up with anything. He wonders how long it will take Gregory to realise that he, Mycroft, has gone. Against his better judgement, he pulls out his phone and checks it. There are no messages or missed calls, except for a text from Anthea saying that she will be there in 20 minutes.
He refolds his arms on top of his knees and puts his head down on top of his arms. He tries to imagine Gregory putting his arms around him, remembers how the simplest things feel amazing with the inspector. Surely that has to mean something? That doesn’t happen between just any two people, does it? Or was he the only one who felt so safe and cherished in their embrace? Would Gregory rather be held by the handsome brunet from the restaurant? Was he just passing the time with Mycroft until someone better came along? Had he maybe seen the brunet again recently and was he thinking on how to break up with Mycroft; was that why he had been so absent-minded and pensive this evening?
He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there, shivering at first, but gradually feeling more and more numb, the iciness on the outside matching the feeling on the inside of him. There’s the sound of footsteps down the path that leads towards his front door and he’s happy in a detached way that Anthea is here to let him in. He can go to bed and try and forget this evening ever happened. And tomorrow…. Tomorrow he’ll have to talk to Gregory, he supposes, but not now. Now, he’s too tired and heartsore and too fucking hurt to even think about it.
“Come on, get up,” a voice says and it sounds impatient, as if it’s not the first time it’s saying that. He feels two large hands wrap themselves around his upper arms and a man’s voice says: “Jesus Christ, Mycroft, how long have you been sitting here?” He’s too tired to care if the voice is upset with him and even though there’s a part of him that realises that he should answer, the question is already swimming away from him, disappearing into the dark waters of his swirling thoughts.
He feels himself being pulled upright and his legs ache as the cold muscles are stretched passively. Something soft and warm and familiar smelling is wrapped around him, even as the voice that was there before keeps up a constant litany of swearing interspersed with questions. There seems to be an undercurrent of worry, if he’s not mistaken, but he’s still too tired to care.
He makes a vaguely protesting noise when the warm covering is shifted, letting in a waft of freezing night air, but settles when he’s pulled against something warm and hard. It smells the same as the covering that is protecting the rest of him and he clumsily brings up his numb fingers and tries to fist them into the layer of cotton that covers the delicious heat. His right hand won’t latch on for some reason and it is not until the other person prises it from his fingers that he realises he was still holding onto his phone.
“You are such an idiot,” a voice close to his ear says and he feels he should protest, because he is most certainly not an idiot, he’s incredibly clever, thank you very much, but the warmth is too comforting and he is still tired.
He’s being gently pushed into moving backwards and where before there was a door there is now only empty space and the familiar smell of home and warmth. He’s clumsy as he walks along, not really knowing where he is going and not caring. All he wants is to lie down somewhere and go to sleep.
Hands on his shoulders urge him to sit down and he feels himself sinking into the cushions of a sofa. His fingers are disentangled from the cotton and the warmth at his front disappears.
Again, he makes a small, dissatisfied noise in the back of his throat and he is rewarded with a hand stroking through his hair.
“I’ll be right back, you stay here and don’t fall asleep!” says the voice, commandingly. The covering is pulled closed around him and he ducks his head down into it, trying to recreate the feeling of warmth he felt only so recently. Instead he feels miserable and cold again, there is still ice inside his chest and it hurts, it hurts so badly.
He wonders if the voice would stay if he asked it to. It may not be Gregory, but surely it would be better than being all alone? The thought of his Gregory being with another man is more painful than anything he’s ever experienced. It’s making him feel faintly nauseated. He wonders what he did wrong, apart from being himself that is, that made Gregory stop wanting him.
There is noise in the room again; things are being set down on the table and then there is a succession of unfamiliar sounds for a while before the clear sound of a match being struck. There’s the sound of flames and the smell of burning paper fills his nose. Soon, he can feel the heat from the fire in a vague way and the flames cause yellow and orange patterns behind his closed eyelids.
“Stay still,” the voice says, close to him once more and now he can feel movement from the sofa underneath him. The heat from the fire gets more intense. He curls up more tightly where he’s lying on the sofa and he wonders when he laid down, because he cannot remember.
The sofa stops moving and the fire feels close now, the warmth is starting to soak into his skin, his fingers and toes tingling with returning sensation. And just like that, he’s shivering again, his teeth chattering together noisily.
He feels himself being moved to a sitting position, then, when he’s pulled back down again, there is another body to lie on top of. “Jesus Christ,” the voice curses again and Mycroft lets himself, just for a second, pretend it is Gregory. He’s positioned on top of the other person, the body warm and comforting beneath him and something heavy is draped on top of him.
“Here, take some sips,” the voice coaxes and his head is tilted back and he can feel the rim of a cup against his lips. Despite the shivering, he manages to take a few sips of the warm beverage, tea with milk and honey he thinks, before he is allowed to slump back down again.
The hands belonging to the voice gently take his jacket off underneath the cover, hardly letting any cold air get into their cocoon. Then he is pulled up against that warm body more tightly and large, warm hands rub up and down his back in large circles.
He is coaxed to drink more tea, then there’s more rubbing, then tea again. Gradually, his shivering lessens, the heat from the fire and the tea sinking into his bones and this warm man beneath him, holding him close is keeping him safe.
He presses his still cold nose to the other man’s chest, rubs it up and down against the warm skin with obvious delight and finally, finally feels himself relax. The last thing he realises before he falls asleep, is that the voice breathes ‘You idiot’ softly over his right ear and presses a kiss against his forehead.
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When Mycroft Holmes wakes up, he is lying on the sofa, in front of a roaring fire and he is covered by the heavy duvet from his bedroom. It takes him only seconds to remember the perfectly miserable evening, Gregory looking so happy when talking to his ex-boyfriend, leaving the restaurant and then waiting for Anthea on his front stoop.
When he comes to the part where someone all but manhandled him into his own house, he sits up, startled. He remembers a male voice and a male body and he is absolutely mortified, because there is only one person who it possibly could have been.
He looks around the formal sitting room, the one he never uses unless he’s trying to impress (read: intimidate) someone, notices the table pulled to the side so the sofa could be shoved right in front of the fire, the teapot and one lonely cup on top.
As if he needed any further proof that Gregory was here, there is a pair of familiar cufflinks lying next to the teapot and underneath the duvet he is wrapped in the inspector’s long overcoat.
He wonders how long ago Gregory left and whether he’ll ever see him again. He must think Mycroft’s pathetic.
At that moment, the door opens and the man in question walks into the room, holding a mug of coffee in one hand and looking as if he didn’t get much sleep. When he sees Mycroft sitting up he hesitates for a moment, noticeable in the momentary slowing of his stride, before he visibly takes a deep breath and continues into the room.
“How are you feeling?” he asks in a carefully neutral tone of voice as he perches himself on the armrest of the sofa. He looks fairly at ease as he takes a sip from his coffee.
Mycroft cannot remember ever having felt this mortified before, not even having to explain Sherlock’s worst excesses.
“You needn’t stay,” he says as calmly as he can manage, “I’m sure you have more important things to do.”
“Fucking hell, Mycroft,” Lestrade snaps angrily, blindly reaching behind him to put his coffee mug down. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I don’t understand,” Mycroft replies, stalling.
“Like hell you don’t,” says Lestrade, slipping down the armrest so he is now sitting on the sofa cushion facing Mycroft. “Why did you run off like that yesterday?”
The question needles the elder Holmes. As if he would stay around to watch his boyfriend making eyes at another man. Before he can think better of it, he says as much. “I wasn’t particularly interested in staying, seeing that you were more interested in…another party.”
“What? What are you on about?” says Lestrade. He looks honestly bewildered and it hurts, it hurts so much because he wants to believe it. He wants to believe that Lestrade doesn’t want rid of him, that he didn’t smile so gloriously at another man, that he didn’t look as if someone had just given him the sun and the moon combined.
“I’m talking about you, talking to your ex-boyfriend,” says Mycroft, his voice clipped.
“Ah…” says Lestrade and looking faintly embarrassed as he rubs a hand up and down his neck. “I was sort of hoping you hadn’t realised that.”
Mycroft feels his own, seldom-aired, temper flare. “You were flirting with him in the middle of the restaurant, Gregory. If you hadn’t wanted me to see that, you should have waited until after we finished our dinner.”
At that, Lestrade stares at him, looking flabbergasted again. “Flirting? Who’s talking about flirting?” he asks.
“I’m talking about flirting; what else would you call it if one person is talking to another and they have the biggest, brightest smile on their face you could possibly imagine? I would have appreciated if you had chosen a less public venue to end our…association, Gregory and it would also have been nice if you would have just told me that you didn’t feel that way about me. I think I deserved that much from you at least.”
Gregory is staring at him in complete bewilderment. After a few seconds though, his face relaxes and then the absolute worst happens: he starts laughing.
Mycroft bristles, he doesn’t like being made fun of, but underneath that, his chest is smarting again, an excruciating ache at this sign that Lestrade doesn’t care at all.
“You thought I wanted to break up with you?” asks Lestrade after he calms down a bit.
“Well, I… it seemed…” starts Mycroft, frowning at the smiling man opposite him.
“Is that why you walked out of the restaurant?” he interrupts.
Mycroft doesn’t think that question even deserves an answer, so he satisfies himself by giving Lestrade an icy glare.
“Dear god, Mycroft Holmes, for being an absolute sodding genius, you can be such an idiot at times,” says Gregory and before Mycroft can even assume a facial expression that sufficiently expresses his extreme displeasure at being called an idiot, again, the inspector leans forward, his large hand cupping the left side of Mycroft’s face and kisses him.
His lips are warm and hungry and passionate and they feel so good against his own that Mycroft finds he doesn’t have the strength to fight it. Even if he has to give this up soon, even if this is the very last time he’ll ever kiss Lestrade, he cannot deny himself the experience. Lestrade’s other hand comes up to cup the right side of his face as well and his tongue hungrily moves against the seam of Mycroft’s lips. Opening them, he welcomes the man’s tongue into his mouth, luxuriates in the feel as its slippery soft wetness caresses his own and he surrenders like he always does.
Lestrade growls deep in his throat and his hands move to his upper arms and pull Mycroft against him. The feeling of those hands on his arms brings back the memory of the night before and Mycroft pulls away suddenly.
“Explain what happened last night,” he demands.
Lestrade is breathing heavily and for a moment it looks as if he’s going to ignore the question and pull Mycroft against him again. Mycroft, god help him, would let him if he did.
Then he sits back, looks at Mycroft.
“You were worried,” he says. Statement, not question.
Mycroft nods slowly.
“And because I’d told you it wasn't work and I’d only seen my family last week, you assumed there was something wrong between the two of us.”
It feels superfluous, since they aren't questions, but Mycroft nods again.
“I’m sorry,” says Lestrade and Mycroft looks up sharply. “If I’d realised that was what you were thinking, I would've told you what I was really thinking about. No matter the consequences.”
He looks at the inspector’s face, those brown eyes, so warm and open and trustworthy. And apologetic at the moment.
He nods again. “Thank you.” It is said quietly but sincerely. He’s still frustrated though. Because even though they’re apparently not breaking up just yet, he still doesn’t know what Gregory was so preoccupied with.
As if he can read his mind, Lestrade takes a deep breath.
“I was thinking about us,” he says, “I spoke to my brother about you and he made a remark that has been in the back of my mind ever since.” He breaks their connection, chooses to look at his lap instead. “I’d told him about you and he said: ‘If he’s as great as you say, then what the hell does he want with you?’”
He smiles, huffs out a breath. “He was just teasing, but… it got me thinking. About what you see in me and what I see in you. That is why I was preoccupied at the restaurant.”
Mycroft nods, he can see that. He could be the world’s foremost expert on brothers who unwittingly (or wittingly) uncover your greatest vulnerability.
“That still doesn’t explain what happened after,” he says.
Lestrade meets his eyes briefly, looks away again, clears his throat. “I was getting to that.” He is silent for a moment and if Mycroft didn’t think that Gregory is one of the bravest men he knows, he would say he was gathering courage to continue.
“I dated Leon for about a year, we broke up two years ago. Bumping into him yesterday was completely accidental and it’s been long enough that there are no more hard feelings on either side. So he came over to chat. He asked about work and then he asked whether I was seeing anyone. Said he’d just broken up with someone a few months ago. Basically gave me to understand that we could pick up where we left off.” He was quiet again and Mycroft feels his heart thumping in his chest. Leon. The brunet’s name was Leon and the man was gorgeous and Lestrade could have him if he wanted to. His stomach is twisting into a nauseating knot and that icy feeling is returning to his chest.
“It made me happy,” says Lestrade softly, playing with his own fingers in a nervous gesture Mycroft has never seen before. The agony the confession elicits is worse than seeing Lestrade’s smile yesterday.
Taking a deep breath, the Detective Inspector looks up, meets his eyes. On seeing the miserable expression that Mycroft couldn't hide even if he’d had the brain capacity to try, he scoots forwards and places his right hand against the left side of Mycroft’s face. Mycroft is too numb to move away.
“It made me so happy, because I had absolutely no desire to,” he says softly. His hand is trembling slightly where it cups his jaw and his eyes are earnest and so warm. Mycroft feels the ice in his chest melting just a tiny bit. “It made me realise I do not want anybody but you,” Lestrade whispers.
Mycroft breath hitches and the thawing in his chest accelerates exponentially.
“And I hope like bloody hell that you do see something good in me, because I love you, Mycroft Holmes.”
“Gregory,” says Mycroft in a broken voice and launches himself at his inspector. Their mouths meet hungrily, hands rubbing and caressing and pinching and soothing. Clothes are being rapidly undone and discarded, flung left and right over the sofa.
Mycroft feels as if he is bursting with light, the warmth inside of him so complete after hearing those five words. His hands push Gregory’s shirt to the side and his mouth leaves a wet trail as he kisses his way across the other’s chest, a tongue hungrily lapping at a nipple, his hand already undoing the buttons on his lover’s trousers.
Their lovemaking is hurried and passionate and wild and romantic, right in front of the fire, Mycroft sitting in Gregory’s lap, their bodies connecting in a way they have before, yet it feeling so new. It doesn’t take long for either of them to fall over the edge, for frantic movements to settle into satisfied sighs and for the two of them to end up on the sofa in a relaxed and satisfied puddle, skin to skin with their arms around each other.
For the second time, Mycroft finds himself drifting off in front of the fire, swaddled in a cocoon of warmth. He cannot remember a time where he has ever felt this content or comfortably warm and it has little to do with the fire and everything to do with the warm skin beneath his cheek and the large hand lazily stroking through his hair.
The last thing he says before he drops off to sleep is: “I love you too, my Gregory.”
The end.