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It was a Saturday.
Their sessions didn’t normally fall on Saturdays, because Greg could scarcely be tracked down on the weekends (by his mother, at least). They also generally started past four in the afternoon.
And yet Mycroft was standing before Greg’s flat, listening as his mother shuffled across the floor to let him in. It was a perfectly lovely day – Mycroft could have been lounging outside on his parent’s grounds finishing up a book (not that he could say that he minded coming over), and Greg could have taken his bike out on some of the paths that were usually mucked up with mud.
The reason that Mycroft was there on the sunniest, bluest, altogether most splendid day of the year, and the reason Greg wasn’t roaring down a miraculously dusty dirt road, was because of four cut classes in one week and a very livid Ms. Lestrade.
Mycroft plucked at his sleeves. It was too hot for a long-sleeved shirt swaddled in a vest, but as large as his wardrobe was it was limited, and his arms were a soft-muscled disgrace besides. The rush of cool air when Greg’s mother opened the door had him sighing with relief.
She ushered him inside, gesturing for him to settle on the squishy sofa and stepping into the tiny kitchen that the living room opened into. “Greg should be out soon. Well, twenty minutes or so. I’ve been trying to wake him up for the past hour.”There was the sound of water hitting glass, and she emerged with a tray of tea and cookies (with a thoughtful bowl of carrot sticks on the side. She’d noticed how Mycroft avoided the cookies as if they were laced with poison). She settled beside him on the sofa and he thanked her politely for the tea.
“Thank you so much for coming out on a weekend, dear.”
“Not a problem.”
“Four classes this week, I just can’t believe it! He’s wasting all of your efforts.”
Mycroft sipped silently at his tea and Greg’s mother chattered on.
“His marks have improved since you offered to tutor him. I really don’t know what we’d do without you – you’re such a good boy. It’s wonderful to have you around – not that Greg’s not good. He might not listen all of the time but when he’s not trucking around with those friends of his he’ll help me around the house, or out in the garden.” She smiled affectionately and Mycroft felt warmth spread up his chest, not sweltering like the heat outside but very comfortable. He set his mug back onto the table, glancing up and catching sight of a muss-headed, bleary-eyed Greg stumbling down the hall.
“Aw, mum, you didn’t tell me he was here yet!” Greg grimaced apologetically towards Mycroft and scurried into the bathroom, re-emerging with his hair dripping. His mother rose from the sofa and looked at him sternly, though there were still the lines of a restrained smile at the corners of her lips.
“Now you’re not to waste any of Mr. Holmes’s time. He was kind enough to come attend to you during his break.” Greg groaned.
“I know, mum.”
She nodded and stepped over to him, smoothing out his sopping hair and patting his shoulders. “I won’t be a distraction.” With a final smile towards Mycroft she ambled down the hallway and into the den, leaving Greg to come sit awkwardly beside him.
“I didn’t cut any of the important classes, you know,” he said sheepishly, reaching for a biscuit.
“I think your mother would insist that they’re all important.”
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get on with it, then.” Greg dragged over an arithmetic book, and Mycroft caught sight of his hands. Sturdy and rugged, with little cuts and scars marring their surface, mostly from working at his bike, but some of them – Mycroft glanced down at his own hands – bore the tell-tale signs of thorns, and there was dirt beneath his nails. Mycroft snuck a smile, imagining Greg battling to keep the rosebushes in check, much as he did in his own mother’s garden.