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Greg woke slowly, his body relaxed in a way that he hadn’t experienced in years. The bed was empty, but he could hear Mycroft puttering around in what he assumed he was the lav.
Allowing his mind to drift back to the night before, he smiled and rolled so that he faced the door that had been left slightly ajar. The morning light had turned the room salmon, suggesting that he wouldn’t have the luxury of staying in bed that much longer.
He watched, silently, as Mycroft came out of the bathroom, dressed for the day - another three piece suit: black, paired with a white shirt and a simple red tie. A glint of gold peeked out of the pocket of his waistcoat, reminiscent of the old time pocket watch Greg’s grandfather used to wear.
Greg felt, rather than saw, Mycroft’s eyes as they found his face.
“You’re awake,” Mycroft noted, as he made his way towards the bed with easy grace. “I hope I didn’t disturb you.” He sat down and cupped Greg’s face, sliding his fingers into his hair.
His hands felt like satin against Greg’s stubble.
“You feel good,” Greg muttered, turning his face to place a kiss in Mycroft’s palm.
“So do you,” Mycroft returned, leaning down and kissing Greg’s cheek. “When are you expected at the Yard?” he asked, before tilting Greg’s face up for a proper kiss.
The kiss started out gentle, but soon grew in intensity.
Greg groaned as he opened his mouth, surrendering to the kiss, letting Mycroft plunder his mouth. He reached out, clutching at Mycroft’s carefully pleated pants.
“I’ve got more time than you do, by the looks of it,” he muttered, punctuating his words with small kisses along Mycroft’s freshly shaved cheek. God he smelled good.
“If you’re not careful,” Greg warned, reaching up to stroke Mycroft’s skin where his lips had just been, “you’re going to end up with wrinkles and beard burn.”
“I can think of much more deplorable outcomes,” Mycroft said, leaning back in for another kiss, this time with a little more teeth than tongue.
Greg had to fight the urge to pull him back down onto the still warm sheets and strip him back out of that suit.
“Why are you always dressed?” he groused, resting his teeth on Mycroft’s jaw with no real bite.
“I was naked in the shower...” Mycroft informed him. “Not my fault that your lazy bones were still in bed.”
“You should have woken me up.”
“You needed the sleep.” Mycroft’s expression gentled into a fond smile. “Besides, it’s early yet.”
“You’re up.”
“Well, yes.” Mycroft dropped a kiss on his forehead, then trailed his fingertips along the side of Greg’s neck, leaving goose bumps in their wake. “But I have a breakfast meeting this morning and you don’t.”
Greg laughed, then pulled himself up in a seated position, letting the sheets pool at his waist.
He could feel his blood run south as Mycroft’s eyes raked over him.
“I was going to reprimand you for snooping through my calendar, but I think that it’d be a better use of my time - and yours - to warn you that if you don’t stop looking at me like that, you’re going to be late.”
Greg licked his lips and leaned forward, watching Mycroft’s eyes dilate with great satisfaction. “I don’t care if you are having tea with the Queen.”
Mycroft chuckled and stood up, smoothing his jacket over his hips. “Now Gregory, why would the Queen be bothering with a minor traffic minister?”
Greg cocked his eyebrow, making it as clear as he could that he was not buying it for a minute. “Yes. Why indeed?”
Shifting under the scrutiny, Mycroft checked his watch. He returned it to his waistcoat. “I have a late meeting this evening,” he said. “I’d like it very much if you were to be here when I returned.”
Leaning forward, Greg took one of Mycroft’s hands in his own. “Did you really mean it - what you said last night?”
“I said many things last night, Gregory.”
“That nothing would give you more pleasure than me making myself at home - here - with you?”
Mycroft looked surprised. “Yes, I did mean that.”
“You really want me to move in here?” Greg asked. “I mean....” he trailed off, not sure what he really meant, other than it seemed way too soon. Way too intimate. Way too...something. “It’s not like you really know that much about me - I mean, I could be anybody.”
Mycroft raised one eyebrow, before disentangling himself from Greg’s grasp. “If you think that I’m being incautious, you may rest assured that is not the case. I would like you to live here, with me. If that is something that you would like, the rest can be worked out as we go.”
Greg opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“You don’t have to answer now.” Mycroft touched his cheek. “In fact, it would be better if you didn’t - at least not at the moment.”
“Then when?” Greg asked, not sure what he was supposed to say.
“You’ll know.” Mycroft smiled enigmatically. He leaned down and placed his lips on Greg’s cheek. He breathed in deeply before pulling away.
“You smell good,” he said as he straightened his tie.
“I smell like you,” Greg pointed out.
“Actually,” Mycroft said, “You smell like us. Be here when I return.”
Greg snorted. “Was that a question or a suggestion?”
“Neither,” Mycroft admitted as he turned to go. “But it is my desire. Whether or not it also yours, I will say simply, ‘until we meet again.’”
An hour passed before Greg made it down to the kitchen. Just like the other times he’d come down after Mycroft, there was a fresh pot of coffee brewed and a single cup sitting on the counter.
This time, however, there was also a single piece of paper, folded, sitting atop three file folders that had been placed conspicuously on the island. The top file was several inches thick and looked suspiciously like the one that Greg had knocked to the floor the night before. The other two were thin, fairly insubstantial in comparison. There was also a pen.
He picked up the sheet of paper first.
Gregory,
You seem to think that I am a trusting person and that I am being, perhaps, incautious in my intentions towards you. I am not, by nature, a risk taker. Indeed, you are the one taking most of the risks should you accept my invitation. However, know that my intentions are sincere. I meant everything I said to you last night. Look at the files. Take a look around the house. I would ask that you not touch anything that looks ‘classified’, but I know, already, that you won’t. If I did not have complete confidence in the type of man you are, I would never have entrusted you with my home, let alone with my brother.
Yours, if you will have me,
M. Holmes
Greg reread the note, before folding it back in two and laying it on the counter.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and carried the three files into the dining room. The table, undoubtedly still scarred from Sherlock’s chemical spill earlier in the week, was covered with a heavy emerald cloth.
Pulling out one of the side chairs, he tossed the files on the table and settled down. He took a drink of coffee, fully allowing himself to enjoy the flavor, before he opened the thickest of the three files.
And then proceeded to pore through the contents of his life.
Perhaps not surprising, there were several 8x10s of him and Sherlock, some of which were glossy, as if taken by a private investigator or some other form of professional photographer. Others, however, were grainy and out of focus - taken from CCTV if he had to guess.
Him and Sherlock at numerous crime scenes throughout the city.
The two of them standing in front of a kabob cart - Greg trying to force the skinny tosser to eat something before he fell down.
Greg, hands in his pockets, head down, following Sherlock into an Italian restaurant.
Sherlock, calling Greg an idiot after having insulted Greg’s entire team.
Greg and Sherlock in the back of a cab.
Sherlock, looking at Greg with what looked suspiciously like something more than mere tolerance.
Greg, taking a punch from some drunk three times their size, so Sherlock wouldn’t.
Greg, stepping in between Sherlock and Anderson.
Greg, pushing a sandwich in Sherlock’s hands.
Greg, his hand on Sherlock’s back, pushing him into a cab and out of the rain.
Greg, yelling at Sherlock with a bag of powdered cocaine in his hands.
Then several, of Greg...
A profile.
A close up.
Him, scowling at his desk, doing paper work.
Him, laughing.....
Him, shrugging into a jacket on his way home from the Yard.
Him, leaving the courthouse the day his divorce was finalized.
Him, asleep in the third story bedroom of Mycroft’s elegant townhouse....
Setting the pictures aside, Greg flipped the file partition, only to find every job review he’d ever had, his school records, his tax records going back for at least fifteen years, his divorce decree, his marriage certificate, his birth certificate, his medical records.
Then, finally, interview transcripts ranging from former coworkers to his primary school teacher, Ms. Taylor-Smith. Not to mention snippets about his “character” from his ex-brother-in-law, his ex-father-in-law, his ex-wife, and a slew of past lovers. Hell, the only people Mycroft - or, rather, his fleet of assistants (he wondered if it had been Anthea) - hadn’t talked to had been his Mum and Dad.
Sherlock’s mocking words when Greg had accused him of giving Mycroft - who at that time had been a completely unknown entity - his things, came fluttering back: ‘...when it comes to security, him having your phone - or your badge - is the least of your problems...’
Not entirely sure what to feel, nor what it meant that Mycroft had fallen asleep with this in his lap last night when he’d all but given up on Greg coming over, he shoved everything back into the file and turned his attention to the second one - it was marked classified, stamped with Greg’s security clearance, which he knew good and well was only a fraction of what Mycroft’s had to be.
He flipped it open.
There were three photos: the first was a headshot of Mycroft. He was wearing a camel suit with a brown tie - nothing fancy, but rather something that you might see on a identification badge. The second was one of Mycroft standing a half step behind Prince Phillip, who, himself, was a half step behind the Queen. The third was him in combat fatigues, arguing with someone who looked suspiciously like Vladimir Putin.
Greg knew he was screwed when the thing that surprised him the most about that photo was how good Mycroft looked in camo....
The only other thing the folder held was a single sheet of paper that revealed Mycroft’s name, his date of birth (October 17, 1966), his parents’ names (Vivianne and Siger), known siblings (Sherrinford [deceased] and Sherlock), and a laundry list of degrees, certifications, and language proficiencies. Official position (Traffic Minister), Emergency Contact (Vivianne Holmes).
Everything else was classified.
Leaving the pictures of Mycroft lying on the counter top, he flipped open the last file. There were two forms and another note.
Gregory,
By now it’s probably very clear to you that you are the one with the most to lose by accepting my offer. There are simply some things that I will never be able to tell you. But know that I have only ever been untruthful with you one time: I do love you - there is no almost nor maybe about it. I have done so from afar for some time now. And while it is my most sincere desire that you will be there when I return, I understand if you are not. But if you are, whether it is on a permanent basis is, of course, entirely up to you.
M.H.
With surprising steady hands, Greg picked up the first form.
As he scanned the document, he took a sip of coffee, surprised to find that it had gone cold. Forcing himself to swallow, he set the coffee cup down and really looked at the page in his hand.
Essentially, Mycroft had managed to get him out of the last six months of the lease on his flat; all he had to do was sign the document. Not only would the lease disappear, but Greg would also get his deposits back, no questions asked.
He set the document aside and reached for the second. It was one of the Yard’s change of address forms - already filled out.
All he had to do was sign.
Shaking his head, he picked up the headshot of Mycroft and took a hard, long look.
He’d known the man for a little less than a week, yet he was considering it. It should have freaked him out more than it did. That said, he was surprisingly calm. He thought back to their very first interaction, his initial assessment of the car, the man, and all of the casual, but not necessarily ostentatious, displays of wealth.
Mycroft - not that he had known his name - had seemed like a better option, given his current circumstances, even then. And he’d only improved with exposure.
Not to put too fine a point on it, Greg had slept better here than he had since before his divorce. He’d been taken care of, almost to a ridiculous degree, more so than any other time in his adult life. He’d been wanted. And, God, how he had wanted.
On the one hand, it was totally insane to give up his flat and move in with some bloke whom he’d just met - especially some bloke who had obviously been stalking him for sometime.
‘Technically, he was stalking Sherlock,’ his inner voice chimed in. ‘You were merely a distraction.’
On the other hand, it wasn’t like Greg was going to be held prisoner. No matter how much power Mycroft obviously wielded, there was no way that he’d be able to keep Greg here against his will. Assuming, that is, Greg ever wanted to leave.
And God knew the townhouse was about thousand times nicer than Greg’s crummy old flat. And it was certainly nicer to have someone to come home too - even if meant, on occasion that he’d probably end up staring at Sherlock’s bed head over his morning Weetabix.
Of course, there’s no way that he’d be able to pay even a quarter of his fair share of rent - though Mycroft hadn’t mentioned him paying anything, which was very generous, but also very unsettling.
Greg had been independent since he left home. He couldn’t imagine being anyone’s kept anything. They’d have to talk about what was fair if they were going to do this - well, maybe not fair, but at least what was doable.
Which led to the next question: would he even be allowed to sleep in Mycroft’s room? Or would he be relegated to “his” room - the one on the third floor where he’d found his overnight case that he’d left in the entryway and yet another new change of clothes?
Greg lay the form down and pushed himself away from the table with a sigh.
He wandered into the kitchen and tossed his cold coffee in the sink. He refilled the cup with fresh and then walked into the living room, leaving the files, the photos, the contracts, and what he normally would have considered - had they not originated out of Mycroft’s need to look after his brother’s welfare - nearly insurmountable breaches of his privacy behind.
He wanted to be angry.
He wanted to be annoyed.
But he also recognized that Mycroft was showing his hand; in fact, this might be the closest thing to a confession, if not an apology, that he was likely to get at this stage of the game.
He started to wander through the house - hadn’t Mycroft told him that he should? But instead of heading into any one of the yet uncharted rooms, he found himself back in the kitchen.
Taking a deep breath, he set down his half-finished cup of coffee, snatched up the pen, and headed back into the dining room.
“Sign me up,” he muttered; the sound of the pen slashing across the heavy paper echoed through the room. “Sign me up.”