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DI Greg Lestrade rounded the corner at speed only to find he was in a dead end alley. “Shit!”, he gasped. Leaning over, he braced his hands on his knees and gave himself a few moments to suck wind and allow his heart rate to return to normal. He finally righted himself and turned around to make his way back to the cafe where they had finally found Sherlock.
He paused at a corner and glanced around, trying to get his bearings. He wasn’t sure if he’d turned left here in the chase or at the next corner. Greg pulled out his mobile and began searching Google Maps. “Fuck you, Sherlock,” he muttered. As he was swiping through the map, his mobile rang. He sighed with relief at the familiar number. Greg answered the call.
“Tell me you have him,” came the request in a clipped tone.
“Nope. Gave me the slip.”
“Blast!”
Greg raised his eyebrows at the outburst on the other end of the line. “Any chance you can pick me up? I’ve no clue where I am.”
“One moment.” Greg heard an exchange in Italian. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Exactly five minutes later, a cab pulled up to the curb. Greg opened the rear passenger door and climbed in. Mycroft Holmes sat in the back focused on his mobile.
“Thanks, Mycroft,” Greg offered. “I hate foot chases in unfamiliar cities in countries where I don’t speak the language.”
Mycroft grunted and scowled at the screen of his mobile.
Greg leaned his head back against the seat of the cab, still recovering from the foot race. He’d nearly drifted off when he heard Mycroft curse softly.
“Any leads?” Greg asked quietly.
“No.” Mycroft put his mobile away and spoke to the cabbie.
Greg enjoyed the sound of Mycroft’s voice as he conversed with the cabbie. English, Greek, Italian, no matter the language, he always sounded assured and confident. When the exchange ended Greg asked, “Any ideas?”
Mycroft sighed. “Waiting.”
“For inspiration?” Greg cracked open an eye and peered at Mycroft.
Mycroft gave him a withering look. Greg grinned back at him and watched Mycroft glance away.
“No, for Sherlock to use his credit card. I have a trace on it.”
“And in the meantime?”
“We go back to the hotel and check back in.”
“Good, I could use a shower.”
Mycroft hummed noncommittally.
“And food. Christ, I’m hungry. I know you are too.”
Mycroft didn’t reply. He stared out the window.
Greg settled back and closed his eyes. Sleep when you can. Eat when you can. He was the “muscle”, so to speak, on this mission. He needed to conserve his energy. Besides, it was easier if he pretended to be asleep. For both of them.
They arrived back at their hotel a half hour later. Greg paid the cab, and Mycroft went in to reclaim their bags and their rooms. Greg expected when he entered the lobby to find Mycroft waiting for him with the keys. Instead, he was still at the front desk speaking rapidly in Italian with the clerk.
“Dovrà bastare,”
Mycroft grumbled. He took the keys offered to him.
“Everything okay?” Greg asked.
“Not precisely.” Mycroft headed for the elevator. Greg grabbed his bag and followed.
“What’s wrong?”
Mycroft jammed the call button for the lift. “We were unable to get our rooms back.”
“Okay, but we have rooms.” Greg shrugged. “So what if they aren’t as posh.”
The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside. Mycroft selected the floor.
“It’s not that they aren’t as ‘posh’, as you put it.”
“Okay what’s the problem.”
“It’s only one room.”
Silence, thick and uncomfortable, hung in the air. The elevator doors opened, and Mycroft led the way to their door. He pressed the keycard against the lock.
“Well, I’m sure there’s more than one bed,“ Greg offered.
The door was pushed open to reveal a glorious suite with a cozy loveseat facing a fireplace, long drapes hung floor to ceiling pulled back to allow access out to the balcony, and a single large bed with a romantic, gauzy canopy and many, fluffy pillows.
“Or not.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Mycroft sat on the loveseat with his laptop, searching his network of resources for any trace of Sherlock. He could hear the shower going in the bathroom, and tried very hard not to picture Gregory Lestrade naked under the stream of water, with soap running down his chest and abdomen, streaming off his—
“No.” Mycroft softly remonstrated his imagination.
“It’s not your imagination. You know how he looks naked.”
His hind brain was being extremely noncompliant.
“Enough. That was two years ago, and under extremely different circumstances.”
The admonishment was too late. Mycroft’s brain was now teeming with all the memories he’d been trying to suppress since he and Gregory started this mission to bring Sherlock home for Mummy’s birthday.
“He was in the middle of his divorce.” Mycroft reminded himself. “He was looking for comfort. That’s all it was.” He stared unseeing at the laptop screen, listening to the water and remembering.
Greg shut off the shower and stood dripping for a few moments before grabbing his towel and drying off. He thought about Mycroft sitting on the other side of the door. If this was two years ago, he would have sauntered out of the bathroom completely nude, reveled in the naked want in Mycroft’s gaze, and then taken him to bed for some of the best sex Greg’d ever experienced.
He understood why Mycroft ended their brief, but intense, affair. Greg was newly separated and while committed to being divorced, he wasn’t ready to make any other kinds of commitments. He just wished Mycroft had left the door open for rekindling the romance. So far however, Mycroft had kept things cordial, but professional.
He ran a comb through his wet hair and regarded himself in the mirror. He was more fit now than he was two years ago. Free of the stress of a crumbling marriage and with a little more time for self care, he’d regained some of the muscle he’d lost years ago. He may be more gray now, but he’d not looked this good in many years. He’d caught Mycroft sneaking peeks when he thought Greg wasn’t paying attention. But Greg was always paying attention to Mycroft.
Greg wrapped his towel around his waist and stepped out of the bathroom. Mycroft was on the love seat hunched over his laptop. “Anything?”
Mycroft didn’t look up. “Not as such. He’s not left Rome. The card was used at a cafe not far from the Termini.”
Greg leaned over the back of the sofa to look at the laptop screen. “You think he’s going to hop a train?”
“No idea. It could all be a ruse.” Mycroft pulled up a map of Europe with rail lines criss-crossing the terrain.
“Again, why are we chasing Sherlock all over Europe? Surely, he knows your Mum’s birthday is coming up.”
“My brother can’t remember your name 90% of the time. Do you really think he’s incapable of forgetting his mother’s birthday?”
“Touché.”
Mycroft brought his thumb to his mouth and began to chew on the edge of his nail. “It’s hard to predict where he’ll go next, if we don’t know why he’s here.”
“Here’s an idea. He does remember, and he’s looking for a birthday present.”
“Of course.” Mycroft turned to look at Greg. He gasped softly as he realized Greg was quite close, clean, freshly shaved, and—dear God—half naked.
“What?” Greg asked innocently.
Mycroft blinked a few times, trying to recollect what he’d been thinking before being confronted with the abject loveliness that was Gregory Lestrade. “Olives,” he finally replied.
“Olives?”
“Yes.” Mycroft used the cursor to point out on the map where they had picked up Sherlock’s trail. “See, we found him first here in Greece. Now we’ve tracked him to Italy. I expect he’ll head to Spain next. Possibly then to Portugal.”
“Or Morocco,” Greg offered.
“Yes. The finest oil-cured olives are from Morocco,” Mycroft confirmed. He started composing a message to send back to Anthea.
“So why would Sherlock be going to olive growing regions?”
“I believe he’s buying Mummy’s birthday present.”
“Olives?”
“Mummy is quite the connoisseur of olives. A selection of olives from each region would be a present she would enjoy greatly.”
“Aw, isn’t he thoughtful?” Greg straightened up and stretched his back. “Though why he didn’t just visit the food hall at Harrods or go to Borough Market is escaping me.”
“Now where is the fun in that?” Mycroft responded. He sent his message and closed the laptop.
“Spoken like a Holmes.” Greg yawned. “I’m knackered.”
Mycroft stood and looked at the one bed in the room. It was ample enough for the two of them he supposed. “We should retire. I expect we’ll need to be ready to move quickly tomorrow, once we determine if Sherlock is going to Spain or Morocco. Anthea will alert me when she has any information regarding his movements.” Mycroft paused. “I assume you’re not uncomfortable with the idea of sharing a bed for the night.” He inwardly winced at the stiffness of his tone.
“Nope, not at all. I mean, we’re grown ups. Not like we don’t know how to behave.”
“Precisely.”
“Exactly.”
“So it’s settled.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll just…” Mycroft gestured to the bathroom.
“Right, I guess I’ll put on some pants.” Greg gestured towards his suitcase.
Mycroft raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He gathered his pajamas and toiletries and headed into the bathroom.
Greg smacked his forehead. “Stupid,” he muttered. He rummaged through his suitcase and found a pair of clean track bottoms.
When Mycroft came out of the bathroom, Greg was already in bed, curled on his side and facing away from Mycroft. Mycroft moved quietly and climbed into the bed next to Greg. He lay on his back, staring up at the canopy and listening to Greg breathe, not convinced Greg was yet asleep.
“Gregory?” Mycroft whispered. He turned his head to gaze at the back of Greg’s head, wanting to touch the soft, silver strands.
“Mmm?” It was a sleepy, soft hum.
“If I’ve not said, thank you for your support on this endeavor. You’ve been invaluable.”
“S’what friends are for,” Greg mumbled.
Mycroft didn’t argue, but he was pretty sure what Greg was doing was above and beyond mere friendship.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Mycroft answered his mobile mid ring on the second ring. “Yes?”
“We’ve got activity on Sherlock’s card,” Anthea reported.
Mycroft started to move and realized he was pinned to the bed. Greg was spooning him and had his arm draped over Mycroft. Reluctantly, he lifted Greg’s arm away from his waist and slid out of the bed.
“Morocco or Spain?” Mycroft kept his voice soft and low.
“Spain. The Balearics. Why are you whispering?”
Mycroft had moved to the small sofa where his laptop was. “I don’t want to wake Gregory.” He braced himself.
Anthea squealed. “I knew it. I knew this trip would bring you two back together.”
“We are not ‘back together’. We were never together. We merely had to share a room tonight. Strictly platonic.”
“Just the room or did you have to share the bed?” Anthea wanted details.
Mycroft opened up his laptop. “Can we focus on the Sherlock problem?”
“Okay, Grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy,” Mycroft hissed.
“It’s fine. I’d be grumpy, too,” Anthea let a beat go by before continuing. “If I had to leave the bed of a handsome man to talk about Sherlock.”
Mycroft heard the bed creak and then the soft click of the bathroom door. “This is not an appropriate topic of discussion. Now, we think Sherlock is gathering a selection of olives for my mother.”
“Olives? Well that would explain why he was in Turkey and Greece.”
“Exactly.”
“So he’s probably heading where? Algiers? Morocco?” Anthea mused. “Could also be Portugal, and then on to France.”
“He doesn’t have enough time. Mummy’s birthday is in four days, and I promised her we would be there.” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose.
“You really shouldn’t make promises for Sherlock.”
“Yes, I’ve been told.” Greg had made that abundantly clear to Mycroft when they started this adventure. “I believe Sherlock will next head to Morocco, and from there he will likely return to mainland Spain.”
“Flights from Palma to Marrakech go through Barcelona.”
“If we can get to Barcelona, perhaps we can head him off.”
“Umm… one problem.”
“What problem?”
“You’re still in Rome.”
“And that is a problem, why?”
“The airline workers are on strike.”
“Since when?”
“Since midnight.”
“Good Lord.”
“Explain to me again why we’re taking a ferry to Barcelona and not a train?” Greg asked as they waited to board.
“Because of the airline strike, the trains were all booked. We were lucky to be able to book passage on the ferry.” Mycroft glanced at his watch and peered ahead. He didn’t like waiting in queues.
“As long as it gets us there in time to catch up with Sherlock.”
“It’ll be cutting it close,” Mycroft agreed. “But we should arrive in time to meet up with him at the airport on his way back from Morroco.”
“To be honest, I won’t mind spending a day in Barcelona being tourists with you. I really enjoyed our day in Civitavecchia.” Greg smiled at Mycroft.
“It seemed like the best use of our time as we waited to be able to board.” Mycroft’s response was clipped, but Greg could see he was pleased by the slight color in his cheeks and upturn of his lips.
They had explored Fort Michaelangelo and toured the National Archeology Museum. Visiting the sites with Mycroft was a revelation to Greg. He never had much patience for reading the descriptions and the guides. Mycroft, however, read quickly and generally already knew something about the topic. He would give Greg a quick, dry synopsis that often had Greg giggling at inappropriate moments. Afterwards, they feasted on stuffed calamari and gelato, talking about their day. Hours had passed without either of them thinking about Sherlock.
They slowly made their way on board, and Mycroft led them to their cabin. “I requested a superior outside cabin, but it appears we’ve been upgraded to a junior suite.” He swiped the key card and opened the door.
“Oh wow!” Greg exclaimed as he entered. He set their bags on the floor next to the bed and went to the windows, pushing back the curtains. “Look at that!”
Mycroft looked around the room frowning. “This is not right,” he muttered.
“What’s not right?”
“I told Anthea to request a cabin with two beds.”
Greg looked around and noted the one ample bed. There was also an armchair and loveseat with a small table that could be used for in-room dining. Along one wall of the cabin was a long counter, which could be used as a desk or vanity. The ensuite door was just past the counter. “Oh, well. I can sleep on the sofa,” he offered.
Mycroft sighed. “You’ll do no such thing.”
“Well, you’re not sleeping on that loveseat. Not with those legs of yours.”
“I’m going to speak with the purser.” Mycroft opened the cabin door.
“Mycroft, before you go off in a huff, come here.” Greg tilted his head towards the windows.
“I’m not in a huff.” Mycroft shut the door and went over to Greg.
From the window they could see the lights of the port twinkling and the water glittering with the reflections. They stood shoulder to shoulder and admired the view.
When Greg finally spoke his voice was soft. “We managed last night.” He placed a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “We can do it again.” Their eyes met and Greg tried to silently communicate he was open to more.
Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but then stopped himself. He nodded and stepped away from the window. “I think I’ll take a walk about the ship.”
“That sounds like a good idea. Would you mind my company?” Greg asked.
“No, not at all.”
Greg couldn’t sleep. He got out of the bed and went to the large window the cabin sported. Moonlight glistened and glittered on the water outside and filled the room with a soft light. Not for the first time, he wondered if he could convince Mycroft to call off this search for Sherlock and enjoy the sights in Barcelona instead.
“Why are you up?” Mycroft’s sleepy voice broke through the steady hum of the ferry’s engines.
“No reason. I guess I have trouble sleeping on boats,” Greg replied. “Miss me?” He asked half seriously.
“Cold,” Mycroft muttered and rolled over.
Taking the hint with a smile, Greg got back in the bed. Mycroft squirmed close and sighed. Greg leaned his head on his hand to watch Mycroft breathe. He was definitely asleep and probably was even when he asked Greg why he was out of bed.
Greg couldn’t resist dropping a kiss on Mycroft’s shoulder. He lay down and after a moment gave into the urge to lightly spoon against Mycroft. Mycroft pressed his icy feet in between Greg’s calves. Greg suppressed a shiver and happily resigned himself to be a human heater for the night.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Standing on the deck of the ferry, Greg and Mycroft watched the lights of the Port of Barcelona come closer. They would be docked soon. He glanced at Mycroft standing next to him. He was resting his elbows on the railing as he leaned forward watching the shoreline. The enforced relaxation of the last two days had done wonders for Mycroft. Since they had an entire day on the ferry, Greg managed to talk Mycroft into trying out the spa on board. The massage eased his stiff posture, and he was smiling more. The wind had blown his forehead curl loose, and Greg was totally smitten by it.
The enforced proximity made Greg yearn to be closer still. Waking in the night to see Mycroft so close and look so touchable was sweet torture. Even now he wanted to wrap his arm around Mycroft’s waist and pull him close. Instead, Greg joined him leaning on the rail, careful to keep himself from being too close.
“What’s our plan once we dock?”
“We find a hotel with a more robust signal than what we’ve been able to get.” Mycroft frowned slightly at having been thwarted by the inferior technology.
“As long as they have a restaurant with good paella and Cava, I’ll be happy.”
“Hopefully Anthea has some information, so we can determine where Sherlock might be heading next.”
“I thought you said he’d be heading to Marrakech?”
“That seems the most likely destination, but he could choose to go to Lisbon instead. He might decide to do that, if he deduces that I would expect him to go to Marrakech.”
“But if he knows you know that he’s going to Marrakech and decides to go to Lisbon instead, wouldn’t he also presume you would deduce the change in plans?”
“And then decide to stick with plans to go to Marrakech? That is exactly what I’m predicting, hence we are in Barcelona.”
Greg shook his head. “Trying to think like you makes me dizzy.”
“It must be dizzy in a good way, since you’ve yet to give up trying.” Mycroft risked a sidelong glance at Greg.
“Definitely in a good way.” Greg smiled and met Mycroft’s gaze. He smiled more broadly as Mycroft ducked his head and turned back to look at the port.
“Can you get us on the flight?” Mycroft asked. He hated making calls while at a meal, but needs must. If they were going to catch up with Sherlock, it was going to be tight.
“Yes, and I believe…” Anthea paused, and Mycroft waited, listening to the sound of her typing. “Ha!”
“Success?”
“Better than success. I’ve got you booked in seats next to him.”
“Oh, he’ll absolutely loathe that.”
“Just be sure to stay out of sight and board after he does.”
“Of course,” Mycroft huffed. “I’m not new at this.”
“Well, it’s been a while. You could be rusty.”
“I beg your pardon!” Mycroft was offended by the suggestion his covert skills might not be up to par.
Greg glanced up from the plate of paella he’d been enjoying and raised his eyebrows.
Mycroft rolled his eyes and gestured at his mobile.
Greg shrugged and went back to his meal.
Anthea decided to change topics. “So how were your accommodations on board the ferry?”
“Fine.” Mycroft replied dismissively.
“Not too cramped? Cabins on board ships can be quite small.” Anthea’s solicitous questions didn’t fool Mycroft, and he was aware she wasn’t intending to fool him.
“It was adequate. It was only one night after all.”
“Only adequate? I’d arranged for an upgrade.”
“I noticed,” Mycroft gritted out.
“Let me know if you need help arranging a hotel room when you get to—“
“Absolutely not.” Mycroft ended the call.
“How’s Anthea?” Greg asked casually.
“Meddlesome,” Mycroft fumed.
“Oh good.” Greg plucked a clam from its shell and happily ate it.
“What?”
“What?” Greg took a sip of his Cava and gave Mycroft an innocent look. “You should eat.” Greg nodded at Mycroft’s nearly untouched meal.
Mycroft shook off the feeling he was being plotted against. He knew it was highly improbable.
“We’ve tickets on the same flight Sherlock is taking to Lisbon.”
“So not Marrakech?” Greg moved his chair back under the umbrella to be closer to Mycroft.
“No, he’s in Marrakech now.”
“Christ, he gets around.”
Mycroft hummed in agreement. “He’s flying back through Barcelona before going on to Lisbon.”
“Okay. How’s he not going to make us, being on the same flight?”
“Oh, he’ll know we’re there. We’re sitting next to him.”
“He’s going to hate that.” Greg raised his wine glass to salute Mycroft.
“Indeed.” Mycroft mimicked the gesture and tapped his glass against Greg’s.
Greg sipped his wine and set down the glass. “So how long do we have until we have to be at the airport tomorrow?”
“The flight is in the evening, so we have most of the day to fill.”
“Do we have time to see that big cathedral Gaudí designed?”
“La Sagrada Familia? I doubt it, seeing as you need to book tickets in advance. However, we could go to Casa Vicens. It’s a private home designed by Gaudí, now a museum, and not as well-known an attraction.”
“Casa Vicens, then lunch, before heading to the airport?”
“Sounds like an excellent plan.” Mycroft smiled, feeling like everything was coming together. Greg grinned back at him, and the joy Mycroft experienced at that was even better than the fact they were closing in on Sherlock.
Greg stood outside Mycroft’s hotel room in his pajamas, debating if he should knock or just go back to his room. It was very late, but there was no way he could stand another minute in his hotel room. He finally tapped firmly at the door and listened. He tapped again and eventually heard movement.
An adorably sleep-rumpled Mycroft answered the door. He visibly shook off his drowsiness at the sight of Greg.
“I’m so sorry to wake you,” Greg began.
“Are you okay?” Mycroft asked, worried. He looked Greg up and down critically. “Are you ill? You’re flushed and sweating.” He reached out and placed a hand on Greg’s forehead.
“I’m not ill. The heater in my room, it won’t stop. It’s like 40 C in there. Maintenance won’t be in until the morning, and they don’t have another room available.”
Mycroft nodded. “Get your things and come back here.”
“You’re a star,” Greg sighed with relief.
“Mind you, there’s only one bed.”
Greg snorted. “Of course there is.” He gave Mycroft a lopsided smile.
Mycroft returned the smile tentatively. “As you’ve said, we’ve managed before, we can manage again.”
“Oh, good memory.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Hurry up. I’m tired.”
Greg watched Sherlock come aboard the plane and head towards him. He raised the newspaper he was reading a little higher. He felt someone sit down in the seat next to him.
“Really, Lestrade, you’re going to have to do better than that.”
Greg lowered the newspaper and smiled. “Oh, fancy seeing you here.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please. You’ve been following me all over Europe, at the behest of my brother, no doubt. Doing a terrible job of it, since I didn’t see you at all in Marrakech.”
“No, airline strike in Italy.” Greg shrugged. “But we caught up with you eventually.”
“We?”
Greg tilted his head and grinned broadly.
“No.” Sherlock muttered, gathering himself to stand. “No. No. No.”
“Oh yes, brother-mine.”
Sherlock turned toward the speaker, eyes wide. A blonde, wearing a copious amount of lipstick and thick false eyelashes and sitting directly across the aisle, dimpled prettily at Sherlock. Mycroft gave Sherlock a finger wave showing off his shiny acrylic manicure.
Sherlock sunk into his seat, seething and defeated.
Greg waved back at Mycroft with a wink.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Sherlock snatched his keycard from Mycroft and stormed off to the lifts, dragging his suitcase behind him.
“Sherlock!” Mycroft started after his brother, but Greg gripped his arm, preventing him.
“Let him go. Give him some space,” Greg advised. “We’ve been in his face for the last few hours. You’ll be in the room with him all night.”
Mycroft paused and watched the lift doors open and his brother step in. Sherlock glared back at Mycroft as the doors closed.
“Let’s get a drink.” Greg motioned to the hotel bar.
Mycroft gazed at the elevator, then nodded his head.
“I don’t know what he expected me to do.” Mycroft picked up the glass of port Greg had placed in front of him.
Greg slid into the chair across from Mycroft. “Well, you can’t expect that he’d be grateful that you followed him all over Europe in an attempt to corral him.”
“I suppose not,” Mycroft agreed glumly. He sipped his port and put it down on the table, toying absently with the short stem of his glass. His flashy manicure seemed to mock him. He needed to find some way to get the polish off, he thought absently.
“Hey,” Greg said softly and reached out, resting his hand on Mycroft’s wrist.
Mycroft’s fingers stilled, and he stared at Greg’s hand. It was warm and comforting.
“He’s needed a lot of babysitting for a long time. It’s natural that you still feel he needs to be monitored and supervised.” His voice was also warm and comforting.
“I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming,” Mycroft muttered.
Greg squeezed Mycroft’s wrist and let go. “No ‘buts’. You don’t need me to say the obvious.”
Mycroft immediately missed the warmth of Greg’s touch. He drank the rest of his port. After a few moments he spoke, “I suppose we should go to our rooms and get some rest.”
The ride up in the lift was silent, and Greg murmured good night as he exited and went down the hall to his room.
Mycroft heaved a sigh and went to the room he was sharing with Sherlock. He pressed his keycard to the lock. The lock released, but when he tried the door, Mycroft found it was dead-bolted.
“Sherlock.” Mycroft knocked softly on the door. “Open the door.”
Silence.
“Sherlock.” Mycroft didn’t raise his voice, but he used a more insistent tone.
Still no answer.
Mycroft knocked more loudly. “Sherlock, open this door or I’ll—“
The door opened, and Sherlock stood in the way. “Or you’ll what?” He snapped.
“Let me in. I would like to go to bed. It’s been an exhausting few days.”
“No one asked you to chase me all over Europe. I’m not an errant child incapable of coming home on time.”
“Then why did you ignore all my messages and block my calls?”
“Can you not deduce the reason, brother-mine? Because I didn’t want to talk to you.” Sherlock slammed the door. With a clunk, the deadbolt again slid into place.
“Sherlock!” Mycroft called out in surprise. He knocked firmly on the door and tried his key again, without success.
Unsure what to do next, Mycroft stood there defeated. He heard a soft cough from down the hall. He turned and flushed, seeing Greg standing in the doorway of his room.
“I suppose you heard all of that,” Mycroft remarked crisply.
“Yeah. He’s a berk. If he didn’t act like a child 95% of the time, you wouldn’t treat him like one. And neither would I.”
Mycroft nodded, not sure what to say in the face of Greg’s obvious empathy.
“Come in.” Greg stepped aside and held his door open wide. “You can stay with me.”
Mycroft headed toward Greg, his suitcase trailing behind him. “I don’t suppose you have two beds in your room?”
Greg peered over his shoulder into his room. “Just our luck. Only the one.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes and went inside, parking his luggage next to the closet. He sat on the end of the bed. Greg shut the door and leaned against it.
“I don’t think I’ve slept in the same bed with the same person so many consecutive nights as I have with you,” Mycroft muttered.
“I’m honored.”
“How can you stand me?” Mycroft felt awful. He was beginning to realize this whole escapade was a fool’s errand.
“Oh, you’re not so bad, once you get used to your cold feet. I’m not sure how you’ve managed to stand sleeping with me. I’ve been reliably informed that I snore.”
Mycroft frowned. “You don’t snore.”
Greg looked surprised. “I don’t? Rachel complained about it all the time.”
“You’ve lost two stone since your divorce. I expect that has something to do with it.”
“You noticed I lost weight?”
“I always notice you, Gregory,” Mycroft said softly. “Nothing about you escapes my notice. Not your loyalty, your kindness, your patience. If I haven’t said, I very much appreciate your assistance on this thankless journey. I hope your participation doesn’t affect your relationship with Sherlock.”
Greg pushed himself off the door and sat on the bed next to Mycroft. “Don’t worry about that. He’ll be pissed off for a week or two and then get bored. He’ll be begging for a cold case before the month is out.”
Mycroft didn’t respond, staring blankly ahead. Greg didn’t think he’d seen a person more in need of a hug. “C’mere,” Greg whispered and put his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders. Mycroft fell against him. Heart aching, Greg wrapped his other arm around the man. “You’re a good brother, and a good man, Mycroft Holmes. Don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise.” Without a thought, Greg pressed a kiss to the top of Mycroft’s head.
Mycroft took a shaky breath and lifted his face. Greg loosened his hold, suddenly terrified to look into those stormy blue eyes. He forced himself to look anyway.
“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured. “Thank you for saying that.”
Greg was mesmerized by the intensity of Mycroft’s gaze. He held his breath as Mycroft wet his lips. Mycroft’s eyes asked permission, and Greg nodded infinitesimally. Mycroft closed the small gap between them. He kissed Greg, gentle and shy.
Greg’s eyes closed, overwhelmed by the sensation of Mycroft soft and pliant in his arms and the firm pressure of Mycroft’s lips against his own.
It didn’t take long for the tender kiss to turn more urgent and passionate. Barely breaking contact, they managed to push enough clothing aside to enjoy the touch of the other’s hands, petting and stroking. They climbed further up on the bed, and Greg pressed Mycroft back against the mattress, kissing down the hard plane of Mycroft’s chest to his soft belly.
Mycroft moaned loudly, as Greg mouthed gently at his cock through his pants. A small damp spot was rapidly darkening the silk boxers.
“Gregory,” he panted.
“Please, don’t tell me to stop.” Greg rubbed his cheek along the length of Mycroft’s cock. “I’ve dreamt of this every night for the past three nights.”
“Stop? God help me, please don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”
Greg grinned up at Mycroft. “As you wish.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Mycroft woke up in darkness to find the other side of the bed empty. He peered at the clock and noted it was very early in the morning. The hotel room was still, with no sounds of another human coming from the ensuite. He was alone. Perhaps it was only a dream, he thought. He sat up, turning on the bedside lamp. The light illuminated the table on which it sat, revealing a wad of tissue and a still damp flannel. Panic flared in Mycroft’s chest, but before he had time to consider the situation fully, the exterior door opened.
“Hey, sweetheart.” A smiling Greg came through holding two steaming cups. “I thought I’d treat you to a cuppa in bed, before we start our day.” He handed over the hot tea. “Milk, two sugars, right?”
Mycroft quelled the anxiety that flooded his veins. He smiled and took a careful sip of the tea. “Perfect,” he murmured, cradling the cup in his icy hands.
Greg pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek and sat down on the bed next to him.
Mycroft took another sip and focused on the warmth. “Did you check on Sherlock?” He asked, hoping to avoid conversation about last night’s activities.
Greg hummed in a not reassuring way.
“What?”
“He’s done a runner.”
“Of course he has,” Mycroft sighed.
Greg waited for Mycroft to spring into action.
Mycroft shrugged. “Oh well.” He raised his cup and drank more tea.
Greg looked over at Mycroft mildly surprised. “I’m impressed. You don’t care?”
“I care. However, as you have reminded me many times on this trip, I’m not ultimately responsible for Sherlock’s actions. He seems no longer prone to making the dire decisions he used to and more cognizant of the consequences. While I’m not happy about this situation, I’m fairly certain he will be at Mummy’s birthday party.”
Greg nodded, absorbing Mycroft’s change in attitude. He fidgeted with the cup of tea in his hand.
Mycroft watched the nervous movement and braced himself for a difficult conversation.
“How about this situation? The ‘you and I’ situation?”
Mycroft hesitated. What was he to say? “I believe last night was a reciprocation for my previous efforts to comfort you as you coped with a difficult transition in your life. I have no expectation that last night should change anything about our current relationship.”
Greg nodded and took a deep breath. “I thought you might say something like that. The thing is, I want a change in our relationship. You were right back then, Mycroft. Jumping into a relationship immediately after my divorce would’ve been disastrous. You said last night you noticed everything about me. I hope you noticed I’m not in the same head space I was two years ago.”
“I have noticed.”
That Greg Lestrade patented boyish grin appeared. “I think we would be a great couple. We have fun together. We work well together. We have fantastic sex together. What do you say?”
“I… I’m not sure. I need some time to think,” Mycroft tried to explain.
“Oh.”
Mycroft winced inwardly at the disappointment he heard. “I’m not saying ‘no’.”
“But you’re not saying ‘yes’.” Greg took another deep breath and let it out. He patted Mycroft’s leg. “Right. Well, we need to get moving. We have a flight to catch, if you’re going to make it to your Mum’s party.” He stood up, taking his tea with him.
“Gregory…”
“I’m all packed, so I’ll just take my things and get a taxi sorted.” He pulled the handle of his suitcase free and headed for the door.
“Gregory…”
Greg stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder at Mycroft. “Just promise you will think about it. Yeah?”
Mycroft nodded, but remained mute.
“See you downstairs.” The door clicked shut behind Greg, and Mycroft was alone again.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
After a brief stop at the hotel spa to restore Mycroft’s nails to their customary natural state, they took a taxi to the Lisbon airport. No conversation occurred other than what was needed to coordinate their travel plans.
The flight to London from Lisbon was uneventful. Greg retreated into the book he’d neglected the entire trip. Mycroft deduced he was being given space to think. So he did.
Mycroft spent the time trying to sort out his feelings. He had a lot of feelings to sort out. Feelings about Sherlock, his parents, Anthea. Most of all, feelings about Gregory. Feelings about Gregory having feelings for him. By the time they landed at Heathrow, Mycroft had gained clarity on some things and felt just as befuddled about others.
“Gregory?” Mycroft touched Greg’s arm as they made their way to immigration.
Greg paused, stepped to the side, and looked at Mycroft. “Yeah?”
“Would you come with me to my parents’ home? I know it’s a lot to ask, since you’ve just spent the last week at my behest racing all over Europe and likely you would very much enjoy seeing your own bed.”
“You want…” Greg searched Mycroft’s face, looking for any other meaning in the request. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, please. I think… no, I know I would appreciate a friendly face.”
“You don’t think your parents are going to be friendly?”
Mycroft looked down at the terrazzo. “I’m not sure. Sherlock will have told them about my interfering with his travels.” He risked a glance back up at Greg. “Please.”
Greg gazed at Mycroft for a beat, then nodded. “Yeah, okay.”
Relief flooded Mycroft’s features.
“I mean, I bought a birthday present for your mum.” Greg shrugged. “I might as well deliver it in person.”
Mycroft suddenly paled.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“I forgot to get her a birthday present,” Mycroft gasped.
Greg tipped back his head and laughed.
“This is a disaster, an unmitigated disaster.” Mycroft began patting his pocket for his mobile.
“You can have mine.” Still chuckling, Greg took Mycroft’s arm and began to lead him along to immigration. “Or we can say it’s from both of us. Come on.”
“I’m a rubbish son.”
“Hush. You’re not.”
“Mikey! You made it!”
“Mycroft, Mummy, and yes, I made it. Obviously.”
Greg snickered to himself as Mycroft bent down to accept a brief hug and a peck on the cheek from his mother.
“Inspector Lestrade! How wonderful!”
“Call me Greg.” He accepted a warm handshake from Mrs. Holmes.
“Then you should call me Violet. I’m so pleased you are here. I’ve been asking Mikey and Sherlock when you were going to come for a proper visit.”
“Mummy…”
Violet continued, ignoring her eldest’s plea, “You’re practically family as far as I’m concerned. Sherlock is exceedingly fond of you, and so is Mikey, though he’s less likely to tell you that.” Violet looped her arm through Greg’s and led him into the house. “Siger! Mikey and Greg are here!”
Mycroft trailed behind carrying the luggage.
Once inside, Violet turned to Mycroft. “Your room is ready for you, and you can put Greg’s suitcase in the guest bedroom across the hall.” Mycroft nodded and headed up the stairs.
“Is Sherlock here yet?” Greg asked.
“Not yet.”
Mycroft paused on the stair and glanced down at Greg, who met his worried gaze.
“John said they were running behind, but would be here in time for dinner,” Violet continued.
Mycroft let out an audible sigh of relief.
“Are those bags too much for you Mikey? You should exercise more, you know.”
“I’m fine,” he gritted out and continued up the stairs.
“Join us in the garden when you’re done. Your father has made his famous sangria.” Violet whispered to Greg, “It’s absolutely lethal, so it’s a good thing you’re staying the night.”
Mycroft stood at the sink, elbow deep in soapy water. He could hear the deep murmur of Greg’s voice telling a story and then the laughter of his family and John from the other room. Everybody was pleasantly buzzed from the alcohol and food. He offered to start the washing up, afraid his lowered inhibitions would lead him to behave foolishly in front of his family, and more importantly, Greg. Greg, who fit in so seamlessly, effortlessly charming his parents, gently ribbing Sherlock and John, and giving Mycroft the sweetest secret smiles. Smiles Mycroft couldn’t help but return.
Mycroft pushed aside the images of Greg filling his head and concentrated on not breaking the dishes he was currently cleaning.
“Here’s the rest of the tableware.” His mother spoke behind him and deposited dishes on the counter next to the sink. “Thank you, sweetheart, for doing the dishes. Don’t worry about the pots and pans. Your father and I will get them done in the morning.”
Mycroft nodded and reached for another plate. His mother moved to his other side and pulled out a fresh dish towel from the cabinet. She picked a plate from the drying rack and wiped away the remaining drops of water.
“Greg is absolutely delightful. I’m glad you finally brought him for a visit.”
Mycroft hummed noncommittally.
She set the plate aside and picked up another. “I’m looking forward to spending more time with him. Have you two made Christmas plans yet?”
Mycroft bit his lip. “No, Mummy.
We
have no plans. Primarily, because there is no ‘we’.”
“Pish and tosh. David Mycroft, use that brain of yours as I taught you. Anyone can see you and he are completely gone on each other. Your father has even noticed.”
“Dear Lord.”
“Exactly.”
The kitchen door opened, and Greg entered carrying a serving dish and platter. “Hey, the birthday girl should not be doing dishes.” He set down his load and took the dish towel from her hands.
“You’re a dear.” She patted Greg on the shoulder, as he took over her spot next to Mycroft. “Thank you so much for my birthday present. The olive wood dishes for serving Sherlock’s olives were inspired.”
Mycroft felt his cheeks starting to turn red. “It was Gregory’s idea. You should thank him.” He kept his eyes on the dishes, but he could tell Greg had a tiny smile on his face.
“Thank you both then.”
“You’re welcome,” Greg replied, placing another dry plate on the stack.
“Well, I’m going to bed.” Violet smiled at the two men. “Don’t do the pots and pans,” she reminded Mycroft.
“Yes, Mummy.”
The kitchen door closed, and it was quiet, except for the sounds of water sloshing and dishes softly clattering.
Moments were going by, and Mycroft was wracking his brain for something to say. They were making short work of the dishes, and soon they would lose this moment to talk. It was Greg, though, who broke the silence between them.
“Your parents are really nice people.”
“Yes, I suppose they are.” Mycroft didn’t want to talk about his parents.
“You suppose?”
“No, you’re right. It’s just they’re…”
“Your parents,” Greg finished.
Mycroft smiled slightly. “Exactly.” He pulled the plug on the drain, and the water began to run out.
“Do you know where these go?” Greg asked, gesturing to the stack of plates, glasses, and cutlery.
“Just let them be. Mummy will put them away as she likes.”
“Does she have a plate index?”
“You know us Holmeses so well.”
Greg chuckled. Mycroft began filling the sink with hot water and soap.
“She said not to bother with the pots and pans.”
“True, but we can leave them to soak.” Mycroft replied, as he set the pots in the sink and shut off the water.
Greg handed him the dish towel, and Mycroft murmured his thanks, as he dried his hands. He felt Greg watching him. Setting down the towel, he began to roll down his shirt sleeves.
“Don’t.” Greg’s warm hand settled over top of his and Mycroft stopped. His heartbeat skipped and skittered at the touch. “I like this. Seeing you less formal, spending time with family, doing dishes, being yourself.”
Mycroft turned towards Greg. Greg reached out and cradled each forearm in one of his own hands. His thumbs stroked the skin below the rolled shirt sleeves and he gazed at Mycroft fondly.
“Don’t think me pushy, but did I give you enough time to think?”
“Yes.”
“Have I misinterpreted those looks and smiles I’ve gotten from you all night?”
“No,” Mycroft swallowed. “No, you have not.” He stepped forward, resting his hands on Greg’s hips.
“So, you and I?” Greg’s arms slid around Mycroft’s waist.
“We do make a good team.” Mycroft’s eyes briefly cut over to the stack of dishes. “My parents seem to like you.”
Greg grinned. “More importantly, Sherlock tolerates me.”
“Indeed.” Mycroft smiled back at Greg.. “Even more importantly than that, you tolerate him.”
“So…” Greg’s hopeful eyes searched Mycroft’s face.
“So, how do you feel about spending Christmas with my parents?”
“Fucking amazing.” Greg reached up, capturing Mycroft’s face and pressing a kiss to his lips. Mycroft melted into the kiss, pulling Greg closer. They kissed gently and tenderly, promising to comfort and care for each other. When the kiss ended, they rested their foreheads together and just breathed for a moment.
Mycroft turned his head away, stifling a yawn. “Apologies,” he murmured.
Greg chuckled. “No need to apologize. We’ve been going non-stop for over a week. Let’s get you to bed.”
Quietly, they left the kitchen. The house was silent and still. Everyone else was already in bed.
They climbed the stairs, holding hands. The floorboards creaked as they reached the landing. Mycroft and Greg looked at the doors of their respective bedrooms, then looked at each other. Greg cocked an eyebrow at Mycroft. Mycroft smiled slowly and inclined his head. Greg returned the smile and nodded. Mycroft tugged Greg towards him and into his bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind them.