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“Are you ready, yet?” Greg called up the stairs. He felt like he’d been waiting for Mycroft for hours. He heard a vague reply from the bedroom and sighed. Checking his watch again, he called out again. “We’re going to be late.” “Coming, coming,” Mycroft responded irritably as he headed down the stairs. “I really don’t want an earful from your Mum.” Greg grabbed his coat from the closet and quickly pulled it on. Mycroft entered the foyer tugging on his cuffs. He was dressed in a full three piece suit with the tie matching the pocket square. His watch chain was looped in a double Albert. “Seriously?” “What?” Mycroft picked up an envelope and tucked it in his inner breast pocket of his jacket. “Full body armor?” Greg eyed Mycroft appreciatively and licked his lips. “Not that I mind. I’m really going to enjoy taking all that off of you later, but it seems a bit much for tonight.” “We having dinner with my parents, my brother, and Dr. Watson. I want to look presentable.” Mycroft gave himself a quick once over in the hall mirror and brushed invisible lint from his sleeve. “I look presentable.” Greg stood just behind Mycroft and studied their reflections. “You look like you’re going to funeral, not dinner with your family.” “Po-tay-toe, Po-tah-toe.” Mycroft turned around and adjusted Greg’s tie. Greg rolled his eyes. “It’s Sherlock’s birthday. All the focus will be on him.” “I hope you’re right.” Mycroft brushed his hands over Greg’s shoulders. Greg reached up and cupped Mycroft’s cheek. “No one is going to pick on you. I promise.” Looking deeply into Mycroft’s eyes, he tried to reassure his partner. Mycroft leaned his forehead against Greg’s. “You can’t make promises for other people,” he murmured. “No, I suppose not. But, if anyone picks on you, they will have to answer to me.” Greg gave Mycroft a firm kiss and stepped back. “Now let’s go.” He turned to go to the door only to feel Mycroft grabbed his arm. “You would do that?” “Do what?” “Stand up to my parents or Sherlock if they started to, as you say, pick on me?” Mycroft’s gaze searched Greg’s face. Greg’s eyes flashed, and he lifted his chin defiantly. “I’d stand up to anyone who picked on you. In a heart beat.” “Oh my,” Mycroft whispered. “I almost hope they do.” “What? Pick on you?” Greg was incredulous. “Just to see you, ah, stand up for me. The idea of it is so…” Mycroft paused. “Titillating.” Greg raised his eyebrows and purred, “Is it?” He moved back into Mycroft’s space. “Well,” Mycroft licked his lips. “What do you think?” Greg stood chest to chest with Mycroft. He canted his hips and watched Mycroft shiver in response. Mycroft dipped his face close to Greg’s, his lips hovered a fraction of a millimeter over Greg’s mouth. Greg could feel the minty coolness of Mycroft’s breath. A slow grin spread over his face. “I think…” Mycroft kissed Greg, slow and sweet. His hands settled on Greg’s hips and held him close. His tongue slid lazily against Greg’s lips, before being welcomed. Greg hummed his appreciation low in the back of his throat. Mycroft ended the kiss and smiled smugly. Greg’s eyes fluttered open. “Mmm…nice try. You’re not going to get out of going to Sherlock’s birthday dinner by seducing me.” He watched that smug smile morph into a prodigious pout. Greg held back the laughter bubbling up at the sight of his husband rushing headlong into a strop. “I don’t want to go!” “We discussed this. It’s tolerate and hour or two of your parents, or not show and have to deal with Sherlock’s wrath at being left alone with them… on his birthday.” “John will be there. That’s not alone.” Greg pulled out Mycroft’s overcoat and held it ready. “I, for one, really think an hour or two of excellent food and wine, and mildly irritating dinner partners is many, many times better than weeks, possibly months of Sherlock taking the piss every chance he gets.” “But—“ Mycroft protested as Greg tossed him his overcoat. Greg nudged Mycroft to the door. “No buts.” He opened the door and pushed Mycroft through. Mycroft turned around blocking Greg’s exit. “She won’t like me getting dessert, and Angelo’s has the best tiramisu.” Greg sighed. “I’ll put an order in for tiramisu to go and fake a call from work so we can leave right after mains.” Mycroft considered. “Better I fake a call from Anthea. If you fake a call from the Yard, Sherlock will want to come with us.” “Good point,” Greg agreed. “So are we ready now? Because we’re really pushing it.” Mycroft closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said as he released the breath. “Dinner, order dessert, fake call, then home with dessert and top the evening off with sex.” “Don’t think I missed that little addition there to the list,” Greg remarked as he maneuvered around Mycroft to shut and lock the front door. “I should hope not,” Mycroft replied, as they made their way down the pavement to the waiting black sedan. “Sex with me is not to be missed.” Greg threw back his head and laughed.
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Thirteen days since he’d seen the sun Greg reckoned. Nothing but rain, wind and more rain, and he was heartily sick of it. Greg turned away from the rain-streaked window of his office and faced his computer. Equally soul sucking was the amount of work that had accumulated. Officers were out with flu and COVID, and somehow the dual epidemics of illness and horrid weather were not a deterrent for the criminal class. “Fuck it,” Greg muttered. “I’m going home.” He shut off his computer and pulled on his coat. As he left, Greg ordered his sniffling, sneezing sergeant to go home as well. It wasn’t until he pulled his car into the drive that he remembered. “Shit, shit, shit!” Greg climbed out of the car and slammed the door. “And bollocks!” With a heavy sigh Greg made his way inside. It was warm and cozy in their home. Greg could smell dinner simmering away—stew or soup, it seemed. He shrugged off his coat and hung it in the hall closet. Dropping his keys in the dish on the table in the foyer, he toed off his shoes. “Mycroft, I’m home,” he called. Wandering down the hall, Greg sought out his husband. Looking in the kitchen, he saw only the stew pot sitting on the back of the hob. Greg gave it a stir and sniffed appreciatively. Heading to the lounge he found Mycroft, asleep on the sofa. Greg sat down on the coffee table and gently removed the reading glasses perched at the end of Mycroft’s nose. A book lay open over his chest. Greg leaned over and kissed Mycroft’s freckled forehead. “Hey, sleepy. I’m home. Time to wake up,” Greg murmured. Mycroft’s eyes blinked open and took a second to focus. “What time is it?” “Half nine. Sorry, I’m so late.” “It’s fine.” Mycroft rubbed his face. Then sat up in a rush. His book slid to the floor. “Oh, I hope dinner didn’t burn.” “Nah, I checked it. Looks good.” Greg picked up the book, and set it aside. Mycroft yawned. “Thank you. I wasn’t sure when you’d be home, so I went with something that could sit.” “I’m really sorry,” Greg repeated his apology. Mycroft looked at him quizzically. “Why do you apologize? We both know your job has been atrocious of late. I’m not surprised you were at the office so long.” “It’s just… I don’t have anything for you and you’ve made us dinner. If I’d paid a lick of attention I could at least brought home flowers.” “Why would you bring flowers?” “It’s Valentine’s Day,” Greg explained. Mycroft looked blankly at him. “Isn’t it?” Mycroft’s eyes widened as he processed the date, and his mouth dropped open. “I had no idea,” Mycroft confessed. Greg started to chuckle. “Me neither. It’s just been one dreary day after another. I keep wondering when will this month end.” Mycroft nodded in commiseration. “Now you tell me it’s Valentine’s Day. That means we’ve another two weeks. Dear God.” Greg leaned forward and kissed Mycroft briefly. “Happy Valentine’s Day, love.” Mycroft captured Greg with a hand on the back of his head and pulled him back for another kiss. “Dinner and bed?” He suggested after they finished snogging. “Sounds perfect.” Greg stared at the ceiling trying to make sense of the shadows that lurked up there. His restless brain kept looking for patterns. This is ridiculous he thought. He looked over at the lump next to him, Mycroft huddled under a pile of blankets, and felt a pang of envy. Not fair, Greg wailed internally. With a soft sigh, he got out of bed and found his robe and slippers. The house was cold the way they can only be at two am in February. Greg shivered as he wandered downstairs. He aimlessly drifted through the lounge and considered turning on the telly. Nothing but crap on at this time of night. He reminded himself that television would only make his insomnia worse. Moving on to the kitchen, Greg decided warm tea and a couple of biscuits would do the trick. He quietly got the kettle going and prepped his mug. He stood staring at the kettle numbly watching for it to boil. “Did you heat enough water for two?” Greg jumped and let out a squawk. “Apologies.” “Jesus. You scared me.” He turned to see Mycroft in the door, holding back an amused smile. Greg glanced back at the kettle and snorted. “Yeah, I did. Force of habit I think.” He got down another mug and prepared another tea strainer. Mycroft went to the pantry and got out a package of biscuits. He put a few out on a plate before sitting down at the small table in the corner of the kitchen. Greg joined him with two mugs of tea. “Camomile?” Mycroft asked. “Yeah. Can’t sleep.” “I noticed. Anything you want to talk about?” Mycroft sipped his tea. “Not really anything to say. Just feel like everything is out of my control.” Greg stared into his mug. “Do you think you need some time off?” “Maybe. I don’t know.” Greg sighed. “I’m afraid I’ll feel even more underwater than I am now after.” Mycroft nodded in understanding. They sat together in comfortable silence. After a few moments, Mycroft reached out and lay his hand on Greg’s wrist. “It’ll get better soon.” Greg looked up at his husband. “How do you know?” “It always does.” Mycroft shrugged. “This happens to you every February, right around the second to third week.” Greg blinked at Mycroft. “It does?” “It has every February I’ve known you.” Mycroft squeezed Greg’s wrist and released it. Greg thought a moment. “Oh my God. How did I not realized it?” “We are rarely able to see our own patterns in our lives.” Greg huffed a small laugh and shook his head. “Ain’t it the truth.” Mycroft frowned. “Are you implying something?” “Not really. I just realized why you get so snappy and irritable starting the week before the Christmas holidays and on through Sherlock’s birthday.” “Christmas is an over commercialized, capitalist creation with no relationship to the original religious holiday or even to the intent to spread good will and cheer among mankind.” “Yes,” agreed Greg. “But that’s not what sets you off. It’s the impending visits and time spent with your family.” Mycroft stared. “Tell me,” Greg continued. “What’s the best Christmas you had in the last ten years?” “2020 and 2021. We didn’t get together because of COVID,” Mycroft replied promptly. “I rest my case.” They sipped their tea and nibbled on biscuits in the dim quiet of the kitchen. Mycroft broke the silence. “We need to shake these winter doldrums. I propose a trip to warmer climes.” Greg raised his eyebrows. “Oh, when would that be?” “As soon as possible. Two weeks?” “I don’t know if I can get leave approved in that short—“ Greg stopped at the look Mycroft was giving him. “Right. Two weeks.” Mycroft stood and collected their dishes, depositing them in the sink. Greg stood as well and pushed their chairs back under the table. “Come.” Mycroft held out his hand to Greg, who took it. “Let me take you to back to bed. I promise to have you asleep in ten minutes.” “How are you going to do that?” Greg asked incredulously. Mycroft pulled him close and whispered in his ear. Greg shivered as Mycroft’s breath tickled his skin. Then his eyes grew wide. “Ten minutes?” He asked as Mycroft shifted back. Mycroft shrugged. “Maybe twelve.” He ran his tongue along his lower lip suggestively. “If you don’t cooperate.”
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Greg let himself get lost in the in view. The water was a blue he never knew existed. It sparkled under the bright Caribbean sun. Greg was grateful to have his sunglasses to cut the glare. His eyes tracked the movement of boats and seabirds without really seeing them. He could hear the call of the gulls and exotic sound of Mycroft ordering their food. His husband was speaking fluent French much to the delight and amusement of the owner of the bar where they had chosen to have lunch. “C’est bon!” Their host declared as Mycroft completed their order. She deftly collected the menus and gave them a bright smile. “Tuppence for your thoughts,” Mycroft inquired after a moment. Greg turned away from the idyllic view. “I’m in awe of how you pulled this holiday off with just two weeks of planning.” Mycroft looked pleased with himself. “It was a delightful challenge.” Greg tilted his head side to side before leaning forward to whisper conspiratorially. “Tell me. Who did you kill to get the villa with the private beach?” Mycroft threw back his head and laughed. Greg grinned. He loved seeing Mycroft relaxed and laughing. “I didn’t kill anyone, dear.” Mycroft smiled at Greg, his eyes glittering with amusement. “I called in a minor favor.” Greg raised his eyebrows high enough to be seen over the top of his sunglasses. “I don’t want to know what a major favor would get you.” He sat back as the owner of the bar arrived with their drinks. “Two Ti’ Punch,” she announced as she sat down the drinks. “Merci, Catherine,” Mycroft replied. “Can I get you anything else?” She asked. “No, m’good.” Greg replied with a smile. Catherine returned his smile. “Your food will be out shortly.” She turned and walked back to the bar area. Greg watched her go. She reached the bar and greeted another customer sitting at the bar. The man was partially turned away, but there was something familiar about him. He and Catherine seemed to know each other well. Greg couldn’t make out the conversation, but he could hear the man’s accent was Irish. The cook came out with a takeaway bag and Catherine handed it over the bar. “Gregory?” Mycroft had gone on alert when he saw his husband focusing on the interaction. “I think I know him.” Greg slipped off his sunglasses. The man paid Catherine, picked up the bag, and turned away from the bar. “Jack?” Greg had stood up. “Jack Mooney?” The man stopped and looked at Greg. A puzzled look crossed his face, then surprise. A big smile broke out. “As I live and breathe, it’s Greg Lestrade!” Jack set down the bag and came over to the table. “What in the world brings you to St. Marie?” Greg started to answer, but Jack kept talking. “It’s a holiday, of course.” He turned to Mycroft and inquired, “Who do you have with you?” Mycroft stood and extended his hand. “Mycroft Holmes.” Jack shook Mycroft’s hand heartily. “Ah, and you wouldn’t be related to Sherlock Holmes, would you?” Mycroft nodded and gave a smile/grimace. “He is my younger brother.” Jack nodded vigorously. “Pesky young man, but he generally had a point, when he got around to it. I have to give him credit, he pulled me out the bog a few times.” “Mycroft is my husband,” Greg announced with a touch of pride. Jack’s eyes and smile widened. “Well now, congratulations!” He shook both Greg and Mycroft’s hands again. “When did that happen, Greg? When I left you were newly single, and I haven’t been gone that long.” “Jack?” Catherine called from the bar and lifted his takeaway bag. Jack glanced over his shoulder and sighed. “Here I am gossiping, and I’m still on the clock. Listen, would you like to come to my place for dinner tonight? We’d have plenty of time to catch up, and I make a very good melon curry, if I do say so myself.” He leaned in to whisper, “Catherine taught me the recipe.” Greg glanced at Mycroft who gave a slight nod. “Sure, we’ll be there. Do you want to send me directions?” “It’s easier if I drive you out there. The house is a bit off the beaten path, but you can’t beat the view. Come by the station around six o’clock. We’ll be knocking off about then.” Jack retreated back to the bar to pick up his bag. “You’ll get to meet my team. Oh, I can’t wait for you to meet Harry!” He waved cheerily and took off. Mycroft looked at Greg and lifted an eyebrow. Greg chuckled as they sat back down. “I think I need a drink.” Mycroft took a sip of his Ti’ Punch. “That’s Jack Mooney for you. He’s a DI with the Met. He came out for a holiday after his wife died. Decided he didn’t want to come back and the Super posted him here.” Greg gazed at the water stretched out before them. “I think I can understand why.” Mycroft followed Greg’s gaze at the ocean before them. After a moment he asked, “Who’s Harry?” “No idea,” Greg replied. Mycroft turned back for the fifth time to find Greg admiring the wares at yet another stand. He sighed and walked back to his husband. “Gregory, we will be late,” Mycroft warned his husband. “But look at the size of these!” Greg gestured toward a large basket of mangoes. “Enormous,” Mycroft drawled. His husband continued to stare in awe, and the vendor began to ask if he wanted to purchase them. “No, thank you,” Mycroft quickly interjected. “But we’ll be back later. I assume you will be here tomorrow?” Receiving an affirmative reply. Mycroft took Greg’s hand. “Let’s go. The station should be just around the corner.” He tugged Greg along the rest of the way. They emerged from the market onto a street with a church and a ramshackle building sitting on the side of the hill. Stone steps lead up to the long covered porch. “Is this it?” Greg asked taking it all in. “Apparently,” Mycroft replied. “It’s so… small and…” Greg stalled, staring at the building in front of them. “Rustic?” Mycroft offered. “That’s a good word for it.” Greg nodded. He looked at Mycroft and smiled. “Rustic. Yeah, let’s go with that.” They headed up the steps and along the porch toward the open door. They could hear voices inside. Greg and Mycroft entered tapping on the doorframe.They could see Jack and three other people standing facing what appeared to be a murder board propped on a tripod. “Hullo,” Greg called out. The group turned to look at them, revealing more of the murder board. “Greg, Mycroft! Come on in,” Jack greeted them heartily, though he looked a bit harried. “Is this a bad time?” Greg nodded at the board. “No, not really.” Jack sighed and gestured at the board. “At a bit of an impasse, you see. We’ve got suspects with motive, but no opportunity and suspects with opportunity, but no motive.” Jack threw up his hands, in despair. “Hopefully, inspiration will strike in the morning. Ah well, let me introduce my team.” He turned to the others in the room and made the introductions. “This is my sergeant, Florence Cassel. And this is officer Dwayne Myers and officer JP Hooper. Team, this is my good friend and colleague from the Met, DI Greg Lestrade, and his husband, Mycroft Holmes.” JP’s eyes lit up. Dwayne started to speak. “And yes, before you ask Mycroft is Sherlock’s brother.” Jack hoped to forestall a barrage of questions. “Actually,” Dwayne continued. “I want to know if DI Lestrade was related to James Lavender, because he looks the spitting image of him.” “Lord Salcombe?” Mycroft turned to study Greg. “I suppose there is a passing resemblance.” “Who’s Lord Salcombe, when he’s home?” Greg asked. “He was a human trafficker and a very bad man,” Dwayne said vehemently. “He also passed away at least a decade ago.” Mycroft added. “Killed, right here on St. Marie. On his private beach,” Dwayne elaborated. “Okay, thank you Dwayne. DI Lestrade is not related to Lord Salcombe, James Lavender,” Jack put a stop to the conversation. “Do you mind if I take a look at your murder board?” Mycroft asked. “If you’re anything like your brother, I’d love it,” Jack replied. Mycroft and Greg exchanged an amused glance, and Mycroft stepped closer to the board. Greg leaned over and whispered in Jack’s ear. “He’s actually smarter.” Jack’s eyes widened in disbelief. “I expect you’ll find that this gentleman has a motive you’ve not yet uncovered.” Mycroft pointed to one of the suspects. “How?” Jack asked. “There’s no connection between the two men that we can find. He’s only on the board because he was present at the time the body was found.” “They clearly knew each other at university,” Mycroft replied. “He’s wearing a tie in the colors of their college and the knot he used is one popular at the time they were at Oxford.” “Did we know our victim went to Oxford?” Jack asked Florence. “We did, but he didn’t seem to be in contact from anyone from his time there. I’ll do some more digging.” She headed to her desk. “How did you know the victim went to Oxford?” Jack asked Mycroft. “The picture of his study has a letter with the crest and the return address of the alumni association. Here.” Mycroft pointed out a very small corner of an envelope in the foreground of the picture. “Lord knows I see that same crest and address at least twice a month in my own mail. It was easy to spot.” Jack looked very excited as he studied the pictures. “Shall we take a rain check?” Greg could see his friend was eager to work the new lead. Jack turned towards Greg and Mycroft. He looked very apologetic. “If you don’t mind, this case—“ “I think I found something sir!” Florence called out. “We’ll get of your way,” Greg said with a smile. Jack nodded and waved as he hustled over to Florence’s desk. Dwayne escorted Greg and Mycroft to the door. They paused, and Greg spoke to Dwayne. “Let you chief know we’re staying at the villa just past the Paradise Beach Hotel.” Dwayne pulled out his notebook and took down the information. “The one with the private beach,” Mycroft added as they walked out the door. They missed Dwayne’s double take. “Well, I guess we’re on our own for dinner,” Greg commented as they walked down the steps. “It appears so.” Greg stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned to Mycroft. “How about we go back to the market, pick up some of those amazing fruits and vegetables and make dinner at the villa?” “Sounds lovely,” Mycroft replied. They joined hands and headed toward the market. “My?” “Hmm?” “The favor you called in? Was it a favor Lady Salcombe owed you?” “Perhaps.” Mycroft smiled slyly. Greg stopped and pulled Mycroft close. “You’re going to have to tell me the whole sordid story.” “I will, over dinner.” Mycroft stole a quick kiss, and then tugged Greg down the street to the market.
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Greg pulled another armful of clothes from his closet and dumped it on the bed. He repeated the action another four times, before tossing all the shoes out of the bottom of the closet. He examined the empty closet and nodded satisfied then turned to contemplate the pile of clothes and shoes that lay disorganized about the room. “What in name of all that is holy are you doing?” Mycroft asked from the doorway surveying the mess. “I’m cleaning out my closet.” Greg smiled brightly at his husband. “On a Tuesday night at 9 pm?” Mycroft stepped into their room. Greg shrugged. “I’m in the mood, so I thought I’d take advantage of it. Want to join me?” “Well, seeing how I can’t go to bed. I guess so.” “Oh yeah,” Greg rubbed the back of his neck and looked at Mycroft sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I’ll…uh…” “It’s fine.” Mycroft interrupted. “I’ll help.” He picked up a very worn down pair of trainers. “I assume you’ll be binning these.” “Oh no. Those are my gardening shoes.” Greg took them from Mycroft, who gave him his patented incredulous raised eyebrow look. “Don’t give me that look. You don’t want me to use my running trainers to weed out the beds, do you?” “Gregory, you don’t garden. You stand on the patio and talk about gardening, but you’ve yet to do it.” “But I might this year.” Mycroft sighed and looked at the clothing pile. He spied the arm of a jacket sticking out from under the mound. He moved the heap of clothes and retrieved a tuxedo jacket and trousers. “These are definitely staying.” “Really? I thought I’d send that to the charity shops.” Greg got the patented look again, with extra wide eyes to boot. “This was specifically tailored for you,” Mycroft said carefully and clearly. “Yeah, but I haven’t worn it in like two years. And the rule is if you haven’t worn it in one year it should go.” Greg reached for the tuxedo. Mycroft pulled tuxedo away and shielded it with his body. “That doesn’t apply to specialty clothing.” “I don’t even know if it still fits.” Mycroft looked Greg up and down. He held out the jacket arms and checked the waist of the trousers. “It still fits,” he declared firmly. “Fine. Fine.” Greg threw up his hands. Mycroft briskly brushed out the wrinkles from the suit, looked down his nose at Greg, and then carried the suit back to Greg’s closet hanging it up with care. “You know you need to take me out so I can wear that tuxedo, otherwise we’ll be having this conversation again,” Greg remarked as he sorted through the jackets on the bed. “I’m sure I can find a suitable event.” Mycroft was sorting through the trousers checking the hems for wear. “How about the BAFTAs?” “You want to go to the BAFTAs?” Mycroft asked. He tossed aside two pairs of trousers with frayed cuffs and started to hang the rest. “Yeah, why not?” Greg held up a hideous jacket with a checked pattern and leather patches on the elbows. “Keep?” Mycroft grimaced. “Definitely not,” he said meaning the jacket and went back to hanging the clothes that were staying in the closet. “Brush elbows with a few celebs, watch clips from shows and films—” Mycroft rolled his eyes and interjected, “That you’ve not seen and sit in uncomfortable seats for hours?” He held up a pair of hiking boots that had seen better days. “We can afford to replace these, my dear.” “Alright,” Greg agreed about the boots. “Maybe not the BAFTAs,” he continued. “But something.” “I promise I’ll find an event you can wear your tuxedo to and enjoy it.” “Deal.” Greg picked up his shiny black dress shoes. “I suppose that means I have to keep these as well.” “Most assuredly. You can’t expect to wear black trainers with your tuxedo.” “Ah love, you know me so well.” Greg grinned at Mycroft, before returning the remaining shoes to the closet. “There! That didn’t take long. Want to do yours?” “Another time, perhaps.” “You sure? No time like the present.” Greg moved to open Mycroft’s closet. Mycroft quickly intercepted Greg. “It’s late. Let’s save my closet for another time.” He rested a hand on Greg’s hip and cupped Greg’s cheek with the other. “Let’s do something else.” Greg’s arms encircled Mycroft and he brushed his lips against Mycroft’s mouth. They kissed softly for a moment. “Okay,” Greg murmured as they parted. “Kissing you is better than cleaning out closets.” “I should hope so,” Mycroft replied.