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Greg walked through the quiet London streets, his boots crunching softly against the fresh layer of snow.The city was uncharacteristically still, wrapped in a blanket of white, muffling the usual bustle.Streetlights cast a golden glow on the frost-laced pavement, and the cold bit at his exposed hands, but he barely noticed.He was fuming.It wasn’t the biting chill making his shoulders stiff or his fingers clench—it was Mycroft.Greg had had a long day. A frustrating case, paperwork up to his ears, and then, after everything, Mycroft had canceled their dinner plans. Again.“I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it this evening, Gregory,” Mycroft’s clipped tone had rung in his ear over the phone. “An urgent matter requires my attention.”Greg had sighed, rubbing his forehead. “It always does, doesn’t it?”A pause. “I understand that you’re upset.”“No, you don’t, Mycroft. If you did, you’d be here.”He’d hung up before Mycroft could respond.And now, here he was, walking aimlessly through the snow, trying to cool off both literally and figuratively. It wasn’t just about tonight. It was the pattern, the constant postponing, the way Mycroft would slip out of his grasp just when Greg thought they were settling into something steady.Greg was a patient man. But patience had limits.“Gregory.”The familiar voice, smooth as ever, sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. He turned, exhaling sharply as he saw Mycroft standing there in the snow, impeccably dressed despite the cold, his coat buttoned up, a deep blue scarf wrapped neatly around his throat.Greg’s irritation flared. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be off saving the country?”Mycroft sighed, stepping closer. “I deserved that.”“You deserve a hell of a lot more,” Greg muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Go home, Mycroft.”“I’d rather be here.”Greg let out a humorless laugh. “Now you want to be here?” He shook his head, looking away. “I’m tired, Mycroft. I get that your work is important, I do. But you keep proving over and over again that it comes first. And maybe that’s just who you are, but I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant hush of the city.Then, softly: “I never intended to make you feel second place, Gregory.”Greg closed his eyes briefly. “Yeah, well, intentions don’t mean much when I’m eating dinner alone.”Mycroft hesitated, and for once, Greg saw something raw in his expression—something uncertain, something vulnerable.“I—” Mycroft exhaled, his breath curling into the frigid air. “I do not excel at this. At us.”Greg’s anger ebbed slightly, replaced with a dull ache. “I’m not asking for grand gestures, Mycroft. I just… I need to know that I matter to you.”“You do.”“Then show me,” Greg murmured, voice quieter now. “Not with words. With actions.”Another pause. Then Mycroft, in an unexpected move, shrugged off his coat.“What the hell are you doing?” Greg asked, startled as Mycroft draped it over his shoulders.“You’re cold,” Mycroft said simply.Greg blinked. “That’s—”“An action.”Greg huffed, but his lips twitched, just a little. “Not exactly what I meant, but alright, smartass.”A small, barely-there smile touched Mycroft’s lips. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of gloves. Without a word, he took Greg’s hands, rubbing them briefly between his own before slipping the gloves onto them.Greg swallowed. “You don’t have to—”“I do,” Mycroft murmured, fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “I should have done it sooner.”Greg’s chest ached in a different way now. He looked at Mycroft, really looked at him—the way his breath was uneven, the tightness around his mouth. This wasn’t easy for him. But he was trying.And Greg couldn’t ignore that.“I’m still mad at you,” he said after a moment, though his voice had softened.“I would be concerned if you weren’t.”Greg sighed, then took a step closer. “For the record, if you ever pull a stunt like this again, I will confiscate all your bloody umbrellas.”Mycroft actually chuckled, a low, warm sound. “Duly noted.”Greg let out a breath and, in the quiet of the snowy night, reached for Mycroft’s hand.This time, Mycroft didn’t let go.
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Greg had long stopped questioning it.It had started years ago, before they were anything more than acquaintances.A tough case, a particularly brutal argument with a superior, the sheer exhaustion that came from policing a city like London—whatever it was, Greg would find himself standing outside Mycroft’s office or his townhouse, not quite sure how he got there.And Mycroft would always be there.Tonight was one of those nights.The case had been a mess—miscommunication between departments, a suspect slipping through their fingers, and an insufferable superior breathing down Greg’s neck.He had barely noticed his own frustration morphing into something heavier until he found himself standing at Mycroft’s door, hands in his coat pockets, exhaling a cloud of cold air into the winter night.Before he could knock, the door opened.“You look terrible,” Mycroft observed, tilting his head slightly. “Come in.”Greg didn’t hesitate.He stepped inside, shaking off the snow that clung to his coat.Mycroft took it from him with that same effortless grace he always had, hanging it up before leading Greg into the sitting room.The fireplace was already lit, casting a soft glow across the room, and Greg sank onto the sofa with a heavy sigh.“Whiskey?” Mycroft asked.Greg nodded. “Please.”Mycroft poured them both a glass, settling into the chair across from him.Silence stretched between them, comfortable and unhurried.Greg let his eyes drift closed for a moment, letting the warmth of the fire seep into his bones.“You overwork yourself,” Mycroft said eventually, the words more an observation than a reprimand.Greg huffed a tired laugh. “Comes with the job.”Mycroft studied him for a long moment, then, in a rare display of indulgence, moved to sit beside him on the sofa.“There are other jobs.”Greg smirked, opening one eye. “You offering me one?”Mycroft’s lips quirked at the corner. “I suspect you’d find my line of work equally, if not more, frustrating.”“Probably,” Greg admitted, taking a sip of whiskey. “But at least I’d get to see you more.”Something flickered in Mycroft’s gaze—something Greg couldn’t quite decipher, but it made his chest feel strangely light.“You already see me quite frequently,” Mycroft pointed out.Greg shrugged. “Yeah. And I don’t know why.”The admission hung between them.Greg hadn’t meant to say it, not really, but now that it was out there, he realized how much he meant it.Why was it Mycroft he sought out, time and time again?Why was it Mycroft’s presence that soothed him when nothing else could?Mycroft took a slow sip of his whiskey, setting the glass down before speaking.“Perhaps,” he said carefully, “because you find comfort in predictability. And I am, if nothing else, a constant.”Greg considered that. “Maybe.” He looked down at his glass, swirling the amber liquid.“Or maybe it’s just you.”Another pause. Then, softer: “Gregory.”Greg glanced up and found Mycroft watching him—not with his usual unreadable expression, but with something warmer, something closer.Something that made Greg’s breath catch.And suddenly, it made sense.It had always been Mycroft.The person he sought out, the one who made the weight of the world feel a little lighter, the one who could melt the tension in his chest with a single look.It wasn’t about predictability.It wasn’t even about comfort.It was about Mycroft.Greg let out a breath, barely aware that he’d shifted closer. “I think—” He swallowed. “I think I just like being around you.”Mycroft’s lips curved in the smallest, most genuine of smiles, and Greg felt it again—that warmth, that inexplicable, all-encompassing feeling that had been there all along.“I should hope so,” Mycroft murmured, and before Greg could overthink it, Mycroft pulled him into a gentle embrace.The warmth of it, the solid reassurance of Mycroft’s arms around him, melted away the last remnants of the day’s frustration.Greg exhaled slowly, allowing himself to lean into it, into him.Maybe bad days weren’t so bad if they always led him here.
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Mycroft did not often indulge in sentimentality.He would argue, quite convincingly, that bringing breakfast to bed was an inefficient and frankly unnecessary romantic gesture—crumbs in the sheets, syrup on one’s hands, the sheer indignity of balancing a tray on one’s lap.And yet, here he was.Standing in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, carefully plating a stack of golden pancakes with an artful drizzle of maple syrup. A fresh pot of coffee had been brewed, fruit sliced into neat, even portions. Everything was precise.Perfect. Exactly as he had intended.He would never openly admit it, but there was something undeniably gratifying about surprising Greg with little gestures like this.The man had an infuriatingly attractive way of lighting up whenever Mycroft did something unexpected, and though Mycroft would never be so gauche as to crave external validation, he found that he liked being the cause of Greg’s delighted smile.Satisfied with his work, Mycroft carried the tray back to the bedroom.Greg was still sprawled across the bed, all broad chest and rumpled hair, the sheets slung low around his hips.He was, objectively, an absolute mess. And yet, there was something about the way the morning light caught the silver at his temples, the way his body was warm and lax with sleep, that made Mycroft pause for half a second longer than necessary before stepping forward.Greg stirred, blinking blearily up at him before a slow grin stretched across his face.“Morning, love,” he rasped, voice thick with sleep. His eyes dropped to the tray in Mycroft’s hands. “Did I die in my sleep? Because I must be dreaming.”Mycroft rolled his eyes and set the tray on the bedside table. “I am perfectly capable of preparing breakfast without catastrophe, Gregory.”“Oh, I wasn’t doubting you.” Greg pushed himself up on his elbows, gaze sweeping over Mycroft with a look that had nothing to do with the food. “Just wasn’t expecting you to look so bloody good while doing it.”Mycroft felt a flicker of warmth curl in his stomach. He ignored it.“Eat, Gregory,” he instructed, before sitting primly on the edge of the bed.Greg hummed in acknowledgment, but instead of reaching for the fork, he reached for Mycroft, fingers wrapping gently around his wrist.Mycroft arched a brow. “What are you doing?”Greg hummed, clearly unimpressed by this logic. “You made me breakfast. Romantic gesture and all that.” He tugged gently at Mycroft’s hand, coaxing him closer. “But I think I’d rather start with dessert.”Mycroft gave him a flat look. “It is seven in the morning.”“Exactly.” Greg grinned, shifting until he could press a lazy kiss to the inside of Mycroft’s wrist. “Best way to start the day, isn’t it?”Mycroft inhaled sharply. The touch was light, almost teasing, but it sent a quiet thrill through him nonetheless.“Gregory.” Mycroft meant for it to sound like a warning, but even to his own ears, it lacked conviction.Greg sat up properly now, gaze locked onto him, slow and lazy in a way that made something coil tight in Mycroft’s stomach. He reached out, fingers brushing down the crisp fabric of Mycroft’s shirt, his touch deliberate.“You went through all this effort for me,” Greg murmured. “It’s only fair I return the favor.”Mycroft swallowed.It was ridiculous how easily Greg could do this—unravel him with nothing more than a look, a well-placed touch. He was the British Government, for God’s sake. He had stood in rooms with world leaders, commanded respect with nothing but his presence, and yet here he was, sitting on the edge of a bed, feeling hot under the collar because Greg Lestrade had the audacity to look at him like that.Greg leaned in, brushing his nose along the column of Mycroft’s throat, lips barely skimming the sensitive skin. Mycroft went rigid, breath catching before he could stop himself.“Gregory,” he tried again, but it came out softer, less of a warning and more of a plea.Greg hummed in satisfaction, lips ghosting along his jaw. “Yes, love?”Mycroft clenched his jaw, determined to maintain some semblance of control, but then Greg nipped lightly at the pulse point beneath his ear, and Mycroft shuddered.
Damn him.
Greg pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, his smile slow and knowing. “Something wrong, darling?”Mycroft exhaled through his nose. “You are intolerable.”Greg grinned. “And yet, you adore me.”Before Mycroft could retort, Greg slid a hand up his chest, fingers deftly undoing the top button of his shirt.Mycroft’s breath hitched.“Gregory,” he murmured, but there was no true resistance in his voice.Greg chuckled. “You keep saying my name like that, love, and I’m gonna start thinking you want me to keep going.”Mycroft’s hands, which had previously been resting at his sides, twitched before moving of their own accord—one tangling in Greg’s hair, the other gripping his forearm as if to steady himself.Greg’s smirk softened into something more indulgent as he leaned in once more, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to Mycroft’s lips.Mycroft had meant to keep this morning civilized, meant to maintain his usual composure. But Greg was warm against him, solid and real, and damn it all, he wanted to indulge.So he did.He allowed himself to relax into the kiss, let Greg deepen it, let his fingers slip between the already undone buttons of his shirt.The breakfast he had so carefully prepared was all but forgotten, cooling on the tray beside them as Greg pushed him gently back onto the bed.Mycroft let out a quiet, shuddering breath as Greg’s mouth found his throat again, slow and deliberate.Greg laughed softly against his skin. “Thought you wanted me to eat breakfast first.”Mycroft, for once in his life, found himself at a loss for words.Greg, smug bastard that he was, only grinned wider. “Guess I’ll just have to eat you instead.”Mycroft was prepared to offer a scathing retort.But then Greg bit down just enough to make heat flare low in Mycroft’s stomach, and all that came out was a sharp inhale and a very, very undignified sound.Greg chuckled. “That’s what I thought.”And then Mycroft decided that, for once, he wouldn’t argue.After all, breakfast could wait.
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It was unlike Greg to leave things lying around. He was messy, yes, but never careless. His flat was a lived-in kind of disorder, an accumulation of years spent working odd hours, throwing things down in exhaustion, and never quite having the time to put them back where they belonged. But he never misplaced important things.Never left anything lying around that he didn’t want found.Which was why the note in Mycroft’s hand was a mystery.It had been tucked inside one of Greg’s old case files, something he had left on the coffee table in their flat. Mycroft hadn’t meant to snoop—he had simply been tidying, stacking Greg’s papers into a more organized pile when the small scrap of paper had fluttered loose.The words written on it were unmistakably Greg’s, scrawled in that familiar, slightly messy script.
“I don’t know if he loves me. Not really.”
Mycroft read it again. And again. His pulse, steady and slow just moments ago, began to pound in his ears.Not really.His grip on the note tightened.For a long moment, he simply stood there, the words echoing in his mind, rattling around like something heavy and sharp.He was not a man given to emotional outbursts. He prided himself on logic, on restraint. But this—this hurt in a way he had not been prepared for.Had he not made his feelings clear? Had Greg not understood the way Mycroft chose him, time and time again, despite his own stubborn reluctance toward sentiment? Had he truly doubted—The front door opened.Greg stepped inside, shrugging off his coat with a sigh, running a hand through his already-mussed hair. “Bloody nightmare of a day,” he muttered, before his gaze landed on Mycroft.The instant change in Mycroft’s expression must have been obvious, because Greg straightened slightly, brow furrowing. “What’s wrong?”Mycroft exhaled slowly. Held up the note.Greg frowned, stepping closer. “What’s that?”“I found it in one of your case files.” Mycroft’s voice was eerily even. “Would you care to explain?”Greg took the note, eyes scanning the words. For a moment, he simply stared at it. Then, very softly, he swore under his breath.“It’s not what you think,” he said immediately.“Then do enlighten me,” Mycroft said, clipped and precise, but there was something simmering beneath it—something dangerous.Greg let out a sharp breath. “It’s old, Mycroft. I wrote this months ago.”Mycroft’s fingers twitched at his sides. “And yet, you never brought it up.”“Because I don’t feel that way anymore!” Greg ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “It was just a stupid moment, one bad night where I let my thoughts get the better of me—”“Why?” Mycroft’s voice was quieter now. Deadly calm. “Why would you write something like this?”Greg hesitated.And that hesitation was like a knife in Mycroft’s chest.“Gregory,” he said, something dangerously close to desperate curling in his tone, “Do you honestly believe I do not love you?”Greg’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t know, alright? Back then, I wasn’t sure.”The words sent a sharp, stinging ache through Mycroft’s chest. He swallowed against it. “I see.”“Mycroft, I—”“I thought I was clear.” His voice was controlled, but there was a tremor beneath it. “I thought I had made my affections evident.”“You’re not exactly the most expressive man,” Greg snapped before he could stop himself, and the second it was out, he regretted it.Mycroft stilled.Greg ran a hand down his face. “That’s not—Christ, that’s not what I meant.”Mycroft turned away. His back was rigid, his posture a perfect mask of control. But Greg knew better.“Mycroft,” he said, softer now, stepping forward.Silence.Greg swallowed. I’ve cocked this up royally, haven’t I?But he wasn’t going to let Mycroft walk away. Not now.He reached out, hesitant but determined, and placed a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder.“I wrote that because I was scared,” he admitted, voice rough. “Because I wasn’t used to this—to us. You don’t say it, Myc. You don’t say the words.” He exhaled. “And sometimes, I needed to hear them.”Mycroft’s fingers curled at his sides, his knuckles stark white.Then, very quietly:“I am trying.”Greg’s breath caught.Mycroft turned then, his mask slipping just enough for Greg to see the flicker of something raw beneath it. “I do not express myself as you do,” he murmured. “But never—never—has there been a moment where I did not love you.”Greg’s chest ached.“I know,” he whispered, because now he did. “I know, love.”Mycroft exhaled shakily. Greg reached for him fully now, pulling him into a tight, desperate embrace. Mycroft hesitated for only half a second before he melted into it, burying his face against Greg’s shoulder.“I’m sorry,” Greg murmured against his skin. “For doubting you. For making you think, even for a second, that I don’t know how much you love me.” He swallowed. “Because I do. I do know.”Mycroft let out a slow, steady breath against his shoulder.They stood there for a long moment, wrapped in each other, holding tight.Finally, Mycroft pulled back just enough to meet Greg’s gaze.“I will endeavor to say it more often,” he murmured.Greg smiled, brushing his knuckles over Mycroft’s cheek. “I’d like that.”A pause.Then, so softly Greg almost didn’t hear it:“I love you.”Greg’s heart stuttered.He grinned, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “ I Love you too.”
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It happened quietly.Not in the middle of some grand, sweeping moment. Not in the throes of passion or high drama. No grand gestures, no desperate declarations.Just the two of them, in Mycroft’s flat, the quiet hum of a late-night documentary playing in the background.Greg was stretched out on the sofa, half-asleep, his shirt untucked, tie loosened, the top two buttons undone. He looked comfortable—too comfortable, sprawled there like he belonged, like he had every right to take up space in Mycroft’s carefully ordered world.Mycroft sat beside him, reading a file, his fingers moving with slow precision as he turned a page. He wasn’t watching Greg, but he was aware of him—of the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the way his fingers occasionally twitched against the fabric of his own shirt as if itching to reach out.Greg sighed, shifting slightly, his head tilting toward Mycroft as he settled deeper into the cushions. “Mm. This is nice.”Mycroft hummed. “I assume you mean the comfort of my sofa rather than the intricacies of trade agreements in the EU.”Greg smirked lazily, eyes still closed. “Both. Maybe.” His voice was rough with sleep, lower than usual, curling around the syllables in a way that sent something hot curling low in Mycroft’s stomach.For a moment, Mycroft let himself indulge in it—the warmth of Greg’s body next to his, the scent of him, the way he fit so effortlessly into his space.Then, barely above a murmur, Greg sighed, “Love you.”Mycroft froze.The words were soft, careless in their honesty. No grand declaration, no hesitation. Just a simple, quiet truth spoken into the dimly lit room.He swallowed, his fingers tightening slightly on the edge of his file. He didn’t move , didn’t breathe, just sat there, absorbing the weight of what had just been given to him.Then—softly, carefully—he said, “Say that again.”Greg blinked, pulling himself back toward wakefulness. He shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow, eyes flickering toward Mycroft.There was something in Mycroft’s expression—something open , something unguarded —that made Greg’s breath hitch.So, instead of deflecting, instead of teasing, he sat up fully, reached out, and let his fingers trail along the inside of Mycroft’s wrist.“I said I love you.”Mycroft’s throat bobbed.Greg watched the way his lips parted slightly, the way his pupils dilated just a fraction. And—fuck —there was something unbearably hot about it, about knowing that he could undo the most controlled man in Britain with three little words.Greg smirked, leaning in, voice dropping lower. “That alright with you?”Mycroft exhaled sharply, and then—before Greg could blink—he was on him.It wasn’t a slow, tentative kiss. It was heat, it was teeth, it was Mycroft pushing him back against the sofa with more force than usual, his fingers threading through Greg’s hair as he claimed his mouth.Greg groaned, hands gripping Mycroft’s waist, fingers digging into the fabric of his crisp, tailored waistcoat. “Christ—” he gasped against Mycroft’s lips, but Mycroft swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss, pressing closer, closer.Greg tilted his head back, letting Mycroft take what he wanted, letting him feel it—every bit of heat, every ounce of want, the sheer certainty of it all.When Mycroft finally pulled back, his lips were red, his breathing uneven.Greg, panting slightly, grinned. “Well. That’s a reaction.”Mycroft’s fingers traced the edge of Greg’s jaw, his voice lower than usual, his composure not quite as steady. “You are mine,” he murmured.Greg swallowed hard, heat pooling low in his stomach. “Yeah, love,” he rasped, pulling Mycroft back down against him. “I’m yours.”This time, when they kissed, it was slower. Deeper.And neither of them spoke for a long, long time.
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"You absolute fool, do you have a death wish?"Mycroft's voice was razor-sharp, slicing through the dimly lit apartment like a scalpel. He was pacing, his usual measured steps erratic, his hands trembling at his sides. Greg sat on the couch, a bandage wrapped around his torso, a dark stain of blood seeping through the gauze. He was exhausted, sore, and frankly, sick of this argument before it even began."Jesus, Mycroft, calm down—""Calm down?" Mycroft's voice cracked, his carefully cultivated control shattering. "You were nearly killed, Gregory! You stormed into a building with no backup, no plan—!"Greg ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "I had a plan—""A suicidal plan! Do you ever consider, for one moment, what would happen if you didn’t walk away from one of these cases?" Mycroft's breath hitched, and his fists clenched. "Do you ever think about how it would—" He stopped himself, exhaling shakily.Greg pushed himself up from the couch, jaw set, eyes flashing. "Of course I think about it! It's my bloody job, Mycroft! I know the risks. I don’t need you hovering over me like some—some omniscient god, dictating how I live my life!""You do when you refuse to value it properly!"Mycroft was seething now, his usually cold mask twisted in something raw, something desperate. Greg had seen him frustrated before. Annoyed. But this? This was different. His entire body was taut with emotion, like a dam on the verge of bursting."You think I don't value my life?" Greg shot back, stepping closer, glaring up at Mycroft with fire in his eyes. "I do! But I can’t do my job if I’m too bloody scared to move, alright?""You should be scared, Gregory!" Mycroft's voice was thunderous, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. "Because I am!"Greg froze.And then, before he could form a response, Mycroft surged forward."My heart aches for your presence, do you understand that?" Mycroft spat the words out like they were wrenched from the depths of his soul. His eyes were wild, shining with something dangerous, something honest. "Every time you leave, every time you put yourself in the line of fire, I am left in this unbearable agony of waiting—waiting to hear whether you're still breathing or whether I will have to endure this world without you." His voice cracked at the end, and he sucked in a sharp breath, like he had just realized what he had said.Greg was stunned into silence.His mouth opened, then closed. His heart was hammering in his chest. Mycroft Holmes—the Ice Man, the untouchable, impenetrable enigma—was standing before him, trembling, afraid.For him."Christ, Mycroft," Greg finally breathed. "I—""Don't." Mycroft shook his head, looking away, jaw clenched as though he regretted every syllable. "Forget it."And then he turned, moving towards the door with the kind of stiff finality that made Greg’s stomach drop."Oh, hell no—" Greg surged forward, reaching for him—too fast, too hard. Pain shot through his side, a sharp, burning reminder of his injury, and he let out an involuntary fuck.Mycroft was at his side in an instant."Sit down," he ordered, voice sharp, but his hands were careful as they caught Greg, guiding him back to the couch.Greg barely had a second to breathe before his hand shot out, curling into Mycroft’s lapel, yanking him down. Their lips crashed together, desperate, consuming, raw.A startled sound escaped Mycroft, muffled by Greg’s mouth, but he didn’t pull away.No, he melted—no, surrendered. One hand tangled in Greg’s hair, the other pressed firm against his chest, grounding him. Greg groaned, deep and wanting, tugging at Mycroft’s jacket, shoving it off his shoulders.Clothes became an afterthought. Mycroft shrugged out of his coat, fingers moving with unexpected urgency over Greg’s shirt, finding buttons, slipping them open. Greg’s hands weren’t nearly as careful—he ripped at Mycroft’s tie, sent it to the floor, palmed at his waist with barely restrained hunger.Greg barely registered the way Mycroft pulled him closer, how his fingers curled around his side until—White-hot pain seared through him.Greg flinched, sucking in a sharp breath. "Shit—"And everything stopped.Mycroft froze, pulling back instantly, his hands jerking away like he’d been burned. His pupils were blown wide, his breath uneven, his lips swollen from Greg’s kisses—but that didn’t matter anymore. His entire face had gone tight."Gregory," Mycroft said, voice low, pained. "You're hurting."Greg let his head thump back against the couch, exhaling through his nose, trying to blink the haze of pain and frustration away. "Yeah, well, I was hoping we could ignore that for a bit.""Clearly," Mycroft said, and this time it was back—his control, his bloody iron willpower. Greg watched with a mixture of frustration and reluctant admiration as Mycroft smoothed down his shirt, straightened his spine, collected himself in real-time."Mycroft," Greg groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Come on—"But Mycroft shook his head, jaw tight but eyes unbearably soft. "No."Greg gave him an incredulous look, still breathless, still unbearably hot and bothered. "No?""No," Mycroft repeated firmly, though his voice was still thick with lingering heat. "Not while you're injured."Greg let out something between a groan and a laugh. "You are killing me.""On the contrary, I am ensuring you remain alive." Mycroft huffed, smoothing a hand down his waistcoat—smug bastard. He bent down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to Greg’s forehead before whispering against his skin, "When you are healed, I will not stop you. But until then, you will rest. Do you understand?"Greg sighed, rolling his eyes, but his lips twitched in a small, defeated smile. "Fine.""Good," Mycroft said, and despite his usual prim tone, there was something dark and dangerous in his gaze—a promise.Greg swallowed. He was so screwed.
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It was too bloody cold.Greg grumbled to himself as he shut the bedroom door, shivering slightly even in his thick jumper. The heating in Mycroft’s flat was always at a perfectly regulated temperature—never too warm, never too cold—but tonight, even Mycroft’s carefully controlled climate seemed to be losing against the bitter chill outside.It didn’t help that Mycroft was already in bed, neatly tucked under the blankets, looking perfectly unbothered as he read some heavy political analysis on his tablet.Greg narrowed his eyes at him. “How the hell are you not freezing?”Mycroft didn’t look up. “Because I am not dramatic, Gregory.”Greg snorted. “Yeah, alright, Mr. Umbrella and Three-Piece Suit in a Heatwave.” He rubbed his hands together for warmth, then muttered, “Move over.”Mycroft let out a long-suffering sigh but did, in fact, shift slightly to allow Greg to crawl under the covers.The moment Greg slid in, he groaned in relief. “Christ, finally.” He wiggled a little, stretching out before turning toward Mycroft with a grin. “You’re like a bloody radiator.”“I maintain a perfectly normal body temperature,” Mycroft replied, though he still hadn’t looked away from his tablet.Greg huffed, watching him for a moment before making a decision.Without warning, he lunged, wrapping an arm around Mycroft’s waist and yanking him flush against his chest. Mycroft let out a startled huff, his tablet nearly slipping from his grasp as he was unceremoniously manhandled into Greg’s warmth.“Gregory—”“Nope.” Greg buried his face against the crook of Mycroft’s neck, pressing a slow, warm kiss to his skin. “No more reading. You’re a human furnace, and I’m freezing.”Mycroft went rigid for half a second—just long enough for Greg to notice—but then, slowly, the tension bled from his body.Greg smirked against his skin. “Thought so.”Mycroft sighed but didn’t protest further.Greg took full advantage, tangling their legs together, wrapping himself around Mycroft like a damn koala. The warmth was immediate, seeping into his bones, and he let out a satisfied hum.“Better,” he murmured.For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, the distant hum of the city outside, the slow rise and fall of Mycroft’s chest beneath Greg’s hand.Then, very quietly, Mycroft muttered, “…You are ridiculous.”Greg grinned, pressing another lazy kiss to Mycroft’s shoulder. “Yeah, yeah.”A pause.Then, softer—almost imperceptibly so—Mycroft whispered, “…But I suppose this is acceptable.”Greg’s heart fucking melted.He held him just a little tighter, closed his eyes, and let the warmth of Mycroft—of them—lull him into sleep.
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The world could wait.That was Greg’s first thought as he lay tangled with Mycroft in the quiet hush of early morning. The flat was still, the faint glow of dawn filtering through the curtains, painting soft gold across pale skin. Mycroft was warm beneath him, a steady, comforting weight against the mattress, his breathing slow and even.Greg didn’t want to move.Didn’t want to shatter this perfect, stolen moment where nothing outside of this bed existed.Mycroft, for all his usual precision and formality, looked utterly undone like this—his auburn hair sleep-mussed, his lips slightly parted, his expression relaxed in a way that Greg rarely got to see. It was a rare sight, and Greg would be damned if he didn’t take advantage of it.So, he leaned in.Pressed the faintest, laziest kiss to Mycroft’s bare shoulder, just because he could.Mycroft hummed softly, shifting slightly but not opening his eyes.Encouraged, Greg trailed another kiss up to his collarbone, then one to the curve of his jaw, slow and unhurried. Mycroft exhaled, a barely-there sigh, and Greg felt it more than heard it—the way his body softened, the way his fingers curled just slightly against Greg’s back.Greg smirked against his skin. “Morning, love.”Mycroft made a faint noise that might have been a greeting, but it was muffled by Greg’s lips pressing gently—oh so gently—against his own.Soft. Warm. Unhurried.Greg took his time, kissing him the way he always wanted to but rarely got the chance to. He tasted sleep and warmth, something sweet lingering from the tea Mycroft had undoubtedly had before bed. He traced his fingertips down Mycroft’s side, not to tease, not to entice—just to touch, to feel, to remind them both that this was real.Mycroft sighed into his mouth, tilting his head slightly, parting his lips just enough to let Greg deepen the kiss—slow, languid, thorough.Greg grinned against his lips. “Not protesting, then?”Mycroft huffed, his voice sleep-rough and fond. “Would it matter if I did?”Greg chuckled. “Not in the slightest.”And then he kissed him again. And again. And again.Because the world could wait.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It had started as nothing.A careless remark, an offhanded comment, something Greg hadn’t even thought twice about—until Mycroft’s expression shifted. It was subtle, the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers tensed around the edge of his teacup.Greg, ever perceptive when it came to his very particular boyfriend, sighed. “Alright, what did I say?”Mycroft didn’t look at him. “Nothing of consequence.”Greg rolled his eyes. Ah. That tone. The one that was perfectly even, perfectly measured—except for the faintest trace of ice beneath it.“Right,” Greg muttered, setting his pint down. He racked his brain, replaying the conversation in his head. “Was it the comment about your schedule?”No response.“The one about work?”A minute twitch of Mycroft’s fingers.Greg exhaled through his nose, sitting back. “Okay, so, it was about work.”Mycroft finally met his gaze, his blue eyes cool and assessing. “I merely fail to see the relevance of the discussion. My professional responsibilities are hardly an issue.”Greg scoffed. “Oh, bollocks, Mycroft. It is an issue when you barely sleep and look like you’re about to pass out half the time.”“I am perfectly capable of maintaining my own well-being, Gregory.”Greg huffed. “Are you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re running yourself into the ground.”Silence.A long, tense beat where Mycroft’s lips pressed into a thin line, where his gaze flickered just slightly away.Greg sighed, softer this time. Less frustration, more concern. He reached out, brushing his fingers over Mycroft’s wrist. “Look, I didn’t mean to start a fight.”Mycroft was quiet for a long moment before he finally murmured, “Nor did I.”Greg squeezed his wrist gently. “Then maybe we call it even?”Mycroft’s lips quirked, the tension easing from his shoulders. “…Perhaps.”Greg smirked, but instead of releasing him, he tugged Mycroft forward, pressing him back against the wall with a firm, deliberate movement.Mycroft let out a sharp breath as his back met the cool surface, eyes widening slightly before narrowing in something that wasn’t quite protest—but wasn’t full surrender either. Greg knew that look.He loved that look.“Good,” Greg murmured, voice low and rough as he leaned in, pressing his body flush against Mycroft’s. “Now, how about I show you just how much I really want to make it up to you?”Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but his breath hitched when Greg’s fingers slid beneath the hem of his perfectly pressed shirt, palms skimming up warm, taut skin. “Gregory—”Greg swallowed whatever reprimand was forming on Mycroft’s tongue with a kiss that was anything but chaste.Deep, hot, possessive, coaxing a faint gasp from the man pinned against the wall.“You talk too much,” Greg muttered against his lips before nipping lightly at his jaw, then lower, dragging his teeth over the pale column of his throat.He felt Mycroft’s fingers tighten around his shoulders, gripping him in a way that was almost needy—not that Mycroft would ever admit to that.Greg grinned. “Still mad at me?”Mycroft’s head tipped back against the wall as Greg’s hands moved lower, teasing, pressing, claiming.“…Debatable,” Mycroft breathed.Greg chuckled darkly, pressing closer, voice a warm rasp against his skin. “Guess I’ll just have to keep apologizing, then.”And apologize he did.Thoroughly.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Greg had never seen Mycroft Holmes look so utterly betrayed.He stood in the center of their bedroom, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line, staring at the offending items laid neatly on the bed."Gregory," he said, voice dangerously measured. "Explain."Greg, meanwhile, was thriving."Well," he said, grinning as he picked up one of the pajama tops—a deep red, adorned with tiny, ridiculously smug cartoon foxes wearing bowler hats and monocles. He held it up proudly. "I saw these and immediately thought of us. Couple pajamas, Myc! You know, a tradition."Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "There is no such tradition.""There is now." Greg tossed the other pajama set at him—a matching pair in dark navy, but instead of foxes, it had tiny, goofy-looking police badges and donuts. "See? It's perfect.”“It is not perfect,” Mycroft muttered, unfolding the fabric with barely concealed disdain. “It is garish.”Greg smirked, stepping closer. “Oh, come on, Myc. Think about it—lounging on the sofa, matching pajamas, warm tea, maybe a film—”“Must it be matching?” Mycroft sighed, but Greg could already see the telltale signs of his resistance crumbling.Greg pressed up against him, hands settling on his waist, voice dropping to a low murmur. “It’d make me really happy,” he said, brushing a kiss against the side of Mycroft’s throat. “And you do like making me happy, don’t you?”Mycroft huffed. “That is manipulation, Gregory.”Greg grinned, nipping lightly at his ear. “So, is it working?”A long pause.Then—resigned exhale.“…Fine.”Greg beamed. “Knew you’d see reason, love.”Twenty minutes later, they were curled up on the sofa, a blanket thrown over them, mugs of tea in hand.Greg had never been cozier.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Greg wasn’t nervous.Not usually.He was a grown man, a seasoned detective, and had faced down criminals, explosions, and more than a few terrifying experiences in his time. But sitting here, on Mycroft Holmes’ impossibly expensive sofa, this—this was making him nervous.Because he was about to do something reckless.Something stupid.Something that could very well ruin everything.Mycroft sat across from him, legs crossed, completely at ease, flipping through a file that Greg suspected wasn’t even important. Just something for Mycroft to do with his hands while they sat here in comfortable silence, the evening unfolding like so many others before it.Greg had spent countless nights like this—coming over after a long shift, shedding the weight of the day in Mycroft’s presence, tangled in sheets that smelled like him, pressed against the warmth of his body.But it wasn’t enough anymore.Greg set his glass down with a little too much force, startling Mycroft slightly.Cool blue eyes flicked up to meet his. “Gregory?”Greg exhaled sharply. “I need to say something.”A small crease formed between Mycroft’s brows, his body going still, posture shifting just slightly into something more guarded. “…Alright.”Greg swallowed. “Look, I’m not great with words—not like you. But there’s something I’ve been holding back, and I—” He exhaled sharply. “I can’t keep not saying it.”Mycroft’s fingers tightened around the file. “I see.”Greg let out a rough laugh. “I doubt it, mate. ‘Cause if you did, you’d already be shutting me down before I could say it.”Something in Mycroft’s jaw twitched. “Gregory—”“I love you.”Silence.A heavy, loaded silence.Greg’s heart pounded. The words hung between them, suspended in the space of what could either become something more—or shatter completely.Mycroft inhaled slowly, controlled, setting the file down with a precision that felt too calculated. He stared at Greg, expression unreadable.Then, quiet—so quiet—he murmured, “That’s rather foolish of you.”Greg’s stomach twisted. He barked out a laugh, but it was hollow. “Yeah. Thought you might say that.”Mycroft’s lips parted, his fingers twitching against the armrest, but Greg was already standing, forcing out something like a grin. “Right. Well, there you go. Now you know.”He turned to leave.And then—
"Gregory."
Mycroft’s voice was low—urgent in a way Greg had never heard before.Greg turned, expecting cool detachment, but what he got was something entirely different.Mycroft was looking at him with something close to panic. Not rejection. Not dismissal. Panic.Greg’s breath caught. “Myc…”Mycroft moved so fast Greg barely had time to react. One moment, there was a careful distance between them—then suddenly, Mycroft was right there, crowding into his space, warm hands gripping the lapels of Greg’s coat.“You think I don’t love you?” Mycroft’s voice was quiet but fierce, his breath warm against Greg’s lips. “You think I would let you in like this, let you have me, if I didn’t?”Greg’s heart stuttered. “You never said—”Mycroft kissed him.And not the usual, careful, measured kisses they sometimes shared—no, this was raw, desperate, like Mycroft was making up for every unspoken word, every missed opportunity. His hands fisted in Greg’s coat before tugging it off entirely, tossing it aside like it was offensive to him.Greg groaned, deep and guttural, grabbing Mycroft’s waist and pulling him in, backing him up against the desk. “Jesus, Myc,” he muttered against his lips, biting just enough to make Mycroft gasp. “If you’d just said something—”“I’m saying it now,” Mycroft practically growled.Greg had never heard Mycroft growl before.It went straight to his spine, heat curling low in his stomach.“You’re dangerous,” Greg murmured, pressing kisses down the elegant column of Mycroft’s throat, feeling the sharp intake of breath, the way Mycroft’s head tipped back just so to give him better access. “All this time, holding back on me—”“Hardly,” Mycroft breathed, but the way his fingers clawed at Greg’s back said otherwise.Greg smirked, dragging his hands under Mycroft’s shirt, palms gliding over the smooth, warm skin of his back. Mycroft shivered, gripping Greg’s shoulders tightly, and—fuck, he loved this. Loved seeing Mycroft Holmes—calm, controlled, always composed—fall apart in his hands.Greg bit at his jaw, his lips brushing against the shell of Mycroft’s ear. “Next time, love, maybe don’t keep me waiting so bloody long.”Mycroft huffed out a breath that was definitely not a laugh, but before he could retort, Greg lifted him onto the desk, forcing a startled gasp from his lips.Greg grinned, leaning in close, voice a low murmur against Mycroft’s ear.“Say it.”Mycroft’s breath hitched, his fingers twisting into the fabric of Greg’s shirt.Then, voice rough, wrecked, Mycroft whispered—“I love you.”Greg groaned. “Oh, that’s it—”And then, all at once, Mycroft was pulling him down, lips crushing against his, legs wrapping around Greg’s waist, and whatever control they had left completely disappeared.They barely made it to the bedroom.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The rain hadn’t stopped all day. It drummed steadily against the windows, washing London in a dreary grey, while the occasional rumble of thunder echoed through the sky. The city was soaked, miserable, and cold—but inside the townhouse, everything was warm.Greg had declared, rather dramatically, that there was no reason to leave the comfort of their bed on a day like this. Mycroft had protested, of course, insisting he had work to do. But somehow, after Greg pulled him under the covers and wrapped him up in an embrace that was far too warm and far too inviting, Mycroft never quite made it back to his desk.“See?” Greg murmured, his voice husky against Mycroft’s ear. “This is so much better than running around dealing with all your government nonsense.”Mycroft huffed, but didn’t move. It was difficult to make a case for leaving when Greg’s body was pressed so comfortably against his own, one arm slung lazily over his waist, their legs tangled beneath the thick duvet.Greg’s fingers traced slow, idle circles along Mycroft’s side, teasing the soft fabric of his undershirt. The touch was barely-there, innocent—except for the way Greg’s thumb kept dipping under the hem, brushing warm against Mycroft’s skin.“You’re doing that on purpose,” Mycroft accused, voice steady, but Greg could hear the slight hitch of breath.Greg smirked, shifting just a bit closer, his stubble scraping lightly along Mycroft’s jaw. “What, this?” His fingers dragged higher, skimming over Mycroft’s ribs, tracing the lines of his body in a way that felt decidedly less innocent.Mycroft swallowed. “Yes. That.”Greg chuckled, his breath warm as he dipped lower, brushing his lips against the column of Mycroft’s throat, lingering just long enough for Mycroft to feel it before pulling away.“Mm, can’t help it,” Greg murmured, his hand now sliding fully under Mycroft’s shirt, fingers splayed against warm, bare skin. “You feel too good.”A breathy exhale escaped Mycroft before he could stop it, and Greg—bastard that he was—smirked against his skin.The storm raged outside, the rain pattering against the windows, but neither of them paid attention to it anymore.Mycroft shifted, rolling slightly so that Greg was pinned beneath him, their faces so close now.Greg’s smirk widened. “Oh, so now you wanna play?”Mycroft arched a brow, fingers pressing against Greg’s chest, his voice a low murmur. “You started this, Gregory. I am simply responding in kind.”Greg groaned, hands sliding up Mycroft’s back, pulling him even closer, letting their warmth mingle under the covers.“You’re dangerous,” Greg whispered, lips brushing against Mycroft’s, teasing, waiting.“And yet,” Mycroft breathed, finally finally closing the distance, “you never seem to mind.”Their lips met, soft at first, then deeper, slower, lazier.Greg’s fingers slipped under Mycroft’s shirt, palms gliding over the sharp planes of his back, fingertips digging in, just slightly, enough to make Mycroft exhale sharply against his lips.The kiss shifted, from teasing to something hotter, heavier.Greg pushed up slightly, rolling Mycroft beneath him now, his knee sliding between Mycroft’s legs, pressing.Mycroft made a sound—not quite a gasp, not quite a moan, but devastatingly close—and Greg nearly lost his composure right then and there.“Fuck,” Greg muttered, pressing open-mouthed kisses down Mycroft’s neck, over his infuriatingly crisp shirt that he desperately wanted to unbutton.“Language,” Mycroft murmured, though his voice was far too breathless to sound scolding.Greg laughed against his throat. “Really? That’s what you’re focusing on?”Mycroft let out a small huff, but whatever retort he had was swiftly forgotten when Greg rolled his hips, pressing against him in a way that was anything but subtle.Mycroft sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers tightening against Greg’s back, pulling him in, and Greg groaned at the reaction.Greg’s fingers found the first button of Mycroft’s shirt and flicked it open, then the second, then the third—until his palm could slide across warm, bare skin, his fingertips ghosting over Mycroft’s ribs, up to his chest, teasing at the sharp collarbone there.Mycroft let out a breathy sigh, his hands tightening in Greg’s hair as Greg’s lips trailed lower, his tongue tracing along the sensitive line of Mycroft’s throat before closing around the skin there with a teasing, slow suck.Mycroft shuddered.“Tell me to stop,” Greg murmured against his throat, lips teasing, waiting.Mycroft tilted his chin up, exposing more of his neck, his hands sliding lower, nails scratching just slightly along Greg’s spine.His voice was low, unsteady, when he whispered, “Why on earth would I do that?”Greg grinned, wicked and pleased, before kissing him again—harder this time.The rain outside was forgotten.The cold, the storm, everything beyond this bed didn’t matter.Just the heat of their bodies, the press of lips, the way their hands explored, slow and teasing—until slow wasn’t enough.And Greg?Greg wasn’t about to let a little rain stop him from making the most of a very lazy day in bed.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It had been a long day for both of them, but somehow they still managed to find their way back to each other. Mycroft was just finishing up some paperwork in his study when he heard the unmistakable sound of soft footsteps padding across the floor toward their bedroom.He barely registered the sound at first, too absorbed in the reports in front of him, but then it hit him—there was something off. Something too relaxed. His gaze flickered to the doorframe, just in time to see Greg step into the room.Greg’s expression was casual, but there was something too relaxed about the way he moved. It took Mycroft a moment to register what was wrong—what was so incredibly wrong—and then it hit him like a punch to the gut.Greg was wearing his robe.But that wasn’t all.There was nothing else.Not even underwear.Greg’s shoulders were relaxed, one hand lazily holding the robe closed at the waist, the other swiping a hand through his already tousled hair. His bare feet slid across the floor as he looked up, and Mycroft’s eyes immediately locked on the exposed skin of Greg’s neck, the robe just barely hanging on—teasing, provoking—and it wasn’t long before his gaze dropped to the line of Greg’s chest, visible through the loosely tied robe. The effect was devastating.“Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice came out low, practically a growl, as he pushed away from his desk, his eyes never leaving the sight of his husband standing there so… uninhibited. “Is there a reason you’re wearing my robe?”Greg raised an eyebrow, a lazy smile tugging at his lips. “What? I thought it was comfortable.” His eyes flickered up to meet Mycroft’s with a mischievous glint, as if he knew exactly what effect this was having on his husband.Mycroft’s jaw clenched, and he tried to look away, to focus on anything other than Greg’s goddamn bare chest, the way the robe hung just low enough to make Mycroft’s pulse spike. But of course, that was impossible. The heat between them was tangible.“It’s…” Mycroft exhaled sharply. “…more than *comfortable, isn’t it?” His words came out a little rougher than he intended.Greg took a step closer, letting the robe fall open slightly, just enough for Mycroft to see the entire length of his bare torso, the muscles flexing as he moved, every inch of skin taunting him with every step.“Oh, I don’t know, Mycroft,” Greg purred, his voice dripping with that same teasing tone. “It feels *perfect.” He closed the distance, stepping in front of Mycroft, the air between them now thick with tension. “I might just keep it.”Mycroft’s breath hitched, and he was suddenly aware of every single inch of Greg’s body against his. The proximity, the warmth of Greg’s body was enough to short-circuit his brain. He could feel his resolve starting to slip.“Greg,” Mycroft warned, his voice low and dangerous.But Greg wasn’t listening.Instead, Greg’s hand reached up, fingers brushing the collar of the robe, and Mycroft’s heart skipped a beat. Slowly, deliberately, Greg tugged the robe open just a fraction more, his lips curving into a smirk.“Something wrong, darling?” Greg’s voice was soft now, almost too soft, sending a thrill of heat through Mycroft’s chest.“My clothes,” Mycroft said, forcing the words out despite the fire that was building inside him, “are not for your amusement, Gregory.”Greg only chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that had Mycroft’s entire body tightening with anticipation. “Not for my amusement? I think you’re wrong about that.” He leaned in, lips brushing over Mycroft’s ear. “I find it quite amusing, actually, seeing you struggle.”Struggle was an understatement.Mycroft was so close to losing control that it was terrifying. His fingers twitched, his pulse hammering in his ears as Greg’s breath ghosted against his skin. “You should put the robe back where it belongs,” Mycroft managed to say, but it was hardly a command anymore—it was a plea, a desperate attempt to regain some semblance of authority.“Put it back?” Greg echoed, stepping closer still, his bare chest brushing against Mycroft’s, sending sparks of desire racing through Mycroft’s veins. “I think I’ll keep it for now.”The proximity, the warmth of Greg’s body against his, was too much for Mycroft. He couldn’t take it any longer. His hands shot out, grabbing the front of the robe and tugging Greg closer, so close that their bodies were practically pressed together.“You are playing with fire,” Mycroft warned, his voice a low growl, the heat of his breath mingling with Greg’s.Greg chuckled softly against his skin, his hands now sliding up Mycroft’s chest to pull him in even closer. “I love playing with fire.” He leaned in, lips crashing down onto Mycroft’s in a kiss that was intense, all-consuming.Mycroft’s hands found the edges of Greg’s robe, pulling it off his body completely, leaving Greg bare and gloriously exposed in front of him.Greg didn’t hesitate. His hands went straight to Mycroft’s waist, tugging at the fabric of his shirt, peeling it off with urgency as their lips met again—harder this time, more insistent.Greg could feel the heat of Mycroft’s skin beneath his fingertips, the muscles of his chest rippling as he kissed Greg with a force that left them both gasping for air.“You’re *impossible,” Mycroft muttered between kisses, his hands tracing the lines of Greg’s body, desperate to feel every inch of him.Greg grinned, breathless. “You love it.”“I do,” Mycroft admitted, his voice rough. “I can’t get enough of you.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It had been a long, exhausting day. The hum of foreign cities felt distant and foreign to Mycroft as he sat in his hotel room, a lone figure in an unfamiliar place. He missed London—he missed the comfort of their shared home. But more than anything, he missed Gregory.Mycroft had been away for nearly a week now on business, and though he had tried to focus on the reports and international meetings, his thoughts were always with his husband. The distance between them had never felt this vast. The calls and texts had helped, but it wasn’t the same. Nothing compared to being with him, to feeling his warmth, hearing his voice in person.Tonight, though, it was just them. Even if it was through a phone call, it felt like a lifeline."Are you still awake, Mycroft?" Greg’s voice came through the line, thick with that endearing warmth that never failed to soothe Mycroft’s mind. It was a voice that anchored him.“I’m trying, Gregory,” Mycroft replied, his tone smooth, almost a purr, despite the exhaustion he felt from a long day of negotiations. He adjusted his position in the bed, pulling the thick hotel blankets up around himself, though the coldness of the room couldn’t quite distract him from the loneliness that clung to him. “But I’d much rather be keeping you warm in person, my love.” His words were heavy with yearning.Greg chuckled softly, and Mycroft could almost hear the smile in his voice. “I wouldn’t mind that either.” There was a playful edge to Greg’s tone now, but underneath it, Mycroft could tell he was tired too. “But for now, just keep me company. You’re the best company.”“Of course,” Mycroft responded, his voice lowering, like he was sharing a secret only Greg would understand. “But I must admit, it’s hard to focus on anything when all I can think about is you.”Greg’s breath on the other end shifted, a soft sigh, but Mycroft could sense the subtle smile that had crept onto his lips. “I’ve been thinking about you, too,” Greg murmured, his voice so sleepy and warm that it sent a wave of desire coursing through Mycroft. "Do you miss me as much as I miss you?"“I do, Gregory,” Mycroft whispered, his hand coming to rest against his pillow, the very one Greg used at home. It smelled faintly of him, and it was the closest thing to comfort he could find here. “I’m aching to be with you.” His words were heavy, raw, and entirely honest.Greg’s chuckle on the other end was thick with affection, the sound a balm on Mycroft’s weary heart. “I’ll tell you what,” Greg’s voice softened even more, “when you get back... we’ll make up for every night you’ve been gone. We’ll—” He paused for a moment, likely fighting off a yawn. “—we’ll make it unforgettable.”The promise in Greg’s voice sent a rush of heat through Mycroft’s chest, and he found himself pressing the phone even closer, like it would somehow bring them closer. “I’ll hold you to that, Gregory,” Mycroft said, his voice darker now, though there was affection in every word. “I’m already imagining it.”Greg’s breath had slowed, and Mycroft could tell he was almost asleep. His own eyelids were heavy, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to end the call just yet. “Gregory,” Mycroft murmured quietly, “promise me something.”“Mmh?” Greg hummed in response, the sound almost a sleepy purr.“Promise me,” Mycroft continued, his voice now soft but intense, “that until I get back, you’ll take care of yourself. Don’t let the stress of my absence get to you. You deserve rest... and I’ll be back before you know it.”There was a brief silence before Greg’s voice returned, thick with a drowsy smile. “I promise.”Mycroft’s heart swelled, a comforting warmth spreading through him at the thought of Greg’s words. He ran a hand through his hair and let out a soft, contented sigh. “I’ll be home soon, love. I can’t wait to hold you in my arms again.”A quiet silence fell between them, the soft rhythm of their breaths blending together through the phone. Mycroft could almost feel the warmth of Greg’s skin, the comforting weight of his body next to his. But for now, he could only hold onto the sound of Greg’s voice, the connection between them that stretched across oceans, that made the distance bearable.As the minutes passed, Mycroft felt the tension in his shoulders start to ease, the weight of the day beginning to melt away. He could feel the exhaustion creeping up on him too, but he stayed awake, not wanting to miss a single second of hearing Greg’s voice.“You should sleep, Gregory,” Mycroft said quietly, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. “We both need rest. I’ll be home before you know it.”“I know,” Greg replied with a yawn. “But I don’t want to hang up, not yet... I like hearing your voice.”Mycroft smiled softly to himself, his thumb brushing over the edge of the phone as if he could reach through it and touch Greg. “I’ll stay with you, love. For as long as I can.”And with that, the call softened, and soon, only the steady sound of Greg’s breathing filled the line. Mycroft kept the phone pressed to his ear for a few moments longer, imagining the warmth of Greg beside him, feeling the distance between them growing just a little smaller with every word spoken, every breath shared.And for the first time in days, Mycroft allowed himself to close his eyes and drift off, knowing that soon, the distance would be no more.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It had been one of those weeks. Mycroft had been running on fumes, juggling a dozen crises with little sleep, as usual. The weight of the world felt heavier than usual that evening, and it was starting to show. His normally impeccable composure had faltered slightly, his sharp eyes darkened by exhaustion and the constant hum of pressure that came with his position. Despite the chaos, Mycroft never allowed himself the luxury of letting his guard down, at least not in public, not in front of anyone.But when he came home, he couldn’t fool Greg.Greg had been waiting for him at the door, his brow furrowed in concern as he looked Mycroft up and down, his gaze sharp but full of care. “Long day?” Greg asked, his voice soft and knowing.Mycroft gave a small, tight smile, one that barely reached his eyes. “More like a long week,” he replied, though his tone betrayed just how much of a toll it had taken on him.Greg stepped closer, his eyes never leaving Mycroft’s, sensing the quiet exhaustion that hung in the air. He could see Mycroft’s shoulders tense, his posture stiff as if he were holding back something deep inside.“You need a break,” Greg said gently, the words more a statement than a suggestion. Mycroft didn’t respond right away, but Greg could tell that the usual wall Mycroft built around himself was starting to crack just a little.Greg closed the distance between them, stepping forward until their bodies were almost touching. Mycroft didn’t move away, though his muscles were still tight, his face strained in a way that made Greg’s heart ache. The normally confident, composed Mycroft Holmes was in need of something Greg had rarely seen him accept: comfort.“I’m fine, Gregory,” Mycroft muttered, but the words lacked their usual conviction. His voice was a little too strained, a little too hoarse for it to be believable.Greg didn’t argue; he’d learned long ago that trying to force Mycroft to admit he was struggling was a losing battle. Instead, he took another step forward, until he was just inches away, and then, without a word, wrapped his arms around Mycroft.Mycroft stiffened at first—of course he did. He was Mycroft Holmes, after all. But Greg didn’t let go, didn’t budge. He simply held Mycroft, his arms strong but not forceful, offering him a safe place to rest.At first, Mycroft didn’t move, his body tense, rigid against Greg’s embrace. But as the seconds ticked by, something in him seemed to give way. The weight of the world, the unspoken tension, seemed to melt under Greg’s touch.Greg held him tighter, pulling him closer into the warmth of his body, letting Mycroft feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Mycroft could feel the reassuring strength of Greg’s arms, the tenderness that Greg offered without asking for anything in return. Greg’s chin rested lightly on top of Mycroft’s head, his hands rubbing soothing circles across his back.“Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice was barely a whisper, vulnerable in a way Greg had rarely heard. “I’m…”“I know, love,” Greg interrupted softly, pressing his cheek against the top of Mycroft’s head. He could feel Mycroft’s heartbeat slowing as the tension slowly unraveled from his body. “You don’t have to explain.”Mycroft stayed silent for a moment, his eyes closed, his face buried against Greg’s shoulder. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to let go, even just a little. The world outside, the stress, the never-ending demands—it all felt distant as he let Greg hold him. He didn’t have to be Mycroft Holmes, the unshakable pillar. For this moment, he could just be himself.Greg felt Mycroft’s body relax into his, the tension easing from his shoulders as Mycroft melted into the embrace. Mycroft’s hands, which had been clenched at his sides in quiet frustration, slowly rose to rest against Greg’s chest. The weight of Mycroft’s head against his shoulder became more than just physical—it was as if Mycroft had allowed himself to fall apart in Greg’s arms, just for a while.“You’re safe here,” Greg murmured, his lips brushing the top of Mycroft’s head in a tender, almost reverent gesture.Mycroft exhaled softly, the sound barely audible. “I don’t know how you do it,” he said, his voice thick with exhaustion. “How you always know exactly what I need.”Greg gave a soft chuckle, his arms tightening around Mycroft just a little more. “It’s because I know you, Mycroft. I always have. You’re not as hard to read as you think.”Mycroft hummed in response, a sound of appreciation as he allowed himself to stay in the embrace a little longer. His chest pressed against Greg’s, his breath warm against the fabric of Greg’s shirt.“Don’t go,” Mycroft whispered suddenly, his voice small and a little vulnerable. He immediately regretted saying it, but it was out there now. “Please.”Greg’s heart clenched, but there was no hesitation in his voice as he replied, “I’m not going anywhere, love.”The simple words were all Mycroft needed. He felt the weight of them settle in his chest, a quiet reassurance that made him feel... safe. He’d never admit it aloud, but in this moment, he was completely dependent on Greg. And, for once, that didn’t feel so bad.Greg gently lifted Mycroft’s chin, tilting his face up to meet his gaze. There was a tenderness in Greg’s eyes, the kind that only came when someone was truly cared for. He leaned in, his lips brushing against Mycroft’s forehead.Mycroft closed his eyes, his breath catching at the softness of the gesture. For a moment, he forgot about the world beyond their flat. He forgot about the endless stream of responsibilities and expectations. All that mattered was the steady comfort of Greg’s arms around him, holding him, never letting go.“I’m here,” Greg whispered once more, the words a simple promise. “Always.”And as Mycroft rested against Greg, for the first time in a long while, he felt as though he could finally breathe again.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The late afternoon sun bathed the sprawling countryside in a warm, golden hue, casting long shadows over the green fields that surrounded their secluded holiday home. It was a rare treat for Mycroft, a welcome break from the unrelenting demands of his work. He’d agreed to this weekend getaway, largely for the sake of his husband, Gregory—who was more than eager to escape the usual hustle and bustle of London and embrace the quiet tranquility of the countryside.Their small picnic was set up on the soft grass beside a babbling creek, the air rich with the earthy scent of grass and wildflowers. Mycroft had to admit that the scenery was breathtaking, but as always, his attention was primarily focused on Greg.Gregory was in his element—dressed casually, hair slightly tousled from the light breeze, and laughing as he took out a small basket filled with strawberries and a bar of rich, dark chocolate. Mycroft, ever the reluctant participant in these “romantic” gestures, had nevertheless been won over by Greg’s enthusiasm. He’d always thought the strawberries a bit frivolous, but the way Greg’s eyes sparkled as he presented them was enough to soften even his most stony resolve.Greg sliced the strawberries with careful precision, before dipping each piece into the melted chocolate, holding one up for Mycroft. "You have to try this, love. I promise it’s worth it."Mycroft raised an eyebrow, looking at the strawberry on the end of Greg’s finger. He wasn’t particularly fond of sweet things, but there was something about Greg’s smile that made it impossible to say no.With a sigh, Mycroft leaned forward, his lips parting slightly. He took the strawberry between his lips, feeling the rich, sweet chocolate coat his tongue as the juices from the fruit mixed with it. Mycroft slowly chewed, savoring the unexpected pleasure.“Not bad,” he muttered, glancing at Greg with a small, approving nod.Greg, sensing an opening, leaned closer, his breath warm against Mycroft’s ear as he whispered, “Wanna try something even better?”Mycroft was about to respond when he felt Greg’s lips brush against his neck. The light, teasing touch sent a jolt of heat straight through him, and before he knew it, Greg’s hands were on his shoulders, gently pushing him back against the soft blanket.“What are you—?” Mycroft started, but his words were cut off when Greg captured his lips in a kiss that was slow, deliberate, but laced with a heat that caught Mycroft by surprise.The chocolate still lingered on Mycroft’s lips, but it was quickly replaced by the sweetness of Greg's kiss. Mycroft could feel the heat building between them, his pulse quickening as Greg leaned in further, his body pressing flush against Mycroft’s.Greg’s hands were still resting on his shoulders, the warmth of Greg’s touch sending a wave of sensation across Mycroft’s body. Mycroft groaned quietly into the kiss, and when Greg’s hands slid lower, brushing over his chest, Mycroft couldn't hold back.With a sudden move, Mycroft pushed Greg back gently, taking control for the first time in what felt like ages. His gaze darkened as he held both of Greg’s hands in one of his, pinning them above his head on the soft grass, effectively trapping him beneath him.“You’ve been far too bold,” Mycroft growled, his voice low and rough with restrained desire. His thumb grazed over Greg’s wrist, ensuring there was no escape. The coolness of Greg’s skin beneath his touch only heightened Mycroft’s growing need, but he remained calm, composed, as he allowed himself a few moments of teasing.Greg, though, was having none of it. His eyes burned with a challenge, a mischievous glint in his gaze. “Thought you liked me bold,” he retorted, his voice thick with desire.“You’re pushing your luck, Gregory,” Mycroft murmured, leaning in so his lips brushed against Greg’s jawline. He nipped at the sensitive skin there, slowly working his way down to the hollow of Greg’s throat, feeling the pulse beneath his lips as Greg arched into him, desperate for more.Mycroft’s free hand slid down to Greg’s waist, fingertips trailing over the line of his jeans, eliciting a soft, involuntary shiver from Greg. The sound of Greg’s breath quickening was all the confirmation Mycroft needed. He could feel Greg’s heart beating wildly beneath his fingertips, and he couldn’t help but grin at how easy it was to unravel him.Greg tugged desperately at Mycroft’s grip, but Mycroft held firm, not giving an inch.Greg’s head fell back against the blanket, his chest rising and falling with quickened breaths. He was at Mycroft’s mercy now, and he knew it. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try. He shifted under Mycroft, trying to pull him closer, desperate for more.“I can’t wait any longer,” Greg rasped, his voice raw with need. “Please, Mycroft.”Mycroft’s grip tightened on his wrists, and for a moment, he looked down at Greg, studying him. There was no turning back now. Not when Greg was so beautifully undone beneath him, his body trembling with anticipation.“You never could wait,” Mycroft muttered, lowering himself slowly to kiss Greg again, more fiercely this time. But as their lips collided, Mycroft kept himself in check—no matter how badly he wanted to lose control. Instead, he allowed the kiss to deepen, taking his time, savoring the moment, before pulling back just enough to breathe.Greg groaned beneath him, his frustration evident, and Mycroft grinned, his eyes dark with desire. "You wanted me to take control," Mycroft teased. "Well, now you’re going to have to wait."Greg cursed under his breath, his chest heaving, but it only made Mycroft want him more. He could feel the way Greg’s body shifted beneath him, the heat rising between them, and for the first time in a long while, Mycroft allowed himself to truly lose control.But he wasn’t finished yet.With a move that was almost too quick for Greg to process, Mycroft released his hands, only to use both of his to slide under Greg’s shirt, lifting it over his head. Greg let out a sharp intake of breath as the cool air hit his skin, his body already shivering in anticipation.“You are insufferable,” Greg managed, but it was clear in the way his body moved against Mycroft’s that he didn’t mind one bit.Mycroft, now fully aware of the effect he was having, leaned in again, this time kissing Greg with an intensity that left them both breathless. As he deepened the kiss, Greg’s hands slid up to Mycroft’s back, pulling him closer, urging him on. Mycroft’s chest pressed hard against Greg’s, and every brush of their bodies sent a spark of heat rushing through them.Greg, shifted his hips slightly, trying to get some friction, some relief. But Mycroft’s body stilled, his hands now firmly gripping Greg’s hips, holding him in place.“No,” Mycroft whispered, his voice rough. “Not yet.”Greg let out a frustrated growl but didn’t fight it. Instead, he grinned. “You’re killing me, Mycroft.”Mycroft leaned down, kissing Greg once more, soft but lingering, as though savoring every single second. "You wanted me, Gregory," he murmured. "Now, you'll have me... on my terms."Greg groaned in frustration, but deep down, he wouldn’t have it any other way.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The bookstore was a perfect place for Mycroft and Greg to lose themselves. Shelves upon shelves of novels and history books surrounded them, their soft footsteps barely audible as they wandered through the quiet aisles. There was a soft hum of background chatter from the cafe in the corner, but for the most part, they were alone, lost in their own world.Mycroft, ever the studious one, was skimming through a collection of rare first editions. He looked at each one with his usual detached interest, adjusting his glasses occasionally as he inspected the spines. Greg, on the other hand, had already flipped through a few books and found himself far more interested in his partner than the reading material.As Mycroft stood intently reading a book on ancient history, Greg’s eyes narrowed. He couldn’t resist. The thought of Mycroft all absorbed in his books, paying no attention to anything else, made Greg feel a surge of confidence. He looked left, then right, ensuring no one was in sight before he quickly moved to stand behind Mycroft.Without a moment’s hesitation, Greg grabbed Mycroft by the waist and pushed him— against the nearest wall, his hands pressing on Mycroft's chest. Mycroft stumbled slightly in surprise, his book falling from his hands to the floor with a soft thud.“Gregory!” Mycroft hissed, trying to steady himself, but his voice wasn’t as stern as he intended."What are you doing? We’re in public!”Greg smirked, leaning in closer, his lips brushing against Mycroft’s ear as he whispered, “Relax, love. No one will see.”Before Mycroft could protest further, Greg captured his lips in a kiss, gentle at first but quickly becoming more insistent. Mycroft tensed in his arms, pushing back slightly, trying to maintain his composure.“Gregory—stop. Please,” Mycroft murmured against Greg’s lips, but the words were more of a suggestion than a command. He made half-hearted attempts to push Greg away, his hands resting on Greg’s chest as though trying to hold him at arm's length. “We’ll get caught.”Greg didn’t listen. Instead, he deepened the kiss. Mycroft had always been the more composed one, the one who kept his emotions locked away, and Greg couldn’t help but love the way he lost himself, even if just for a moment.The sound of footsteps suddenly echoed from the nearby aisle, and Mycroft froze, pulling back with wide eyes. Greg didn’t notice at first, too caught up in the heat of the kiss, but as Mycroft’s hand landed firmly on his chest, Greg glanced up to see Sherlock standing just a few feet away, arms crossed, looking between the two of them with a raised eyebrow.“Mycroft,” Sherlock began, “I deduced a few things.”Greg quickly straightened, trying to look casual, but the corners of his mouth twitched with the effort to stifle a grin. Mycroft, on the other hand, looked entirely flustered, his face turning an impressive shade of red as he fumbled for words.“Sherlock,” Mycroft began, his voice still carrying that cool, controlled tone, but his stammer gave him away. “What... what are you doing here?”Sherlock gave them both a knowing look, his lips quirking slightly. “I was, as always, observing,” he said, his gaze flicking back and forth between them. He tilted his head slightly. “It was quite obvious what was happening here.”
Mycroft sighed in frustration, rolling his eyes. “Sherlock, we...”
But Sherlock wasn’t finished. “And I must say, I wasn’t expecting to find such a....”, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “I’m just glad you didn’t actually take things any further. This place is hardly the most private.”
Greg burst out laughing, unable to hold back his amusement. Mycroft, on the other hand, was struggling to keep his face neutral, his cheeks flushed from the embarrassment. “Sherlock, please. Mycroft said.
Sherlock shrugged, completely unperturbed. “I’ll leave you to your... moment. Just don’t let me catch you in here again.”
With that, Sherlock turned on his heel and walked away, his long coat trailing behind him as he disappeared back down the aisle.
The moment Sherlock was gone, Mycroft and Greg burst into laughter. Mycroft leaned against the wall, trying to compose himself, but the smile tugging at his lips gave him away.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” Greg said between fits of laughter, his chest shaking as he held onto Mycroft for support.
“Neither can I,” Mycroft replied, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.
Greg shook his head, still chuckling. “Oh, come on. You’ve got to admit, it’s kind of funny. We almost got caught by your own brother—of all people.”
Mycroft sighed dramatically, though his smirk betrayed him. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad it was Sherlock.”
Greg raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You don’t mind that he walked in on us?”
“No,” Mycroft said, his tone more serious now, though his eyes still glinted with amusement. “Because if it had been anyone else, I would’ve had to kill them.”
Greg chuckled again, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Greg wasn’t exactly thrilled about the idea of going to a get-together where his cheating ex-wife would be present.“She’s not worth the trouble,” he grumbled, swirling the last of his coffee in its mug.“You’re absolutely right,” Mycroft said smoothly, not looking up from his morning paper.Greg huffed. “Then why am I going?”“Because you are a far better man than she deserves, and you have nothing to avoid or be ashamed of.” Mycroft finally lowered the paper, his sharp blue eyes locking onto Greg’s. “And because I will be with you. There will be no problem.”Something about the sheer certainty in Mycroft’s voice made Greg’s chest warm. Yeah, his ex might be there, but so would Mycroft. And that made all the difference.So, despite his reluctance, Greg found himself at his friend’s house later that evening, Mycroft by his side.And honestly? It was fine.Better than fine.His friends were happy to see him, and Mycroft—predictably charming when he wanted to be—was handling socializing with his usual cool grace. If anything, his presence seemed to have an effect Greg could only describe as intimidating yet impressive. His ex-wife seemed to be keeping her distance, though she kept sneaking glances at Mycroft, clearly wondering what the hell Greg Lestrade was doing with Mycroft Holmes.And Greg? Greg was enjoying himself.That is, until his ex decided to try one last trick.“Oh no!” she gasped, though it didn’t sound that apologetic. The red wine sloshed straight onto Greg’s shirt, staining the crisp white fabric.Greg inhaled deeply through his nose. Of course.“Oh mate,” one of his friends winced. “You want a fresh shirt? I’ve got a spare upstairs.”Greg exhaled. “Yeah, cheers. Where’s the bathroom?”His friend waved him off with a laugh. “Come on, we’ve all seen you at the gym. What, you got something to hide?”Greg stiffened. Shit.
Oh. Oh, this was bad.
But at the same time, not bad at all.Greg could feel the heat creeping up his neck. He knew what he looked like. Mycroft—being a possessive bastard—had ensured Greg was thoroughly marked the night before. And the night before that. And—well, Mycroft didn’t always leave visible proof, but apparently, this week was special.Greg swallowed.No way out.Fine.With a resigned sigh, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it off in one swift motion.The reaction was instantaneous.A chorus of whoops, whistles, and outright cheers erupted around the room.“Bloody hell, Lestrade!”“Jesus, mate, leave some skin untouched next time!”“Well, we know he’s not single now!”Greg’s ears burned as his friends lost their collective minds. The hickeys—deep, undeniable, and absolutely everywhere—made his current relationship status very, very clear.His ex-wife? She went pale, eyes darting to the side as she muttered something and swiftly exited the room.Greg smirked. That’s what I thought.Mycroft returned from his brief phone call to find the entire house in uproar.Laughter. Cheers. A few people clapping.And Greg—flushed but grinning like a bastard—slipping a fresh shirt over his head.Mycroft blinked, stepping into the room. “Have I missed something?”Greg turned to him, amusement radiating off him.“Not a thing,” he said smoothly, grabbing Mycroft’s hand. “Come on, love. Let’s go home.”Mycroft gave him a curious look but allowed Greg to lead him out. As they walked past his still-giggling friends, Mycroft could hear someone whispering, “That posh bloke absolutely wrecks him.”Mycroft arched an eyebrow. Greg coughed into his fist.
Interesting.
They stepped outside, and Greg turned to him, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Don’t worry about it, yeah?”Mycroft hummed, running his fingers deliberately down Greg’s spine. “Mm. A shame.” His lips barely brushed Greg’s ear as he whispered, “I do so hate missing things. Though I do wonder… did I leave enough?”Greg’s breath hitched.
Oh.
Right.
Yeah. Time to go home.
And this time?Greg wouldn’t be the only one walking out the next morning with evidence.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Mycroft Holmes did not get sick.Illness was for lesser mortals, like Sherlock, who would collapse dramatically on a couch and demand an audience while he coughed himself into oblivion.Mycroft was above such things. He had an immune system fortified by centuries of elite breeding, willpower stronger than the British monarchy, and a distaste for germs that rivaled his distaste for the French.Yet here he was.Miserable. Sniffling. Wearing the softest robe known to mankind. And, worst of all, pouting.Anthea stood at the doorway, arms crossed, unimpressed. "Sir, if you keep looking at me like that, I'm going to start charging you by the minute for babysitting.""I'm fine," Mycroft rasped, voice somewhere between dying Victorian poet and someone who swallowed sandpaper."Of course you are," she said in a tone that suggested he was full of absolute nonsense. "That's why you look like you’ve been cursed by a vengeful sorcerer. You haven’t eaten. You haven’t slept. And you—" she wrinkled her nose, "—are actually warm to the touch, which, frankly, is terrifying."Mycroft sniffed. "You’re being dramatic.""Says the man currently swaddled in a weighted blanket like a traumatized Victorian ghost," Anthea muttered, pulling out her phone.Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Who are you texting?""Your emergency contact."His brain was sluggish, slow—surely the fever, surely not fear—"Anthea. No."Anthea, the true power behind the throne, smirked. "Anthea, yes."Greg prided himself on being a man of action. A problem solver. So when he got a text from Anthea that simply said:
"Mycroft is sick. Bring cuddles."
…he did what any sane man would do.He brought tea, painkillers, and a ridiculous amount of blankets.And, obviously, cuddles.The moment he stepped into Mycroft’s absurdly large bedroom, he was met with the sight of the most powerful man in Britain looking utterly pathetic.Red nose. Mussed-up curls. Drowning in blankets.Greg grinned. "Oh, this is precious.""Gregory," Mycroft groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I will personally see to it that you’re deported if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone."Greg kicked off his shoes, tossing his coat on a chair, and walked over to the bed with zero hesitation. "Right, right. Shut up and scoot over."Mycroft blinked. "Excuse me?""You heard me, scoot," Greg repeated, already shoving blankets aside. "Anthea said you needed cuddles."Mycroft gave him a look of pure betrayal. "That—that was not a request. That was slander. I—""Don’t care," Greg said cheerfully, climbing into bed beside him. "You’re sick. I’m warm. And apparently, the only way to fix you is aggressive affection."Mycroft tried to muster an argument, but Greg was already maneuvering them into position.A firm, solid arm around his waist. A hand sliding under his shirt, rubbing slow, lazy circles against his back. A kiss pressed to the top of his head, right where his curls were still a little damp with sweat.Mycroft let out an embarrassing, involuntary sigh.Greg grinned. "That’s what I thought.""Don’t get smug," Mycroft muttered against his chest."Too late," Greg said, pressing another kiss into his curls. "And if I tell you that you smell like Vicks and expensive linen, do I get smothered in this pillow?""Yes," Mycroft deadpanned.Greg chuckled. "Totally worth it."And, as it turned out, Mycroft Holmes did get sick.But, with Greg wrapped around him like a personal furnace, rubbing slow, soothing hands over his back while murmuring nonsense into his hair, it wasn’t entirely awful.He might even—begrudgingly—allow it again.But only in emergencies, of course.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Greg let out a slow, controlled breath as he shifted in the hospital bed, wincing at the sharp ache in his ribs. He’d had worse. He’d be fine. But judging by the thunderous look on Mycroft’s face, fine was not good enough.Mycroft stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, his polished shoes clicking against the floor as he paced. “You are insufferable, Gregory.”Greg smiled weakly. “And yet, you’re still here.”Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “That is hardly the point.”Greg sighed, tilting his head back against the pillows. “Look, Myc, I know you’re mad, but could you at least come closer? You standing there like I’m about to be interrogated isn’t helping.”Mycroft hesitated before stepping forward, his lips pressed into a thin line. “You should have listened to me.”Greg huffed a laugh. “Oh, come on. I was doing my job. And I solved the bloody case.”“Yes, and you got yourself injured in the process.” Mycroft’s voice was sharp, but underneath, there was something else. Something raw. “Two bruised ribs, a cut on your ear, and a sprained hand. That is not an acceptable outcome, Gregory.”Greg rolled his eyes. “It’s not ideal, no. But I’m here, aren’t I?”Mycroft didn’t answer. He just exhaled shakily and pinched the bridge of his nose.Greg frowned. Something was off. “Myc?”Still, no response. And then—Mycroft turned away sharply, his shoulders stiff, his entire frame held taut like a bowstring about to snap.“Mycroft, what—?”And then he heard it. A sniff. A sharp inhale, as if Mycroft was trying to steady himself.Greg’s heart clenched. “Oh, love…”Mycroft shook his head, his voice clipped. “Do not.”Greg ignored him. With some effort, he reached out and caught Mycroft’s wrist, pulling him closer. “You were scared.”“I was livid,” Mycroft corrected, though his voice lacked its usual authority. “Because you lied to me. Because you deliberately kept me in the dark. Because I got a phone call telling me you were in hospital, and for one agonizing moment, I thought—”He cut himself off, shaking his head again. Greg could see the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard.“Myc,” Greg whispered, giving his wrist a gentle squeeze. “I’m here. I’m okay.”“That is not the point,” Mycroft muttered, though his fingers curled around Greg’s instinctively. “I have endured a great many things, Gregory. But hearing that you’d been injured—knowing you were hurt and that I had no idea until after the fact—it was unbearable.”Guilt settled heavy in Greg’s chest. He hadn’t wanted to worry Mycroft, but he could see now that his secrecy had only made things worse.“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Not just for getting hurt. For keeping it from you.”Mycroft exhaled slowly. “That is what upsets me the most.”“I know.” Greg tugged lightly, guiding Mycroft closer. “Come here, sweetheart.”Mycroft hesitated, then with a resigned sigh, he sat on the edge of the bed. Greg lifted their joined hands, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s knuckles.“I never try to change what you do, Myc,” Greg said softly. “Even though your job scares the hell out of me sometimes. I hate watching the news and wondering if you’re safe. If I’ll get a call saying you’re not. But I trust you to do what you need to do.”Mycroft’s gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through his expression. “It is not the same.”Greg smiled faintly. “It feels the same to me.”Mycroft let out a slow, measured breath. “You are infuriating.”“I know.” Greg grinned. “But you love me anyway.”Mycroft sighed, shaking his head. “Unfortunately.”Greg chuckled, then winced as his ribs protested. Mycroft was instantly alert, his free hand hovering uncertainly. “You should be resting.”“I will. Just—stay with me?”Mycroft hesitated. “The bed is too small.”“Nonsense. You’ll fit.” Greg patted the space beside him with a hopeful smile. “Come on, Myc. Just for a bit?”Mycroft stared at him for a long moment, then finally, with an exasperated sigh, he relented. Carefully, he eased onto the bed, shifting so he wouldn’t jostle Greg’s injuries. Greg let out a contented hum as he felt Mycroft’s warmth beside him.“See?” Greg murmured. “Perfect fit.”“Go to sleep, Gregory.”Greg hummed. “Will you be here when I wake up?”“I am still angry with you.”“I know.”“But I will be here.”Greg’s lips curved into a sleepy smile. “That’s good enough for me. Love you, Myc.”A pause. Then, soft as a whisper: “I love you too.”Greg let out a satisfied sigh, squeezing Mycroft’s hand one last time before sleep finally pulled him under.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Greg had been through worse. He wasn’t the kind of man to complain about a few bruises. The case had been messy, sure—chasing a suspect down a flight of stairs wasn’t exactly kind to his body—but he’d walked away. That was enough. No need to make a fuss.So when Mycroft called him to the Diogenes Club for a debriefing, he didn’t think much of it. Just another talk about Sherlock, the case, and whatever diplomatic nightmare his boyfriend had to juggle today.The room was quiet, as always. No distractions, no unnecessary noise. Mycroft stood near the fireplace, pouring himself a cup of tea with that infuriatingly composed expression. Greg had never understood how a man could look so effortlessly in control all the time.“Lestrade,” Mycroft greeted, voice as smooth as ever. “Take a seat.”Greg sighed and sat down across from him. “So, what’s the verdict?”Mycroft barely glanced at him as he set his cup down. “The situation has been handled. The suspect is in custody, Sherlock has miraculously not set anything on fire, and you, I assume, are still in one piece.”Greg smirked. “More or less.”They went through the details quickly—who was arrested, what statements had been made, whether Sherlock had been particularly difficult (the answer was always yes). But as Greg stood to leave, Mycroft’s gaze sharpened.“What happened to you?”Greg froze for half a second before forcing an easy grin. “Huh?”Mycroft stood, stepping closer. His eyes swept over Greg like a scanner, missing nothing.“You’re moving stiffly,” Mycroft said. “Your left hand has barely curled since you arrived, and you winced when you reached for your coat. What happened?”Greg hesitated. Damn him. Damn his ridiculous observational skills.“Nothing serious,” Greg said casually. “Just a few bruises. Part of the job.”Mycroft’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Show me.”Greg raised an eyebrow. “What, you wanna see me without my shirt? Didn’t think you’d be that eager, Mycroft.”Mycroft did not look amused. “Deflecting won’t work.”Greg chuckled. “I’m fine, really. No need to—”“My dear Gregory,” Mycroft interrupted, his voice soft, dangerously soft. “Either you remove your shirt voluntarily, or I will do it for you. Choose wisely.”Greg blinked. His mouth opened, then closed.Well, that shut him up.Before he could protest further, Mycroft’s hands moved with precise care, undoing the first few buttons of Greg’s shirt. Greg swallowed but didn’t resist. There was something oddly reassuring about Mycroft’s touch—gentle, deliberate.As the fabric slipped from his shoulders, Mycroft’s expression darkened.Greg didn’t have to look down to know what he was seeing—the angry purple and blue splotches littering his chest, the deep bruising along his ribs. He hadn’t thought it was that bad.Mycroft’s fingers ghosted over one particularly dark mark, his jaw tightening.“You didn’t go to medical.” It wasn’t a question.Greg exhaled. “Didn’t think I needed to.”Mycroft’s eyes met his, sharp and unreadable. Then, to Greg’s surprise, he let out a slow breath and stepped even closer, raising his hands to cradle Greg’s face gently between them. His touch was warm, steady, and impossibly careful, as if Greg might break beneath his fingers.Greg barely had a moment to react before Mycroft leaned in, pressing their foreheads together. The world seemed to still around them, the quiet hum of the club fading into nothing.“You are infuriating,” Mycroft murmured, his voice softer now. “You charge into danger without a second thought. You refuse help even when you need it. And yet…” He exhaled, his thumb brushing lightly over Greg’s cheek. “You mean more to me than I can properly express, and I cannot bear the thought of something happening to you because you are too stubborn to take care of yourself.”Greg swallowed, his heart stuttering in his chest. He wasn’t used to this—Mycroft letting his walls down, letting him see the depth of what he felt.Mycroft pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, his gaze searching. “Promise me, Gregory. No more neglecting your own well-being. Not when it matters. Not when I…” He hesitated for the briefest of moments before finishing, his voice almost a whisper. “Not when I need you here.”Greg let out a breathless chuckle, something warm blooming in his chest. He reached up, covering one of Mycroft’s hands with his own.“Alright,” he murmured. “I promise.”Mycroft studied him a moment longer before nodding slightly. “Good.” He let his hands linger a moment more before straightening, his usual composure slipping back into place—but his fingers still brushed over Greg’s cheek one last time, as if reluctant to let go.“Now,” Mycroft said, tone still gentle but brooking no argument, “stay here. I’ll have someone bring a proper ice pack.”Greg rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Maybe, just maybe, letting Mycroft fuss over him wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Greg had had a day.Not just a normal, run-of-the-mill bad day, but the kind of day that made a man contemplate early retirement, buying a little cottage in the countryside, and possibly getting a goat.First, a case that should’ve been simple had turned into a bureaucratic nightmare because some rookie officer had mishandled evidence. Then Sherlock, in all his chaotic glory, had decided to be extra insufferable, leading to an argument that Greg could still feel in his temples. And, just to put the cherry on the absolute disaster of a cake, his car had refused to start, forcing him to take the tube home, where some teenager had blasted music loud enough to make his headache permanent.By the time he reached the door to his flat, his body felt like lead, and he just wanted one thing—Mycroft.Well, Mycroft and a good glass of scotch, but mostly Mycroft.Greg wasn’t entirely sure when it had happened, when coming home to Mycroft had gone from a pleasant bonus to an absolute necessity, but it had.And when he stepped inside, toeing off his shoes with a groan, he knew instantly that something was different.The lights were low, the air smelled faintly of Mycroft’s favorite vanilla and bergamot candle, and—most surprising of all—there was a distinct lack of movement.That was rare.Mycroft, for all his elegance, was a constant force of quiet energy, always working, always moving in some way, even if just twirling a pen between his fingers or scrolling through classified documents on his laptop.But now?Now he was still.And Greg spotted him almost immediately.Curled up on the couch, one hand tucked under his cheek, the other resting lightly over his stomach, Mycroft Holmes—the Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, the man who never stopped—was asleep.Greg’s heart clenched.Because Mycroft didn’t just fall asleep anywhere. He was particular about his routines, his comfort, and the fact that he had drifted off here, on their couch, rather than in their perfectly made bed, could only mean one thing.He had been waiting.Waiting for Greg to come home.Something in Greg melted instantly, exhaustion fading just enough for a warm, helpless kind of affection to take its place.Careful not to wake him, he moved closer, taking a moment just to look.Soft auburn curls, slightly mussed. The usual sharp angles of his face softened in sleep, lips slightly parted, breath steady.His tie had been discarded, the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone, revealing just a hint of pale skin that Greg had kissed more times than he could count.And God, he was beautiful.Even now, when the world thought of Mycroft as some cold, immovable force, Greg knew better.He knew the man who took naps on the couch waiting for him.The man who stocked the fridge with Greg’s favorite beer, even though Mycroft himself found it repulsive.The man who, despite being terrifyingly powerful, had once stitched up Greg’s coat by hand because he knew it was his favorite and refused to let him throw it away.Greg sat down carefully on the edge of the couch, reaching out with practiced ease, brushing a thumb over Mycroft’s cheek.Warm.Mycroft stirred slightly at the touch, brows furrowing in that way that meant he was almost awake but not quite.Greg leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his temple."Mmm," Mycroft murmured, voice thick with sleep. "Gregory.""Yeah, love," Greg whispered, tucking a stray curl behind Mycroft’s ear. "I’m home."Mycroft sighed, barely cracking open his eyes, a soft, sleepy smile curling at his lips."You’re late," he muttered, not accusatory, just factual."Yeah," Greg sighed. "Long day."Mycroft hummed in acknowledgment, shifting just enough to make space. Without a second thought, Greg took the silent invitation, sliding onto the couch and pulling Mycroft close.The warmth of him, the solidness, was instantly grounding.Mycroft nuzzled into Greg’s chest, arms loosely draping around his waist, and Greg felt more tension melt away than any drink could ever fix.For a long moment, neither of them spoke.Greg just held him, one hand tracing slow, lazy circles on Mycroft’s back, the other resting over his hand.It was moments like this that made everything else worth it.The stress, the bad days, the exhaustion—none of it mattered when he had this.When he had Mycroft.And then, Mycroft sighed dramatically."I suppose I shall have to deal with Sherlock myself tomorrow."Greg huffed a laugh. "That obvious, huh?""Your headache is practically radiating through your shirt."Greg chuckled, kissing the top of Mycroft’s head. "You're ridiculous.""And yet, here you are," Mycroft murmured, eyes slipping shut again."Yeah," Greg whispered, tightening his hold. "Here I am."And here was enough.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Greg woke up to the soft rustling of fabric and the faint scent of bergamot and vanilla—Mycroft’s scent, the one that clung to their pillows and to Greg’s shirts when Mycroft "borrowed" them for lounging around the flat.The bed was colder than it should be, and when Greg blearily cracked open an eye, he found the culprit standing by the wardrobe, adjusting his cufflinks with the kind of precision only a Holmes could manage at this ungodly hour.Greg grumbled, voice thick with sleep. "You’re joking."Mycroft didn’t even turn around, just smirked at his reflection in the mirror. "Good morning to you too, Gregory."Greg groaned, rolling onto his back and scrubbing a hand down his face. "Why—" he yawned, voice cracking, "why are you up? It’s Saturday."Mycroft, ever composed, glanced over with an expression that somehow managed to be both indulgent and amused. "It is indeed Saturday, but the world does not cease to function simply because of the Gregorian calendar."Greg squinted at him. "Was that a pun?"Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow and returned to fastening his watch.Greg let out a dramatic sigh. "I swear, if you’re going to some boring government thing, I might actually start a rebellion."Mycroft exhaled a quiet laugh. "I have a briefing at the office, and then a luncheon with a diplomat who apparently lacks the ability to schedule meetings at a reasonable hour. And then, if I’m lucky, I may be back in time to salvage what remains of the weekend."Greg hummed, already plotting.Because no.No way was he letting this happen.Not today.Not when Mycroft had been working late all week, coming home exhausted, falling asleep in his office chair more than once. Not when he needed this.So, with all the strength of a man on a mission, Greg sat up, scooted forward, and grabbed him."Gregory—" Mycroft started, but Greg was already pulling.Years of working as a copper had given Greg a decent amount of strength, and even though Mycroft was surprisingly solid, Greg had the element of surprise.With a yelp that Greg would never let him live down, Mycroft tumbled backwards onto the bed, half-draped over Greg’s chest."You barbarian," Mycroft huffed, attempting to sit up, but Greg just wrapped an arm around his waist and held firm."Myc," Greg murmured into his ear, voice still rough with sleep, "stay.""Gregory—""One more minute."And Greg knew.He knew the exact moment Mycroft hesitated.Because Greg felt the tension ease just slightly, felt the way Mycroft’s breath caught.And then, in the quiet morning light, he caved.With a sigh that sounded suspiciously like defeat, Mycroft let himself relax against Greg’s chest.Greg grinned against his temple, pressing a soft, lingering kiss there."That’s my love," he murmured, feeling Mycroft's fingers twitch against his arm before finally, finally settling.There was silence for a long moment, just the steady rise and fall of their breathing, the way Mycroft’s weight was so solid, so grounding.Then, after a pause—"One minute," Mycroft mumbled.Greg hummed. "Mmmhmm.""Sixty seconds.""Whatever you say, love.""Not a second longer."Greg just smiled, knowing full well that Mycroft wasn’t moving for at least another hour.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
There were very few things in the world that could throw Mycroft Holmes off his game.International crises? Routine. Political disasters? Predictable. His younger brother being an absolute menace to the law? Annoying, but manageable.Planning the perfect date for the man he loved?Apparently, a logistical nightmare.He had planned everything. Everything. The restaurant had been carefully selected for its ambiance—quiet, refined, with warm lighting and an impressive wine list. Their table had been booked weeks in advance, in a private corner where they could talk undisturbed.The meal? Perfectly curated. The conversation? Anticipated and mapped out. The evening? Designed to be the epitome of romance.It was meant to be an effortless, wonderful night together.Instead, it had turned into an absolute disaster.The first sign of trouble had been the missing reservation.Greg had been smiling when they walked in, looking relaxed in a way that made Mycroft feel almost smug—because yes, of course he could provide this, of course he could give Greg a beautiful evening, of course—"I'm sorry, sir, I don’t see your name in the system."Mycroft blinked. "That’s not possible."The hostess, clearly not remotely prepared to handle a Mycroft Holmes in full mildly displeased mode, shifted awkwardly behind the podium. "I… I checked twice. We’re completely booked for the evening."Greg, to Mycroft’s absolute horror, laughed."Well, that figures," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "No worries, love, we’ll just go somewhere else."Somewhere else?No.That was not the plan.The plan was the restaurant. The wine. The perfect meal and setting and everything that had taken meticulous effort to arrange.Mycroft felt his irritation spike, already reaching for his phone, about to call the head of the restaurant group itself, when Greg placed a gentle, warm hand on his wrist."Myc," Greg murmured, smiling just slightly, "it’s fine."Mycroft hesitated.It was not fine. It was anything but fine.And yet—Greg was still smiling, still completely unbothered, like this wasn’t a complete collapse of the evening, like he wasn’t in the least bit upset that things were going wrong.And Mycroft?Mycroft was powerless against that smile.So instead of launching into a full-scale intervention, he exhaled slowly, nodded, and let Greg tug him gently away from the podium."Come on," Greg said cheerfully. "I know just the place."That place turned out to be a tiny, overly crowded pub.The kind of pub where people shouted instead of spoke, where the scent of beer and fried food clung to the air, and where there was a jukebox in the corner currently playing an obnoxiously cheerful love song.Mycroft gave the room a flat, assessing stare, turning back to Greg with a single, unimpressed blink.Greg was grinning at him, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Mycroft felt his mild exasperation soften immediately."You brought me here on purpose," Mycroft accused.Greg chuckled, nudging him towards a table. "Absolutely. Now sit your fancy arse down and let me get you a drink.""Gregory.""Love of my life."Mycroft sighed but allowed himself to be led, seated, and provided with an entirely too large pint of beer that he had absolutely no intention of drinking."This is a disaster," he murmured, more to himself than anyone.Greg just laughed, leaning over the table with that look, the one that made Mycroft’s brain turn to static, the one that softened every sharp edge of his heart."This is brilliant," Greg countered, taking a long sip of his own drink. "Relax, Myc. We’re together, yeah? That’s all that matters."And God help him, Mycroft actually did.He let himself sink into the moment, let Greg’s laughter warm him from the inside out, let the complete failure of his perfect plan feel a little less like failure and a little more like something better.But the night wasn’t done with them yet.Because the moment they stepped outside, the heavens opened up, and rain—cold, merciless rain—came pouring down.Not a pleasant drizzle. Not something manageable.No.A full, torrential downpour, drenching them both in seconds.Mycroft stood frozen, coat already soaked through, watching as every last ounce of dignity drained from the evening like water through a sieve.And Greg?Greg, bless him, started laughing again.Not just a chuckle.Not just amusement.
Full-body, uncontrollable, heart-clenching laughter.
The kind that made his entire body shake, that crinkled the corners of his eyes, that made Mycroft’s heart do something utterly ridiculous in his chest.“Oh my God,” Greg wheezed, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look this offended in your life.”“Gregory—” Mycroft started, but then Greg was grabbing his hand and pulling him forward.“Come on, Myc,” Greg grinned, spinning him right there on the pavement as if they were dancing in the bloody rain.And Mycroft—Mycroft, who did not do spontaneity, who did not do public displays—Let him.Because Greg was laughing, smiling, happy, and if that meant standing in the middle of the street, getting completely and utterly drenched, then so be it."You are completely ridiculous," Mycroft murmured, but his hands betrayed him, moving to Greg’s waist, holding him there.Greg's smile softened."I love you too," he said easily, like it was the simplest thing in the world, like it wasn’t rewiring every part of Mycroft’s heart in real time.And then—Greg pressed in close, warm despite the cold, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s rain-soaked forehead, then to his cheek, then finally—
To his lips.
Soft. Gentle. Perfect.And suddenly, Mycroft didn’t care about the ruined plans, or the lost reservation, or the absolute state of his expensive coat.Because this—Greg’s laughter, Greg’s hands, Greg’s absolute delight in the disaster of the evening—was infinitely better.“Well,” Mycroft murmured, catching his breath as Greg nuzzled against his cheek, “that was an unmitigated catastrophe.”Greg chuckled, pressing another quick kiss to his jaw.“Nah,” he said softly, “that was the best date we’ve ever had.”And, as he let Greg pull him into another kiss, Mycroft was inclined to agree.And somewhere, faintly, the pub’s jukebox was still playing that ridiculous love song."Oh, I think they call this- ," the voice crooned. "Yes, I think they call This love "
Mycroft sighed into the kiss, let Greg pull him closer, let himself fall completely, utterly, hopelessly into this moment.
This chaotic, imperfect, completely ruined date.
And for the first time in his entire meticulously controlled life—
Mycroft wouldn’t have changed a single thing.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It started the moment Mycroft stepped into their flat.The day had been relentless—a symphony of stress, disaster, and incompetence. Meetings that should have been resolved in minutes stretched into excruciating hours. Security breaches. Political missteps. Decisions that, in one way or another, would affect millions.And through it all, Mycroft had been perfect.Immovable. Infallible. The British Government, standing tall and untouchable.But now—now he was home.And the moment the door shut behind him, the weight of it all slammed into him at once.His breath stuttered.His fingers twitched at his sides.The walls of their flat—his sanctuary—suddenly felt too close.The air too thick.His chest tightened, his pulse hammering in his throat.*No, no, not here, not now.*But the control he prided himself on was already fracturing.His coat felt wrong—too heavy, too constricting—so he shrugged it off with trembling fingers. His tie followed, tugged loose with urgency.He just needed to breathe.But—
He couldn’t.
And then, just as the panic was threatening to drown him entirely, a voice—steady, familiar, grounding.“Myc?”Greg.Standing in the doorway to the kitchen, a mug of tea in one hand, concern etched across his face.And in that moment, everything inside Mycroft crumbled.He gripped the back of the nearest chair, knuckles white, forcing himself to take a breath—too shallow, too quick.Greg’s expression shifted instantly.The tea was set down. The distance between them was closed in seconds.Then—warm hands on him.One cupped his face, fingers gentle but firm, grounding him. The other wrapped around his waist, pulling him in, solid and steady.“Mycroft,” Greg said, voice low, soothing. “Look at me, love.”Mycroft tried. He really did.But his vision was swimming, the edges blurring. His chest felt like it was collapsing inward, and—“Hey, hey, I’ve got you,” Greg murmured. “Breathe with me, yeah?”Mycroft’s fingers clutched at Greg’s shirt, anchoring himself.Greg exhaled slowly—long and steady.And then again.And again.His thumb stroked gentle, absent-minded circles over Mycroft’s cheekbone, his other hand pressing warm and sure against the small of his back.“Breathe with me,” Greg repeated, soft, patient, unwavering.So Mycroft tried.He let Greg’s presence pull him in, let the warmth of his hands ground him, let the steady rhythm of Greg’s chest—rising, falling, rising, falling—guide his own.One breath. Then another.Slowly, the sharp edges of panic dulled.His grip on Greg’s shirt loosened just slightly.Greg tilted their foreheads together, still holding him close, his breath a soothing warmth against Mycroft’s skin.“There you go,” Greg whispered. “That’s it, love.”Mycroft’s eyes slipped shut, his body finally unlocking, the tension easing from his shoulders.Greg shifted, arms wrapping around Mycroft more securely, keeping him tucked against his chest.And Mycroft—who had spent his entire life keeping people at a distance, who had never allowed himself to need anyone—
Let himself sink into it.
Greg’s hands were solid and sure, rubbing gentle circles over his back.“You’re okay,” Greg murmured. “You’re home. I’ve got you.”Mycroft’s fingers curled into the back of Greg’s shirt.“I detest losing control,” he admitted, voice small, weary.Greg huffed a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss to his temple.“Yeah, I figured that out about you,” he teased, then softened. “But you don’t have to be in control with me, love.”Mycroft swallowed, pressing his face into Greg’s shoulder.Greg’s arms tightened. “You can let go. I’ll catch you every time.”And—God help him—Mycroft believed him.Because Greg always did.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Greg Lestrade did not intend to end up tied to a bed in a very expensive, obscenely comfortable, private bedroom in an undisclosed location.And yet.Here he was.Arms stretched above his head, wrists bound with handcuffs —his entire body thoroughly immobilized against frustratingly soft sheets.His brain was still a bit fuzzy from the whiskey, but the situation was impossible to miss.Mostly because Mycroft Holmes—the British Government himself, immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit at an ungodly hour, furious and brooding—was currently standing over him, looking for all theworld like he was debating how best to dispose of a problem.Greg squinted.“Mycroft?”“My dear Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was low, deadly, the kind of smooth that meant trouble. “Do tell me—who, exactly, were you declaring undying love for last night?”Greg blinked.“…What?”Mycroft’s lips curled. He reached for the tablet sitting on the nightstand, tapped the screen, and flipped it around.Greg found himself staring at a video.A viral video.Of himself.Standing on top of a pub table, waving around a half-empty bottle of scotch, with a very confused John Watson while Sherlock and half the Yard watched.“…Oh.”Oh, bloody hell.Greg winced.“I love him,” his very sloshed self slurred in the video, dramatically clutching his chest. “God, I love him so much—like stupid much. And he’s so—so bloody posh and perfect and smart and his stupid eyes—I just—I can’t, Johnny, I can’t breathe—”“He’s—he’s so fuckin’—look, I know I don’t talk about my feelin’s, John, but if I did, I’d be talkin’ about him all the time.”John’s voice, in the video, was deeply baffled:“Who are you talking about?”Greg waved a dramatic hand in the air. “Can’t tell ya. Government secrets.”John blinked. “Is he in the government?”Greg gasped. Loudly. “I can’t say!”John pinched the bridge of his nose.Greg wasn’t done.“He’s brilliant, John. Bloody brilliant. And have you seen those suits? Have you? Have you looked at his stupid, perfect waistcoat-wearing self? And his voice? God, his voice, I’d listen to him talk about surveillance protocols all bloody day—”John choked on his drink.Greg kept going.“—and he’s so posh but also dangerous and I dunno if I wanna kiss him or let him have me arrested—”John, deeply regretting his life choices, muttered, “Christ, I should’ve let you stay home.”But it was too late.Because Greg, with all the unearned confidence of a man who was about to ruin his own life, had decided that poetry was necessary.“Oh, for fu—”
“My love is like a red, red rose—”
“Greg, no.”
“That’s newly sprung in June—”
“Greg, I swear to God.”
“His poshness fills my heart with woes—”
The video cut off.Greg groaned.“Oh, that’s bad.”Greg shut his eyes. “Kill me.”“Oh, that would be far too merciful.”Greg groaned. “Look, mate—”“Don’t.” Mycroft’s voice was lethal. “Do not ‘mate’ me, Gregory.”And then, in a move Greg hadn’t expected—Mycroft climbed onto the bed.Straddled him.And Greg’s entire brain short-circuited.“Wait, wait, what the fuck is happening—”“You spent an entire evening publicly professing your love for some unnamed mystery man,” Mycroft said, eyes dark and unreadable. “A man so perfect, so brilliant, so bloody breathtaking—”Greg swallowed thickly.“—and yet, you failed to name him.”Gregory,” Mycroft said icily, “Imagine my suprise when I discovered that my dearest friend—my Gregory—was hopelessly in love with some unknown bastard.”Greg blinked.
My Gregory.
Oh.
Oh.
A slow smirk curled at his lips. “Mycroft… are you jealous?”Mycroft’s expression darkened. “I do not get jealous.”Greg, tugging experimentally at the handcuffs. “Mate, you literally kidnapped me and tied me to your bed over a drunken pub confession.” He almost laughed.
Almost.
But then Mycroft’s hands were on him—one gripping his jaw, the other pressing against his chest, pinning him down, and Greg’s thoughts promptly evaporated.“I should hate you for this,” Mycroft murmured, voice dangerously low. “I should make you beg for forgiveness.”Greg’s heart was pounding.“… Not stopping you,” he admitted, a little breathless.Mycroft’s eyes flashed.Then, without warning—Mycroft kissed him.Oh.Oh, fuck.Greg’s pulse spiked.It wasn’t gentle.It was all-consuming.A claim. A punishment.Mine, the kiss seemed to say. Mine, mine, mine.Teeth, tongue, absolute bloody ruin—Mycroft kissed him like he was making a point, like he was staking a claim, like he needed Greg to understand exactly who he belonged to.Greg was dizzy with it.Still handcuffed, utterly at Mycroft’s mercy, and rapidly losing his mind.“… Holy fuck,” Greg gasped when Mycroft finally pulled back, both of them breathless.“Do you have any idea,” Mycroft growled, biting at Greg’s bottom lip, “how infuriating it is to be obsessed with someone for years, only to hear them confess their love to everyone but you?”Greg whimpered.“That’s—that’s a bit dramatic, —”Mycroft’s teeth nipped at his jaw.Greg arched.“I am not dramatic.”Greg laughed breathlessly. “Says the man who handcuffed me to prove a bloody point.”Mycroft’s fingers skated over his throat, just barely pressing down, his thumb ghosting over Greg’s racing pulse. “You bared yourself to the entire country,” he murmured, leaning in close, breath hot against Greg’s ear. “Now, tell me, darling— who do you belong to?”Greg let out a shaky exhale, the sensation of Mycroft’s lips barely brushing the shell of his ear making his entire body burn.“Say it,” Mycroft commanded, voice low, tantalizing, dripping with dark amusement. “Tell me who owns you.”Greg shuddered, chest heaving. His wrists flexed against the cuffs, instinct screaming at him to grab, to cling to Mycroft, to pull him down and never let go.“You,” Greg rasped. “I’m yours.”“Say it,” he ordered.Greg’s pulse stuttered.“You own me,” he rasped.Mycroft kissed him again.Deeper. Harder. Rougher.Greg was so fucking gone.And then Mycroft whispered against his lips—“Poetry, was it?”Greg’s stomach flipped.“… God, I am Fucked.”Mycroft smirked.“Yes, Gregory,” he purred. “Yes, you are.”And well, Greg was very thoroughly ruined.
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Greg had had one hell of a day.It started with an early morning stakeout that went absolutely nowhere, followed by a car chase that ended in his car getting wrecked, again. Then there was the paperwork. Endless, soul-sucking, bureaucracy-laden hell that made him question every life decision he’d ever made. By the time he finally dragged himself away from the station, it was well past midnight, his stomach was growling, his patience was thin, and all he wanted was to get home, crawl into bed, and breathe in the scent of Mycroft’s ridiculously expensive but comforting cologne.Except there was one problem.He patted his pockets. Then checked again.His bloody keys were still on his desk.Greg groaned, tilting his head back toward the heavens, silently asking whatever cruel deity was watching why they hated him specifically.He had options.1. He could call Mycroft. Logical. Reasonable. A perfectly acceptable solution that any normal adult in a functioning relationship would choose.
2. He could ring the doorbell repeatedly and annoy Mycroft until he was let in. Risky, but effective.
3. Or—Greg glanced up at the slightly open window on the second floor.…Yeah. That worked.He hoisted himself up onto the ledge, immediately cursing the decision as his knee barked against the frame. Clambering onto a windowsill in the dead of night like some washed-up cat burglar was not in his skill set, but desperate times and all that.For a moment, he wobbled dangerously, arms pinwheeling as he tried not to fall and break something important. Then, with the kind of grace that could only be described as aggressively accidental, he flung himself inside.And landed with a loud, humiliating thump right in the middle of the living room floor.For a long, excruciating moment, there was silence.Then, a slow exhale.Greg blinked up from the floor to find Mycroft standing over him.Dressed in his silk dressing gown, arms crossed, expression unreadable, but somehow managing to convey a truly Olympian level of unimpressed.Greg, still sprawled out like an absolute idiot, grinned sheepishly."Hey, love."Mycroft closed his eyes and took a very slow, very deliberate breath. The kind of breath that meant he was counting backwards from ten and considering his life choices.Finally, he exhaled through his nose. "There are days when I genuinely wonder why I tolerate you."Greg chuckled, pushing himself up onto his elbows. "Because you adore me."Mycroft’s lips pressed into a thin, long-suffering line.Greg stood, stretching out his back with a wince, half-expecting a scolding, maybe even an entire lecture on proper home entry etiquette.Instead—A warm, thick blanket was draped aggressively over his shoulders, and before Greg could react, Mycroft had disappeared into the kitchen.Greg barely had time to blink in surprise before Mycroft was back, this time holding a steaming mug of tea. He pushed it firmly into Greg’s hands, his movements sharp, precise—like he was irritated beyond words but still incapable of letting Greg suffer the consequences of his own idiocy.Greg wrapped his fingers around the mug, inhaling the familiar, soothing scent. His lips quirked up into a knowing smile."You do love me," he teased, voice warm and amused.Mycroft glared."Against all logic," he muttered, smoothing down the blanket, brushing imaginary lint off Greg’s sleeve, touching him just because he needed to, as if grounding himself in the fact that Greg was here, in one piece.Greg tilted his head, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to Mycroft’s cheek, hands settling on his waist. "Go on, admit it," he murmured, lips brushing against his skin. "You’d miss me if I stopped keeping you on your toes."Mycroft sighed, but his fingers betrayed him—curling ever so slightly into Greg’s shirt, holding on."What I would miss," Mycroft said dryly, "is a sense of peace in my own home."Greg chuckled. "Liar. You love it."Mycroft said nothing.But his arms came up slowly, carefully, almost reluctantly before he finally just gave in—pulling Greg into his arms, tucking his face against his shoulder, holding him like he’d rather die than let go.And Greg, exhausted, damp, and slightly bruised from his undignified landing, had never felt more at home.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It wasn’t their worst argument.Not by a long shot.But tonight, after a long day filled with stress, politics, and an absurd amount of red tape, it felt like the last straw.Greg had come home tired, hoping for a quiet evening, only to find Mycroft buried in work again, speaking in clipped tones and barely looking up from his files.Greg had sighed, made a comment about Mycroft needing a break, and Mycroft—being Mycroft—had dismissed it entirely.And that was all it took. Something small, something stupid, but suddenly, they were snapping at each other.
"For God's sake, Mycroft, do you ever stop working?"
"Forgive me, Gregory, for ensuring the safety of the country instead of indulging in idle relaxation."
"Oh, come off it! I'm not asking you to abandon MI6, just maybe take a bloody second to breathe!"
"I do not require a lecture on self-care from a man who eats takeaway five nights a week and falls asleep on the sofa watching reruns of ‘The Bill’!"
That had done it.Greg had huffed, grabbed his coat, and stormed out the door, leaving Mycroft standing stiff and silent in the middle of their flat.He hadn't even thought about where he was going.He just walked.Straight into the pouring rain.It took less than five minutes for his anger to start dissolving.Because, really, he wasn’t angry. He was frustrated. Worried.He loved Mycroft—God, he loved him. And sometimes, loving Mycroft Holmes meant fighting against the sheer force of his stubbornness.Greg sighed, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, rain dripping from his hair. He should go back.And just as he turned, he saw him.Standing there on the pavement, coat damp and hair slightly disheveled from the rain, was Mycroft.Greg blinked."You… followed me?"Mycroft, to his credit, didn’t immediately snap back with some dry, sarcastic response. He just stared at Greg, his sharp features softer than usual, something uncertain, unreadable in his eyes."I do not like it when you leave angry," Mycroft admitted, voice quiet, nearly lost in the rain. "And I disliked it even more when you left in the storm, without an umbrella."Greg exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. This man."You are ridiculous," Greg muttered, stepping closer, his boots splashing in the puddles. "You're the bloody British Government. You shouldn't be running after some copper in the rain."Mycroft gave him one of those looks, the kind that said you are being absurd and yet I am still impossibly fond of you."Perhaps not," Mycroft agreed, "but here we are."Greg let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. "You drive me insane, you know that?""Likewise, my dear."Greg was still wet, still cold, still frustrated, but none of that mattered anymore. Because looking at Mycroft—his Mycroft, this impossible, brilliant, frustrating man who had left his warm, dry office to chase after him into the rain—Greg suddenly knew exactly what he wanted.There was no plan, no speech.Just instinct.Before he could think better of it, Greg dropped to one knee.Mycroft’s eyes widened. "Gregory, what are you—?"Greg reached into his pocket, pulling out the small velvet box that had been sitting there for weeks now, waiting for the perfect moment.This wasn’t perfect.It was wet, miserable, completely unplanned.And yet, somehow, it felt exactly right."Marry me," Greg said, voice rough, heart pounding. "I don’t care if we argue sometimes. I don’t care if you work too much, or if you think my taste in food is appalling. I don’t care about anything except the fact that I love you. And I want to spend the rest of my life loving you, rain or shine."Mycroft stared.For a long moment, the only sound between them was the steady downpour, the occasional distant rumble of thunder.Then, very softly, Mycroft whispered, "You idiot."Greg’s stomach dropped.Oh, God. Had he just made a mistake? Was this—But before he could spiral any further, Mycroft was dropping down to his knees too, in the middle of the rain-soaked pavement, and kissing him.It wasn’t gentle.It was urgent, desperate, rain-slicked hands cupping Greg’s face, mouths meeting like it was the only thing that mattered.Greg groaned against his lips, pulling him closer, the ring box still clutched in his fingers, completely forgotten.When they finally broke apart, Mycroft’s forehead rested against Greg’s, both of them breathless."Yes," Mycroft murmured, voice almost lost in the rain. "Of course, you ridiculous, infuriating man. Yes."Greg grinned, his heart soaring, and without hesitation, he slipped the ring onto Mycroft’s finger.Mycroft looked down at it, then back up at Greg."Now," he said, voice still breathless, "perhaps we should get out of the rain?"Greg laughed, pressing one last kiss to Mycroft’s lips before hauling them both to their feet."Yeah," Greg said, taking Mycroft’s hand, fingers lacing together. "Let’s go home."