Chapter Text
The February air is crisp and biting as Mycroft and Greg stroll through the park, bundled up in warm coats and scarves against the evening chill. The fading light paints the sky in pastel hues, and for a few quiet moments, they walk in easy silence, the distant sounds of the city settling around them like a cosy blanket. Greg’s hand occasionally brushes against Mycroft’s, a comforting and familiar touch amid the evening peace.
As they round a curve in the path that leads them back to the park’s entrance gates, a scene catches their attention. Standing near the open gate is a young man, his face creased with worry, a crumpled map in one hand, and a mobile phone stretched out in the other. He attempts to stop people with muttered pleas as they pass him by but each person either brushes him off or, worse, tuts and admonishes him. Mycroft’s observant eye notices the growing frustration and anxiety etched into the man’s posture.
He isn’t the only one to notice. Without missing a beat, Greg steps forward, a genuine, welcoming smile on his face as he approaches the frantic man. “Hi, are you okay?” he asks, voice gentle. The man startles at actually being addressed but quickly latches on to the kindness he’s being shown. He tries to respond to Greg’s question but his English is halting and broken. His face falls in embarrassment as he pushes the phone in Greg’s direction.
Greg pauses as he studies the man, and then the screen solidifies his theories. He switches effortlessly, “Ça va? Vous avez besoin d’aide?”
The man’s face lights up with pure relief. “Oh, merci! Oui, je… je suis complètement perdu.” He goes on to explain that he is visiting from Lyon with friends but he sent them ahead to the hotel while he admired the bustling city, only now he is alone and lost. Every person he has tried to ask for help has either dismissed him or given up understanding and left him without even polite apologies.
Mycroft stands back, observing, as Greg shifts into a friendly, easy conversation, reassuring the young man that he wasn’t going to leave him stranded in the middle of London. He finds out the name of the hotel, searches for it on his phone, and even jots a few markings on his physical map to follow. He apologises for the brusk treatment London has given him so far, drawing a laugh and an appreciative smile in response.
Mycroft can’t help but feel a complicated mixture of admiration and attraction as he listens to the lilts of Greg’s fluent, friendly French. He knew, of course, that Greg had a few hidden facets, but the gentle way he guides this stranger leaves him both impressed and quietly charmed. Greg has always been modest; Mycroft is beginning to think there is a lot more to uncover about his Gregory.
Finally, with a wave and grateful goodbye, the young man heads off, map in hand, his shoulders visibly more relaxed. Greg waves back with a shouted, “Au revoir! Bonne chance! Amuse-toi bien!”
Then he turns back to Mycroft and takes his place back at his side. “Poor guy was looking for his hotel on the wrong side of the city,” he explains with a shrug.
Mycroft nudges him playfully, smiling. “Impressive, Detective.” His eyes are warm as they meet Greg’s. “You’ve been hiding that from me.”
Greg chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I may have been born and raised here, but you know my Da was French. Wouldn’t let me not learn French. It comes in handy now and then, so I keep it up. Sometimes I forget, though, to be honest.” He gives a little huff of a laugh. “Didn’t think I’d be able to surprise you, though.”
A thoughtful hum passes between them as Mycroft muses over the fact that he hadn’t actually known this. Somehow, not knowing delights him.
He takes Greg’s hand to lead them back on their way home, squeezing it gently. “I do like some surprises,” he murmurs and holds his grin internally as, with a very soft voice, adds in perfect French, “Tu me surprends toujours.”
Greg blinks, eyes widening with his turn to be surprised. Mycroft watches the realisation catch up to Greg’s face. He nearly laughs aloud, pleased that he can turn the tables as Greg has.
“You cheeky bastard!” Greg does laugh, incredulous. “You speak French!”
“Among other things,” Mycroft replies, feigning a smug air but unable to hide the humour in his voice.
“I know you speak multiple languages but without hearing it, it never occurred to me. Hearing it is different.” There is a trace of wonder in his musings.
Mycroft leans in to brush a light kiss to Greg’s temple. “Isn’t it just,” he whispers to the skin there. “Que devons-nous faire à ce sujet?”
Greg’s face softens, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he replies, “Je sais pas, Monsieur Holmes. Qu’avez-toi en tête?”
Mycroft smiles, savouring the moment, knowing they still have so much to discover about each other.