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Rain beats against the windows, but Greg is pleasantly warm.
He stares at the crackling fireplace in front of him, an almost empty tumbler of scotch in his hand.
The old wingback chair he’s sitting in eases his back pain, thankful to finally get off his feet.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mycroft’s shadow to his right; sitting in the match of his own chair. With a quick glance, Greg sees Mycroft stare into the fire intently, forehead slightly creased as though deep in thought.
Greg’s always loved nights like this.
London weather being moody and unpredictable outside, him and Mycroft inside and warm. The easy companionship, the fact that they can sit comfortably in silence without any awkwardness.
Greg’s safe here. He knows it down to his very bones.
But that’s not why he keeps coming. It’s not why he spends his weekends with Mycroft.
It’s not why he dreams of the man, not why he fantasises about him saying impossible things to him before he sleeps. It’s not why he’d gladly drop everything for Mycroft at a second’s notice.
He keeps coming here, or wherever Mycroft wants to meet him, because he’s in love with the man.
He’s absolutely head-over-heels in love with Mycroft Holmes.
And Mycroft has no idea, not even a single suspicion.
And it’s fine, honestly. Truly.
It’s a persistent ache, a different kind of loneliness.
But the loneliness would be so much worse were Mycroft to find out and cease all contact with him.
So Greg selfishly takes what he can get, after all he’s a known hopeless romantic.
There’s always a fire of ‘what if?’ that burns persistently in his chest.
And perhaps that’s all he needs.
Greg sees Mycroft’s shadow shift out of the corner of his eye, but the man says nothing.
Greg is always aware of Mycroft, their proximity, how the ache in his chest is capable of taking his breath away when Mycroft smiles at him.
Mycroft’s true smile; the smile that Greg only saw for the first time five years into their acquaintance.
Or whatever this has turned out to be. He’s not sure there’s a name for it.
Friendship is too simplified a word for all that they’ve been through together over the last decade.
Unrequited love, sure, but only to Greg. Though Sally and Sherlock have both alluded to the fact they know he’s holding a torch for someone. Thankfully, Sherlock has no idea of who exactly he’s in love with. Sally suspects, but is kinder about it.
Mycroft, of course, has no idea.
There’s a part of Greg that wishes Mycroft even had a suspicion. But he does wonder.
After all, Mycroft is lightyears ahead of Sherlock in reading people and making deductions. If Sherlock has figured out Greg has feelings for someone, surely Mycroft has too, and has gone a bit further and realising who.
But nothing has changed between them. They’ve only become closer in a strictly friendly way; Greg’s ‘heart eyes’ as his sister has teased him about have clearly gone unnoticed.
Mycroft was steadfastly by his side during his divorce with Karen.
Unwavering support to the extent that Greg had never experienced before.
It’s been three years since the divorce was finalised, three years since a celebratory meal where Greg got too tipsy and almost confessed that he was in love with Mycroft.
He was no longer upset by the divorce, Karen had cheated on him too many times. In many ways it had been a relief.
Married for ten years, which after two reasonably content years became loneliness and absolutely destroyed any self-worth or confidence Greg had had.
He should have ended it when he came home to find her in their bed with her boss. That was only the start.
But Greg believed they could save their marriage, he loved her after all, wasn’t that all that mattered?
Greg began falling out of love with her more and more each time he found out about another lover, each time Sherlock humiliated him in front of his whole team by telling him exactly where his wife was, after every screaming row about how Greg wasn’t there for her, how he wasn’t enough for her.
By the time he began divorce proceedings, he felt nothing for her.
Then, Mycroft was by his side. And Greg felt that admiration and attraction he had tried to push away after their first meeting blossom.
After all, just because his wife was unfaithful did not give Greg the go-ahead to also cheat.
No, Greg had been monogamous to a T, and it stood to him during divorce proceedings.
His feelings for Mycroft? They were safe from the outside world, safe from scrutiny, safe from judgement.
And that’s where they’ll stay.
“How do you do it?” Mycroft’s voice cuts through the comfortable silence.
It rouses Greg from staring at the reflection of the flames in the cut crystal tumbler in his hand.
Swiftly derails his melancholy thoughts of loving someone in secret, of the loneliness that comes with it.
“Do what?” Greg asks, finally looking away from the fire and to Mycroft, who’s staring at him with something akin to frustration and confusion.
Greg watches Mycroft pause, his grip tightening on the still half full tumbler of scotch in his hands. Mycroft takes a deep breath, and fixes Greg with an almost pleading gaze.
“See all you have, been through all you have and yet still believe in love?”
It takes a few seconds too long for him to understand the question; he’ll blame the alcohol and fatigue from a never-ending week.
When he meets Mycroft’s grey, today stormy gaze, he opens his mouth and closes it again.
No words come out, he just impersonates a goldfish.
“Wha-” Greg begins when he finally finds his voice. His heart races, and his thoughts only seem to be screaming ‘what the fuck’ at him.
Greg catches the briefest glimpse of hopelessness in Mycroft’s eyes and suddenly his mind is trying to figure out where the actual fuck that question had come from.
Mycroft has opened his mouth, on the cusp of saying to forget about what he’d said, to pretend, to go back to comfortable silence, but Greg doesn’t let him.
“Anthea and Sally.” Greg says before Mycroft can speak.
The certainty settles in his chest.
Mycroft’s less than convincing reaction to Anthea and Sally joining them for dinner in Mycroft’s favourite restaurant. The fact that Anthea had changed the booking from two to four people.
Mycroft’s initial confusion, the sudden blankness of his expression when Anthea announced that she and Sally were together, had been for months now, and how they wanted Mycroft and Greg to know first.
Mycroft’s silence, how he merely watched as Greg congratulated them, ecstatic for them both.
Mycroft tears his eyes away from Greg, staring down at his hands as if in shame.
Greg’s not quite sure how to breach the topic of love, especially with the man that he’s secretly in love with. They’ve known each other for a decade, and within that Greg’s divorce was the only time relationships had been mentioned, and certainly not in a positive light.
Greg only knows from the odd comment here and there that Mycroft does not look on relationships favourably, and has to suppose that the notion of love is wrapped up somewhere with bitterness.
“You were happy for them tonight, despite everything.” Mycroft does not look up from his hands.
Greg gladly swallows the remainder of the scotch in his glass. “Anthea and Sally are wonderful, and it’s clear to see they’re happy with each other.” He shrugs, “I am happy for them. Delighted. I knew Sally was seeing someone, but hadn’t a clue who. I’m more surprised you didn’t realise with Anthea.”
Greg can see Mycroft frown. “I was aware Anthea had entered a relationship, but it never interfered with our work, so I never brought it up in conversation. I respect Anthea’s privacy and knew she would...reveal all when she wished.”
“Which was tonight.”
“Mhm.” Mycroft takes a long sip of scotch.
Greg doesn’t say anything, doesn’t know what to say.
Of course he believes in love. The man he loves is sitting across from him. He knows the feeling is real and true. Knows that he’d take a bullet for Mycroft if it meant he’d be safe.
Yes, Greg has always been a romantic.
But his belief in love burns brightly in his chest. It keeps him warm even when the shitty heating in his flat is on the blink.
He tries to see evidence of love wherever he goes. And most days he succeeds. It helps him through the days, and long nights. It helps him through the horrific crime scenes he witnesses that if he let them, would completely destroy his belief and his certainty that love can and does exist.
Without his belief in love, Greg wouldn’t be the man he is today.
Hell, without his belief in love, Greg wouldn’t be able to get out of bed in the morning.
There’s a tension in their silence and Greg takes a shaky breath. “When you said ‘despite everything’, what did you mean?”
Greg notices Mycroft’s grip on his glass tighten.
“Your case from the beginning of this week. The Dunbur domestic one.”
At the memories Mycroft has unearthed, Greg feels heavy. A couple seemingly happily married for fifteen years, the husband murdered his wife upon her discovery of his gambling addiction. He’d had to interview the husband, it has been one of the worst interviews he’d ever witnessed. Even now, he feels nauseous.
When Greg doesn’t reply, Mycroft continues. “I’ve known you for a decade, Gregory. Not once until this week have you ever seriously considered taking a sabbatical. Yet, after that you can still find it in yourself to be happy for Sally and Anthea.”
“They’re good people. I am happy for them.” Greg murmurs, wishing he had more scotch. “My grandparents celebrated their 70th wedding anniversary a few months before my grandad died. Sometimes...love...it just is. ”
Greg watches Mycroft silently stare at the fire, biting his lip. Uncharacteristic for Mycroft.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, Myc.” Greg murmurs.
He’s found himself nearly calling Mycroft ‘love’ a lot lately, but somehow manages to catch himself just in time.
Mycroft meets his gaze steadily, Greg can see the frustration in his eyes. “Would you ever be able to trust again? To fall in love with someone else after what Karen did, without the constant fear history will repeat itself?”
Greg’s sure his heart skips a few beats, he doesn’t break eye-contact with Mycroft. Takes a deep breath to hope for courage, that he can say this. “Yes.” He says steadily, hoping Mycroft hears the unsaid between them. “I know I can.”
Because it’s you I love, it’s you I trust. You wouldn’t do that to me.
Mycroft seems taken aback by Greg’s answer, his eyes wide before he quickly looks away.
“I was unaware that you had entered a new relationship.” There’s a subtle note of accusation to the statement and Greg shakes his head, trying not to laugh at Mycroft’s cluelessness.
“I haven’t.” Greg says softly, again when Mycroft looks up at him Greg can see the confusion. Was that a hint of hope in Mycroft’s eyes too? Greg hopes so.
“Have you ever been in love, Mycroft?” Greg whispers, his heart feels like he’s just run a marathon and he wishes he was sitting closer to Mycroft.
He wishes he could touch Mycroft.
Mycroft sits his glass on the side table, joining his hands in his lap. “Yes.” His voice is uncharacteristically quiet, he doesn’t look at Greg.
Greg’s chest aches a little. He can’t quite pinpoint the emotion but he’s certain it’s a mixture of jealousy and sadness.
A soft why can’t it be me? With the following whimper of Whoever it is, they better know how lucky they are to have your love; all internally, of course. Mycroft need never know.
He tries to keep his voice even, “And,” He whispers, “Do you believe in love?”
Mycroft looks up at him then, and Greg forgets to breathe when he sees the open honesty in Mycroft’s face. “I-” Mycroft begins, voice wavering, “I do not have sufficient data.”
It’s a confession between them both, and it’s the momentary glimpse of sadness in Mycroft’s eyes that makes Greg abandon his empty glass and sit forward in his chair.
If I could just touch you, make it right…
“Y-you never got together?” Greg whispers.
Mycroft shakes his head. “They…” He begins, then bites his lip, lowering his gaze. “They do not know.”
The pained whimper that escapes from Greg causes Mycroft to raise his head, eyebrow raised.
“Sorry, sorry.” Greg’s certain he’s blushing like hell. “I-I just...I understand.” He stutters, Mycroft doesn’t say anything, just continues watching him expecting him to say more.
Greg runs a hand through his hair, shifting uncomfortably. “It’s hard when they don’t know.” He murmurs, “I wish I could help you.”
Mycroft stares at him intently, as though he’s cataloguing Greg’s face, his body language. It’s something Greg has often seen Mycroft doing. It’s something that makes him hopeful.
“Perhaps you can, Gregory.” Mycroft breathes, and with that he stands up and walks towards the drinks cabinet.
Greg’s heart thuds in his chest, the fact that just for a split second he thought Mycroft was coming to him enough to take his breath away with the sheer possibility of it.
Greg shakily gets to his feet, his body stiff from sitting in the one position for hours.
Mycroft has his back to him as he searches for a particular bottle.
“Myc.” Greg whispers, barely inches away from him. Close enough to see his shoulders stiffen at the familiarity.
Greg only calls him Myc in private, knowing of Mycroft’s hatred of pet names, but a slightly tipsy and very jet lagged Mycroft had confessed to Greg that he likes when Greg calls him Myc.
Mycroft turns slowly, shoulders fallen as if in defeat.
“Please.” Greg whispers, his fingers clutching Mycroft’s bare forearm.
Greg doesn’t know what he’s asking for, but he can feel the thud of his heart in his chest, can feel the panic of knowing that things are going to change irrevocably.
Mycroft shivers at the unfamiliar feeling of bare skin on skin, his cheeks are flushed when he finally meets Greg’s gaze.
“What?” Mycroft breathes, eyes dark as they trail Greg’s face, searching.
“It’s you.” Greg whispers, stepping into Mycroft’s space, merely inches between them. “I just-”
Mycroft gasps, interrupting Greg.
Greg watches the train of thoughts, the realisations play out clearly on Mycroft’s face. His eyes are distant, and Greg knows Mycroft is searching through his memories of Greg, no doubt seeing every look and casual touch in a new light.
Greg doesn’t dare talk now, doesn’t dare interrupt Mycroft’s thoughts.
Instead he slowly trails his hand up Mycroft’s arm, resting it on Mycroft’s shoulder, squeezing gently.
I’m here. I’m always going to be here.
In private, Mycroft’s face is so wonderfully expressive.
Greg, heart racing as though it’s preparing for a panic attack, watches every single realisation that Mycroft makes play across his features.
Talk to me, say something, darlin’ please.
“You-” Mycroft breathes, eventually, seeming surprised that Greg’s hand is firm on his shoulder. Mycroft blinks, blue eyes searching his face.
Greg can only smile in response, softly caressing Mycroft’s cheek, rejoicing in the feel of Mycroft leaning in to the touch.
“You trust me with your heart.” The whispered words are not a question.
Greg nods, his eyes sting with tears. “I do.” He murmurs, thumb stroking over Mycroft’s soft skin. “Trust you with my life too. Always.”
Mycroft raises his arm to mirror Greg, but his hand shakes too badly to touch Greg’s face.
Greg smiles, knowing that he must be looking at Mycroft with utter adoration. He takes Mycroft’s shaking hand in his, carefully intertwining their fingers.
Greg watches Mycroft stare at their joined hands, his stormy eyes softening, the hint of a smile threatens on his lips. When he meets Greg’s eyes again, there’s still a definite look of disbelief present.
“Can I ask?” Greg whispers, heart thumping. He doesn’t finish the question, but he can see Mycroft put together what he’s too afraid to say out loud.
What if it’s not me?
Mycroft blinks, Greg can see the movement of Mycroft’s Adam's apple as he swallows, taking a few seconds to find the right words.
Mycroft’s grip tightens on Greg’s hand, just short of pain. His eyes are wide, face open as he looks to Greg.
“I-” He murmurs, stopping to clear his throat, “I may not have any data to confirm a belief in love, but Gregory, I believe in you.” His voice has quietened to a whisper by the end of the sentence. He stares at Greg, anxiety clear in his eyes, a hint of fear.
It takes a few seconds for Greg’s brain to mull that over. Then suddenly he’s looking to Mycroft, eyes stinging with unshed tears with a smile so wide that it aches.
“Mycroft…” Greg whispers, squeezing Mycroft’s hand in his own. His free hand goes to push an errant curl off Mycroft’s forehead, giving him another excuse to caress Mycroft’s cheek.
Again Mycroft leans into the touch, closing his eyes at the sensation of Greg’s warm skin on his own.
The tears roll down Greg’s cheeks as he watches Mycroft. He looks as though a weight has been taken off his shoulders, the gentle and content smile on Mycroft’s face fills Greg’s body with warmth.
“You wonderful man.” Greg whispers, not willing to let go of Mycroft to wipe away his tears.
Mycroft slowly opens his eyes, pupils large as he watches Greg. He lets go of Greg’s hand, takes a handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and ever so gently wipes away Greg’s tears.
“Tears of joy, I hope?” Greg can hear the edge of nervousness in the question, and nods, pulling Mycroft into a hug, burying his face on Mycroft’s shoulder.
“A decade’s worth of them.” Greg murmurs, inhaling Mycroft’s aftershave, more tears fall as he feels Mycroft’s arms adjust around him; one hand on the small of his back, the other softly stroking through Greg’s hair.
Greg startles at the gentle press of Mycroft’s lips to his forehead. “Let me see you, Gregory.”
It takes a few seconds, he can feel himself shaking. He slowly leans back, Mycroft’s hand leaves his hair but rests comfortably at the base of his neck.
Greg can feel Mycroft’s thumb slowly stroke the skin there.
Mycroft shares one of those cherished private smiles with Greg, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
“I’d always hoped…” He confesses. “May I kiss you, Gregory?”
“Of course you can, darlin’.” Greg can’t help but chuckle at the look of surprise on Mycroft’s face upon hearing the endearment. “Please, please do.”
And just like that, their first kiss is gentle. Unpracticed and searching.
Mycroft’s lips are soft as they press against his own.
Greg can’t help the sharp intake of breath he takes at the first contact of their lips.
It’s electric and he feels like his body is waking up from a long hibernation.
Warmth suffuses his body, he’s certain his heart grows in his chest, an overwhelming peace enfolds the both of them.
At last. At last. At last.
Soft sighs of contentment come from the both of them as the kiss comes to an end.
Their eyes meet and Greg’s overjoyed to see laughter lines at Mycroft’s eyes, the adorable dimples, open mouthed smile.
“Christ, I love you, Mycroft. I’ve loved you for years.” The words fall from Greg’s mouth, his eyes intent on Mycroft’s face.
His heart sings when he sees a new light brighten in Mycroft’s eyes, how Mycroft flushes seemingly unable to hide the resulting smile.
“And I love you, Gregory. If anyone can help me believe in love, it is you. It is only you.”
Greg can’t quite help the sound of happiness that erupts from him, but he hears Mycroft chuckle in response and before he realises it, he’s pulling Mycroft into another kiss, he can feel Mycroft smiling against his lips, and Greg holds him close, his fingers grasping against the silken back of Mycroft’s waistcoat.
Greg allows Mycroft to deepen the kiss and rejoices at the unfamiliar taste of Mycroft, at the bitterness of the scotch on both their tongues.
Greg can feel his heart thud and Mycroft’s pressed so close to him that Greg’s certain he would feel if there weren’t so many layers of clothing between them.
The very thought of doing this without clothes makes Greg’s blood burn like fire in his veins, makes him pull Mycroft as close as he can, hold him close, never wanting to let him go.
Mycroft moans softly in response, and Greg’s not sure how he doesn’t manage to black out at the sound.
Only ever in my wildest dreams, darlin’.
Eventually, breathless and gasping the kiss stops.
They don’t let go of each other, chests heaving against the other.
“Come to bed with me.” Mycroft breathes, then immediately flushes to the tips of his ears. “Not for sex.” He tries to clarify, visibly embarrassed, which Greg only finds utterly adorable.
Perhaps Mycroft sees the look of utter adoration that Greg is directing at him; those so-called ‘heart eyes’ that he’s been teased about.
Mycroft’s lips twitch, another glorious smile threatening.
“While that would be...wonderful. I very much wish to hold you close, and my sofa is woefully uncomfortable.”
Greg rests his forehead against Mycroft’s own, “We’ll need to sort that out, hm?” He whispers teasingly.
He hears Mycroft huff a laugh.
“But yes, let’s go to bed.”
Mycroft gently cradles Greg’s head in his hands, eyes searching. “Stay the weekend?”
Greg can’t help his own smile, “I’ll stay for as long as you’ll let me, darlin’.”
Mycroft’s shy smile in response is breathtaking, and Greg can’t help but lean in to kiss him again.
“I fear you may never see your flat again in that case.”
Greg giggles, knowing the delight must be clear on his face. “Y’know that’s music to my ears.”
“Bed?” Mycroft asks hopefully.
“Bed, please.” Greg nods, allowing Mycroft to take his hand and lead him from the sitting room and lead him upstairs, they stop every few metres to kiss.
Greg’s almost certain Mycroft’s house has never heard so much laughter, declarations of love; loud and unashamed.
After being pressed up against Mycroft’s bedroom door and kissed to within an inch of his life, they end up in bed with fewer clothes than before.
Mycroft pulls the sheets up around them, they’re safe in their own cocoon of warmth.
Mycroft tangles their bare legs together, both of them shiver at the feel of their warm skin against each other.
The length it has been since both of them were held like this.
Mycroft holds Greg close, their faces only centimetres apart.
Both of them content to lie in each other’s arms, fingers brushing across unfamiliar skin, baring their souls to each other.
Greg’s almost asleep when he feels Mycroft kiss his forehead, sighing happily.
“I’m beginning to understand why you believe in love, Gregory.” The words are hushed, the room silent except for the rain against the window.
Greg hums in contentment, resting his head on Mycroft’s chest.
“I fear I myself am beginning to believe in it myself.”
Greg kisses Mycroft’s chest above his heart. “Nothing to be afraid of.” He murmurs, hand tracing Mycroft’s spine, “Not if we do it together.”