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Mycroft’s mobile sat in his hands, with him perched on the end of his bed. He was in his pyjamas, and the sun had long since set. The only lights were that of the moon through his curtains, and the hallway light which Sherlock still insisted they leave on. It seeped under the door, leaving a menacing shadow across his phone.
02:34 am.
He’d been sitting there for an hour. Mycroft breathed in, he could do this. He could do this. He could do this. The little slip of paper on his knee was crumpled, having been folded and unfolded a dozen times. The number was embedded in his brain, but Mycroft had been so terrified he’d have some sort of stroke and forget it that he jotted it down nonetheless.
Right. Open contacts. Add the number in. Well, that wouldn’t do would it? What would he put for the contact name, Gregory Lestrade? That was slightly too formal. Mycroft bit his thumb. Okay, Greg? Too informal. Why was this so difficult? He sighed, falling back onto his bed. Sherlock"s voice perked up in his head “ put boyfriend. Do it,” and even in the dark Mycroft knew he was blushing.
No. It would have to be simple, but also everything that Greg was. So he sat up and simply input the words:
Gregory (my friend)
Yes, that suit him rather well. The only thing missing was a photo, but none of his contacts had photos. Sherlocks did, but that was his little brother hijacking Mycroft’s phone and taking numerous selfies. When his parents had first gifted Sherlock a phone (second hand, used to be Sigers), Mycroft thought he was too young for it, being the age of almost eight. But they’d argued that Sherlock was annoyingly independent; he’d already wandered off to a different town without anyone knowing, and if he were to do that again he needed a way of contacting them. So his photo was a silly zoomed in one with his tongue sticking out. Sherlock hated it, but Mycroft reasoned that if he didn’t want it to be seen, he shouldn’t have taken it.
Now he had the daunting task of calling Greg. Upon remembering the time though, he realised he’d no doubt be asleep. A breath of relief rushed from his lungs. He could face that another time, right now he needed to shut his brain off and go to bed.
For the next few days the sixteen year old tried his best to ignore his phone. It had become a terrifying little thing, for it had Greg’s contact in it now. So he left it from his sight and instead focused on his studies, preparing for the autumn when he would inevitably go back to university for the upcoming school year. Mr Holmes was the one to notice. He’d pulled him aside in the living room, sitting him down on the sofa next to him.
“Mycroft is everything alright?”
“Yes father.”
“This is about that footballer isn’t it?”
“…he wants me to call him and I don’t know how to socialise.”
“You have his number?”
“Yes.”
His hand was clean now, the ink washed off in the shower. Mycroft had taken great care when cleaning it off; he felt as if he was erasing Greg’s touch from his skin. It was not pleasant at all. No, he had left no red mark from the sponge, because in his mind"s eye it meant he was somehow being cruel to Greg. Sitting on the sofa, his hand tingled with the warm memory of Greg writing the number down. He’d pulled him so close, been so gentle.
“So call him!”
“ How? Father, I"m not in the business of making friends.”
“Just call and say hey, would you like to hang out sometime? He’ll be bound to say yes and then you can go from there.”
“But that’s so… complicated? Isn’t there a simpler way?”
“I think you know there isn’t. You could text, but I know you hate texting.”
Mycroft groaned, running his hand through his hair and leaning back on the sofa cushions. As he did so, Mr Holmes laughed gently. He’d never imagined he’d have to guide his son on how to socialise with a friend. His mind couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever have to sit Mycroft down and give him romantic advice. Maybe. If he had made a friend then anything was possible.
Mrs Holmes popped her head around the door frame.
“Mycie! I’m just doing the weekly shop and I wondered if you want to join?”
She knew he’d say yes, they’d built a routine up. Mycroft would assist his mummy with the shopping and they’d talk without Sherlock dragging either of them away from the other, then he’d help her lug everything into the car and consequently into the house. He also put everything into their rightful places, humming happily as he did. It was organised and he liked it.
“Let me just put my shoes on.”
Moments later they were in Morrisons, Mycroft pushing the trolley with mummy inspecting a bag of carrots.
“I think we’ll have a roast this Sunday, you up for that?”
“…a small portion perhaps.”
“I know darling. How are you feeling by the way?” She spoke, dropping the carrots into the trolley.
“I’m fine.”
“Good I’m glad. Sherlock’s always so pleased whenever you eat his breakfast.”
“As long as it’s not poisoned, of course I will.”
Violet laughed, turning the corner of the aisle. “That only happened once.”
“Yes but you know what my little brother is like. I’m not spending another week in intensive care.”
“Well as long as you keep up these healthy eating habits, then you certainly won’t.”
Mycroft smiled gently, he didn’t get to be honest with his mummy often. They weren’t the closest but he loved her. If he ever needed anything, usually he’d go to Siger for advice, and that was most definitely the last resort. Mycroft liked to handle things by himself. When he’d ended up in hospital from malnutrition, he’d had a breakdown in Violet"s arms though, Siger keeping Sherlock entertained outside the private room. He hadn’t ever cried like that in front of her before, and he wasn’t planning to ever do so again. Ever since that moment, she’d been keeping an extra keen eye on his eating habits. It was… nice? Sherlock usually was the centre of attention, but when Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to swallow a bite, or when the nagging in his head forced him to bring it back up, Violet was always there. He liked his independence, but it was nice to feel loved for once.
“Mycroft darling,”
He blinked. She was placing a loaf of bread in the trolley. In fact, the trolley had become quite full in the time he had been stuck in his head.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, just zoned out. Apologies.”
“No need for that, now, what would you say to some angel cake? I’ve been fancying it all week.”
She crossed the aisle and picked a loaf up, and then put it down and picked up one from the back of the box that wasn’t quite so squashed in the corner. They continued their shopping, Mycroft pushing the trolley and giving his thoughts on meal plans. Morrisons was not so packed today, and that pleased him. He didn’t mind shopping with mummy but the social aspect was awful. They were in the midst of speaking about her helping Sherlock with his maths homework when a familiar voice sounded out.
“Mycroft?”
He turned and Greg was at the end of the aisle, holding a pack of sweets in one hand and a bottle of Dr Pepper in the other.
“Gregory!”
“Greg, please. ” He joked, making his way to the trolley.
“And you must be Mrs Holmes?”
“Oh, just call me Violet, dear.”
“Violet it is.”
“It’s so lovely to meet you. You must be special if Mycroft’s willing to socialise with you.”
“Isn’t that what friends do, mummy?” He rested his elbows on the trolley, already exasperated.
“Yes but usually you say I’m not in the business of making friends. ”
Greg clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Ah well, I’m just that charming.”
“Hmm. Persistent is the word I’d use.” Mycroft added.
“That too.”
Violet watched the interaction, Greg grinning lopsidedly and Mycroft smiling gently at him. She wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but whatever she was watching, it was sweet. They bounced off each other. A Yin and Yang. She only hoped Sherlock would one day find a friend too.
“Greg,” she interrupted, “why don’t you join us for the rest of the shopping? I’ll pay for your things.”
“Oh, that’s alright Violet-“
“Nonsense, pop them in the trolley.”
“Are you sure?”
“Definitely.”
“Thank you.”
In reality, she just wanted to snoop and witness her boy interact with his newfound friend. But she was quite happy to buy his things, they weren’t expensive.
“So, apparently you’re a footballer?”
“Yeah, the school used to say I’m the ‘star player’ or whatever, but I just do defence.”
Mycroft spoke up. “Which I still don’t understand at all.”
“Yeah you hate football-“
“Hate football. Observant.”
They spoke at the same time, Greg laughing.
“Yeah, well I gotta keep up with you, you know, Mycroft Holmes. Genius extraordinaire .”
Violet looked back at the boys, was Mycroft blushing? That was adorable- maybe Sherlock had been onto something with the ‘boyfriend’ thing.
“Oh please, I believe you’re a rather quick learner.”
“What makes you say that Mycie?”
“Mycroft, mummy, please finish my name.”
Greg giggled, “ Mycie? Oh I’m so using that.”
“Oh sod off. And I say that because he’s been picking up ancient history facts rather well.”
“Yeah, we went to the library after the game.”
Violet did a double take. “Mycroft took you to his library? Lord, you must be special.”
“I think he just wanted to show off a bit.”
Violet laughed, “that too.”
They continued doing the shopping, coming to the freezer section. Mycroft noticed Greg pull the sleeves of his hoodie around his hands, he was cold. A thought occurred in his head that he pushed away violently, but perhaps he could hold his hand? No. No. He couldn’t do that, could he? Just so unprompted? Yet again, Greg had spontaneously held his hand a lot, so how was this any different? Sherlock"s voice popped up in his head, you like him so holding his hand would have… implications. He just holds yours platonically. Mycroft fought the urge to mutter to himself “go away” because Greg would no doubt hear it, and therefore assume he was off the rails. No, he couldn"t hold his hand. Blood hell, he couldn’t even call him! …But Greg’s hand always made Mycroft’s skin feel so warm, and if Greg was cold then surely this would have the same effect?
Violet dug around in the trolley. “Damn, I forgot something. Back in a moment boys, you two just wait here.”
She dashed off towards the other end of the store, leaving Greg and Mycroft alone next to the frozen chips. Silence befell them. Mycroft was just contemplating inching his hand closer to Greg’s when Greg moved away from him. He leant on the side of the trolley, no longer stood by his side.
“Why haven’t you called?”
“I-“
“No. I want the truth, Mycroft. Did you not wanna hang out again?”
“Lord no! I just… I didn’t know what to say when I did call. Your contact is in my phone!”
“Just say hey. Anything is better than silence.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Greg sighed, hanging his head slightly before lifting it up with a gentle smile. “‘S alright. This really is all new territory, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.. call me now.”
“But we’re standing right next to each other?”
“I don’t care, call me now. Oh just do it, Mycie. ”
“I swear to God,” nonetheless he dug his phone from his pocket and selected Greg’s number, bringing the screen to his ear. Greg grinned, bringing his phone from his pocket.
“Hello? Gregory Lestrade speaking.” He put on a dorky voice, keeping eye contact with Mycroft.
“This is Mycroft Holmes.”
“Ah yeah! Yeah, that guy. The smart one. Was wondering when you’d call me.”
“Apologies for the delay.”
“Pft, it’s nothing. Betcha been super busy being a genius, right?”
“Admittedly so.”
“Thought so, thought so. So, you wanna hang out tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? So soon?”
“If that’s too soon we can-“
“No, tomorrow’s excellent.”
“Yes! Okay well I’ll pick you up from yours at ten-ish?”
“Ten’s fine.”
“Wonderful, okay well bye for now then, Mycie.”
They hung up, Mycroft too elated for the prospect of tomorrow to even berate Greg for the terrible nickname.
“Really, we’re hanging out tomorrow?”
Greg reached across the trolley, taking Mycroft’s hand in his. Had he somehow read his thoughts earlier? No, that was impossible.
“Yeah! We’ll do whatever you want.”
“Okay.”
“Great. Your mum’s adorable, by the way.”
“Hmm. Your fingers are awfully cold.”
“Warm them up then.”
“I don’t know how you imagine me doing that.”
“Eh, this is good enough.”
They smiled, falling into silence again. Mycroft ran his thumb over Greg’s skin, it was so terribly soft. The skin on his fingertips was calloused though, no doubt from helping his da out with the car- oh that was a new deduction. He hadn’t even been searching for it.
“What are you thinkin’?”
“I’m thinking you should put hand cream on after aiding your father with the wheels of his car.”
“How did you-“
“I deduce. I don’t mean to, it comes naturally. Sherlock also has it, but he can’t seem to stop himself from sharing his deductions aloud. I’ve learnt to keep mine in my head.”
“And what have you learnt about me?”
“…you want to know?”
“Course.”
“It doesn’t make you uncomfortable?”
“Nah, if anything I make me uncomfortable. Come on, tell me.” Greg shook their conjoined hands gently, encouraging Mycroft to share his thoughts.
“Well, I know you’re the middle child of two sisters. You have two cats, before Prom you’d studied. I’m not certain what, but the ink on your fingers gave it away. You watch a lot of television and drink a lot of Dr Pepper, in fact I’d say it’s a borderline addiction but you’re aware of that yourself and you’re trying to wheedle off it. As mentioned, you help your father with his car, most likely because neither of your sisters are interested in it and it’s a bonding experience for the pair of you. You showered this morning, you’ve got an anxious habit of running your fingers through your hair, which your mother wants you to get cut but you’re keeping it grown out to frustrate her. Possibly rebellion, or possibly just out of teenage behaviour. Or maybe you just like it. Either way it suits you. You’re close to your sisters, even though you can’t stand the way they drag you around clothes shopping, and on top of that you’re not entirely close with the football team despite outside appearances. I’m not sure why, perhaps an insecurity in something, either theirs or yours but most likely yours. Whatever it is, I won’t dig. I understand what it is to have secrets.”
Mycroft breathed out, expecting Greg to let go of his hands and walk away. Instead he just muttered “wow.”
“Wow? Wow what?”
“That was incredible. How’d you get all that?”
“I observe.”
Greg laughed, momentarily leaning his forehead on their hands atop the trolley handle. “Yeah I noticed. It really was amazing.”
“Thank you.” Mycroft whispered, unsure how to follow that. Usually when he’d deduced people in the past they’d been offended and hurt. He’d never been looked at like this before, with wide eyes and a big smile.
“So you think my hair suits me?”
“Well I mean.. it’s- you know- fine.”
“Fine, ay?”
“Well it matches your… energy”
“Right?”
“And uh-“
“Go on.”
“Oh sod off you just want to be showered in compliments.”
“I do like being complimented. Call me vain.”
“Vain Lestrade? Strange name, but okay.”
Violet returned as Greg and Mycroft burst into laughter, leaning their shoulders together. When she rounded the view, she noticed their conjoined hands but said nothing. She’d have to let them figure it out on their own, even if it was rather obvious what was going on. They hadn"t noticed her, so she coughed, dropping the cheese down into the trolley.
“Mummy!”
Greg bit back a frown as Mycroft let go of his hand.
“Violet, did you get everything you needed?”
“Yes, just cheese for the salad tomorrow.”
“Oh nice. Love cheese. Big cheese fan, me… what?”
“Nothing. It’s amusing when you verbally stumble.”
“You’re one to talk. It matches your energy. ”
Greg smirked, taking hold of the trolley for Violet. He pushed it round the aisle, sniggering at Mycroft’s astounded silence.
“Well if you hadn’t nagged me.”
“Ha! Nah, that wasn’t even my most skilled nagging.”
“Yes, I assume you’ve gained much practice with your sisters.”
“Yep. When an opportunity arises I must nag them. It’s middle child law, you know.”
Mycroft grit his teeth, thinking of Sherlock and Eurus. “Hmm.”
As if sensing his train of thought, or perhaps sharing it, Violet came to a halt. She leant on the end of the trolley, looking to the boys at the front of it. “What do you both say to lunch?”
“Lunch?”
“Yeah, I’ll treat you. We’ll do the shopping and on the way home, stop off at McDonald’s?”
“Oh, Violet, that"s alright, you’re already buying my stuff.”
“No, Greg I insist. And if not McDonalds, go get something from the fridge section. Take Mycie with you, get him a sandwich.”
Greg smiled at the way Mycroft grimaced at the nickname and gently took hold of his arm. “I will do-“
“Meet me at the tils!”
“Yes mummy.”
The fridge section was empty except for an employee, restocking the milk shelves. Mycroft stood next to Greg, who was poking through the shelves deep in thought.
“Right, what do you want? And don’t you dare say salad, your mum said to get you a sandwich.”
“I don’t know, what have they got?”
“Chicken, egg, cress, ham, cheese… the list goes on mate.”
“…move over.” But instead of moving out the fridge door, Greg simply shuffled to the side. Rolling his eyes, Mycroft squeezed in next to him, trying to ignore how very close they were.
“What are you getting?”
“Probably ham, ooh I might get a wrap actually.”
“Knock yourself out. Actually don’t, I don’t know how I’d explain that to mummy.”
“Would you even be able to carry me back to the tils?”
“I’m surprisingly strong, I’ll have you know.”
There had been many times when Sherlock had clung onto Mycroft’s forearms and insisted he swing his entire body with the strength of his arm alone. And not to mention the incessant amount of piggy back rides Sherlock had demanded when he was younger. Sometimes Mycroft wondered how he didn’t have bigger muscles, but then he realised with a bitter thought they were hidden under his “flab” (as he always put it) and if he were thinner they’d be more prominent. In the present however, he sighed, picking up a chicken and cress sandwich.
“So you’d carry me, and what about lunch?”
“Oh it’d be resting on you, like a table.”
Greg laughed, startling the poor employee who was stacking yoghurts nearby. Together, they shut the fridge door and made their way to the tils. They eventually found Violet in the midst of packing things into shopping bags.
“Oh boys, did you get Mycroft a sandwich?”
“Yes Violet, he even picked it out himself. They grow up so quick, don’t they?”
“I’m not a child Greg.”
“Yeah, I’m only teasing.” Greg winked, clicking his teeth as he did. The way Mycroft smiled in return would be burnt into Greg’s mind, how small and gentle, how wary and curious. Had anyone ever positively teased him before? Greg realised that no , most likely not. He felt his heart crack ever so slightly, but that just meant he had something to work on. As Mycroft’s friend, it was his sole duty to make him laugh through gentle teasing.
The three of them finished packing everything up, and then into the car boot. Violet had insisted they give Greg a ride home, and he had parted from them with many thanks and a plastic bag with his things in. He’d promised to see Mycroft tomorrow, ten on the dot, taking pride in the elation in Mycroft’s voice when he’d attempted to so calmly agree. The ride back home with his mummy had been quiet, and Mycroft’s thoughts had spiralled into anxiety. What was she thinking about? Was Greg too much? Did she not approve of him as a friend? This continued into the house, encouraging the wheels in his head as Mycroft went about his routine of putting things away.
“I like him.”
“Pardon?” Mycroft paused, placing the bread into its bread box.
“I like him. He’s absolutely lovely.”