Relationship: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Written for prompt FFF326 Peripheral Vision of Flash Fiction Friday by @flashfictionfridayofficial
For the sake of appearances, Greg was lying on the sofa, head resting against the armrest, reading an old detective novel. He had not turned a single page in the last fifteen minutes or so.
The reason for his distraction was his husband, who was also seated just a few feet away and was steadily typing away on his laptop. It was not as if Greg minded the tap-tapping of the keyboard in the slightest. But this sense of competence and quiet concentration that Mycroft radiated whenever he was dealing with something at work just worked for him and right now, even having to resort to stealing glances out of the corner of his eye, Greg was absolutely basking in it.
He really was so lucky.
Greg risked another discreet sideways glance at his partner and turned, yet again, to the first line of the page he had flipped to. He couldn’t perceive a single word; the letters were just blotches of ink on paper. He couldn’t help the twitch of his lips though.
It wasn’t long before he heard a voice over the tapping of the keyboard.
“Darling.”
Greg would never fail to get a thrill out of it when Mycroft called him an endearment. Hearing a word so soft and lovingly said like that from the voice that had called him ‘Detective Inspector’ or ‘Lestrade’ for more than a decade would always send a skitter through his pulse. He turned a page, unread, trying to appear nonchalant. “Hmm?”
“We have been married for three years.”
For a panicked second, Greg wondered if he had missed their anniversary. He had not.
“Yeah?” he prompted cautiously.
“You are allowed to look, you know. I would like to assume that the stage of shy glances and averted eyes are well behind us.”
Greg laughed and flipped himself over on the sofa to actually look at the man, dropping the book in the process.
“Got it,” he said, watching Mycroft try to stop himself from smiling and work at the same time. “I’ll just lay like this and gaze at you while you do your thing.”
“On the condition that you do not distract me and let me actually do my thing, as you put it.”
“Not fair, ‘cause you started it, but yeah, I guess.”
Mycroft huffed a laugh, shaking his head at his husband’s ridiculousness. But Greg could see Mycroft was now stumbling at the task quite a bit.
Greg bit his lip, knowing very well that Mycroft was having the same kind of problem.
“Hey,” he ventured.
“Absolutely not.” Mycroft ducked his head to seem like he was way too immersed in whatever he was doing on his laptop. He wasn’t. Greg could tell.
“You’re literally backspacing an entire paragraph as we speak.”
“I am not.”
“Come on now,” he sing-songed. “You know you want to.”
“It’s the middle of the day, Gregory!”
“So?”
“What do you mean ‘so’?”
Greg wiggled his eyebrows at the exasperated man. It was all it took for Mycroft to slam the lid of his laptop shut and stride over to his delighted husband.
"Identify yourself," growled Agent B089, leveling the laser pistol at the figure emerging from the shadows. His colleague, S063 did the same.
The lurker was a man. His long leather coat, the waistcoat, the brown leather top hat and the goggles atop it marked him as belonging to a bygone Earth era. But the gleaming copper coloured steel that covered half his face, stark contrast with his dark skin, B089 knew was neither from Earth or Wolken.
"At ease, agent," the man said, smiling nonchalantly. He raised his hands in mock surrender. "I'm a friend."
"I'll be the judge of that," B089 muttered.
The man tutted. "Have you given up on the mission already? I didn’t realise IOTA agents quit so easily."
"Who the hell are you?" S063 asked. "And what do you know about the mission?"
"They sent you pathetically under prepared. Your fugitive is a Rift, hiding in a particularly volatile cross-loop. It's already become a fixed point in time and you can't neutralise it without causing a rapture."
B089 froze, stunned by the revelation and lowered his weapon. "Our rogue-unit is not-"
The stranger regarded him with a look of pity. "The rogue you are looking for is not human."
B089 heard his colleague swear in exasperation.
"Anyway," the man said with a sigh reaching inside his coat. He retrieved an object threw it towards the two dejected agents. "Just because you can't kill the bastard doesn't mean you can't get rid of him."
B089 caught the inconspicuous object flung at him. His eyes widened as realisation hit him.
"Is this a Breacher?"
"It is. Find a locator to activate it. You can figure out the rest as you go."
"How do you have access to a Timeless artifact?"
"I have my sources," he said. B089 saw the man's expression darken. "Whatever you do, do it properly. Trap the bastard in the tenth circle of hell and good luck."
B089 stared at the small key-like object in his hand, unable to believe what he’s about to get himself into.
S063 seemed to be in a similar state.
“Who are you?” He asked.
The stranger smiled. “My name is Ezra Forge.” He tipped his hat and turned to leave. “Let’s hope we never meet again.”
Written for prompt FFF321 Through Your Eyes of Flash Fiction Friday by @flashfictionfridayofficial
Mycroft takes careful note of the mischievous sparkle in the detective inspector’s eyes. Mycroft can’t help but think that despite the man’s innumerable requests to just call him by his first name, it will be tonight that he does take up on that. Irreversibly.
“So,” Lestrade says, in a voice that suggests suppressed mirth, “Sherlock has deduced our meetings.”
Mycroft is intrigued, part by where this conversation is going and part by the humour he is sensing. “Has he now?”
“Mmh. Says I’m wasting my time… with you.”
Of course. Bless Sherlock and his everlasting concern for his ‘friends’, Mycroft thinks, sardonically. Then again, when was he ever required to wait for his little brother’s approval for anything? “Are you… wasting your time with me?” he asks instead.
His glass carefully placed on a coaster, Lestrade sits back, lounges really, and regards his host with a smirk. “Sherlock thinks I’m trying to hook up with you.”
Mycroft almost chokes on his own breath at the phrasing.
“I mean, he’s not wrong,” Lestrade says, grinning now, taking Mycroft’s shocked silence as the absence of a dismissal, “But he also warned me that it won’t work. I’m not so sure about that.”
“Oh?”
“Sherlock doesn’t know you as much as he thinks he does, does he?”
He doesn’t. Mycroft knows this for a fact. When they were younger, Mycroft has watched his little brother’s blind fascination with him with adoration. It was not entirely Mycroft he adored but rather the image of his big brother he had conjured. Even when they grew up and those illusions started to fail, Sherlock refused to be disillusioned, choosing to amend his illusions instead.
Mycroft is still just an image in Sherlock’s mind.
“What makes you say that, detective inspector?” Mycroft asks, curious, even a little bit hopeful because, he has come to realize just now that he might not know himself all that well either.
“He says you can’t stand people, that you prefer your own company. God knows we all need a little bit of that sometimes. But I know you wouldn’t mind spending time with someone else too, would you?”
It’s not Lestrade’s fault that this conversation starts to remind Mycroft of one of Sherlock’s favourite presumptions about him; that he is lonely.
He is not, he has checked. That Lestrade too should join in with his little brother is not something Mycroft needs.
Mycroft takes a deep breath, sobering up a little at the insinuation. “Whatever you’re implying, detective inspector-”
“I’m not implying anything… guess I’m just trying to tell you that you just need someone who’d dare to take that waistcoat off of you and see what you’re hiding underneath all of that.” Lestrade scoots himself forward on the cushions, his huge brown eyes are saying so much more than words ever can. “And my name is Greg,” he adds softly, “I’ve told you that.”
As Mycroft’s back hits the wall and Greg’s large hand combs through his hair amidst frantic kisses, Mycroft’s mind manages to form one more coherent thought that will be the last for a while.
Written for prompt FFF330 Unfinished Paintings of Flash Fiction Friday by @flashfictionfridayofficial
It was by accident that Greg found the mysterious door part-opened, as if in invitation. He hesitated in front of it, wondering for a moment whether it was a test until he remembered who he was married to.
Mycroft never did that kind of thing. Their marriage was built on trust and well-respected boundaries. As he opened the door with a smile, Greg realized that this was Mycroft’s way of saying that he trusted Greg with another part of himself. He could take it if he wanted to.
Having turned on the lights in the previously pitch-dark room, Greg noticed that the room looked way smaller than he expected. It was more of a studio of sorts, a little too messy to be associated with someone like Mycroft Holmes, but in a cozy, comforting way. Against one of the walls, were a few stacks of boxes and a desk sat at the corner. The pen holder on the desk held five or six charcoal pencils of different heights. The rest of the work space was dedicated to a couple of more pencils, some course textured paper, a kneaded eraser, a ruler, a box of paper towels and two sharpeners. Above the desk were a set of light fixtures that seemed to be adjustable.
Charcoal art, Greg mused fondly. Of course.
A book case at the side, had two shelves full of books, most of which had titles related to charcoal art and a few about watercolour. The rest of the shelves held two more boxes of paper towels and a stack of haphazardly arranged sheets of papers.
Delighted, Greg turned to the easel mounted near the only window in the room. Admittedly, his first instinct since he had first lain his eyes on it had been to rush to it but he supposed he could wait until he had gathered all the little clues scattered about in this small room.
The easel had an empty white paper attached to the top holder. As he approached it, Greg noticed that there were not one but two papers attached to it. Flipping the top paper over, the paper underneath it startled a laugh out of him.
It was a drawing of him. Incomplete, but Greg marveled at the details of it. It was clearly a recreation of a typical Sunday morning in their household in Mycroft’s point of view. The charcoal Greg on the paper was barely dressed in a carelessly donned dressing gown, hair an absolute mess and was having his coffee smiling mischievously over the rim of his cup.
It didn’t take long for Greg to feel the presence at the doorway. He didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
“Hope you don’t mind me breaking and entering,” he said, still taking in all the little details if the drawing. The rumpled newspaper at the side, the half-eaten breakfast plates and even, he now noticed, how the sunlight seemed to be streaming in from the windows at the back.
“Not to worry,” Mycroft said, his smile audible in his voice. “I will not press charges. Actually, I was starting to wonder what was taking you so long.”
Greg turned to his husband. Mycroft was leaning against the doorframe. His eyes were bright with fondness.
“Thank you for trusting me with this,” Greg said. He meant it. He knew how deeply protective Mycroft was about any part of him that made him human. Greg, himself, had been one of those for a number of years now.
“Well,” he said, a touch nervous, “I didn’t mean to keep it a secret from you. It’s er- you haven’t yet got to the boxes I presume?”
“No,” Greg said, frowning as he turned to the boxes stacked against the wall. “What’s in them?”
“Now that you’re here, you may as well see for yourself.”
Greg looked at Mycroft once again and abandoned the easel.
Opening the top-most box, he was met with another sketch of himself. This one featured him reading a book, wearing his glasses. This too, was incomplete and seemed more like a rough sketch. The one after was of him in the process of removing his tie, probably after a day at the court. As he suspected all the sketches in the box seemed to be of him, some were smudged and some were more roughly sketched than the others but all of them were incomplete.
“Jesus,” Greg said, laughing in disbelief. “All of them?”
“Not all the boxes,” Mycroft hurried to clarify, flushing in embarrassment, as if it made any difference.
Greg pointed at another box at the bottom of the stack. “What about this one?”
Mycroft groaned in response and hid his face in his hands, clearly regretting his decision. Greg cackled as he retrieved and opened it.
As expected, it was another stack of sketches. Most of them even more scraggly looking and incomplete. It was then when he noticed the date scribbled at the bottom of the paper.
“Myc,” he exclaimed. “This is from ten years ago!”
“Greg-”
“Honestly, you should’ve said something.”
Mycroft stopped short and blinked in disbelief. “Might I remind you that you were married at the time?”
“Ah.”
“Indeed. I- assumed it would do no harm to tend to my frustrations privately- and drawing helped… in a way. Obviously when I said frustrations-”
“I know, sweetheart,” Greg intervened. Frustrations. Greg supposed that was one way to put it.
“I drew until I felt like I could sleep,” Mycroft added quietly.
Greg left the boxes as they were and gently pulled his husband into a hug. “You’ve got me now,” he said instead of ‘I should have met you first’. “Still, you can draw me as often as you like. Promise I’ll even sit still ‘til you complete it.” Greg smiled listening to Mycroft’s soft huff of laughter. “We have all the time in the world.”
Written for prompt FFF288 Loud Lie, Quiet Truth of Flash Fiction Friday by @flashfictionfridayofficial
If asked, almost all of the people acquainted with him would agree with the fact that Mycroft Holmes is very aptly named The Iceman. The name would make sense even with just one cursory glance.
Sherlock calls him the British Government. The most dangerous man you will ever meet.
That comes with his position and the power attached to it.
The power that rests in his hands is something he has earned, something he is trusted with by his employers because he is very, very good at his job. When your job involves making decisions that no one else can, human emotions hardly belong there. That is what makes him so good at it.
His career is his life and he runs his life with numbers and logic.
Cold and ruthless.
Detached.
A machine.
That’s what they know of him.
But most of what they know is not true.
There is only one man who knows the truth in its entirety. That man is Greg Lestrade.
The truth, as Greg knows it, was something he’d had to dig out by himself. It was something even Mycroft had not been aware of at the time.
No one ever noticed the sheer panic that drove him whenever Sherlock did something ruthless. No one ever saw his frustrated despair the time statistics piled staggeringly high along with dead bodies when a high-stakes mission had gone wrong the last minute. No one ever witnessed his genuine gratefulness for the fact that he had someone to come home to.
No one else but Greg.
As sweat cools on their naked bodies, Greg curls an arm around his lover, pulling him close. He smiles, content, at the feeling of Mycroft’s long fingers combing through his chest hair, straying away later to rest on his heart. Here, in the afterglow, Greg would place a gentle kiss on his lover’s forehead. He’d come to realise that it pleases Mycroft to no end. Mycroft would hide a delighted smile in the crook of his neck, reminding Greg that the truth is this. Something no one else knows.
Relationship: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Written for prompt FFF298 Hidden Chemistry of Flash Fiction Friday by @flashfictionfridayofficial
The reception was still in full swing, —judging by the onslaught of noise when the call connected. Despite the chaos, the voice he’d been desperate to hear all day was still tender—albeit tinged with the tiredness of an eventful day.
“Hey darlin’.”
“Greg, is everything alright?”
“Yeah. Yeah, everything’s alright, love. Donovan’s handling the case. I’m still here.”
Mycroft let out a breath. “Good. Um… is he-?”
“He’s here. It’s good if you pick him up, Myc. He- he’d probably need someone with him tonight.”
It was just as he had feared then.
“I’ll have to take him home with me, Greg. At least just-.”
“I know, love,” Mycroft’s heart ached as he heard the smile in his lover’s voice. “I’ll drop by and see him when he’s back at his flat.”
“Would it be alright with you? Truly?”
“’Course, I’ll be alright, Myc.” Bless this man. Despite the loud music, Greg’s voice was soft in his ear. “We’ve talked about this.”
“I know. It’s-”
“Don’t worry about me, alright? Look after him. I know this isn’t the first time you’ve done this, but will you be able to handle him yourself?”
“Yes… yes, I’ll manage. But- I feel like I’m kicking you out.”
Greg laughed, warm, light and… generous. “I’ll be alright. Promise. Sherlock comes first. For the both of us. How long d’you think you’d be able to make him stay there?”
“I’d be shocked if he stays the entire night, if I’m being honest.”
“Oh, don’t be-” he cut off, abruptly, tone shifting to urgent. “Mycroft, he’s leaving.”
“It’s alright. I’m just outside.”
“Oh, okay. Alright. Call me when you get home, yeah?”
“I will, Greg. Thank you.”
“Anything for you, darlin’,” Greg said, the warmth in his voice still overwhelming even through the phone. ”Love you.”
“I love you too.”
As the call disconnected, Mycroft subconsciously pressed his phone to his lips, as it would help him be just a little closer to Greg, draw what strength he can that he’d definitely need for the long night ahead.
When Sherlock unceremoniously plopped himself on the backseat beside him, Mycroft could just feel his brother’s exhaustion. Neither of them uttered a word for a while, not that they had to.
“Where are we going?” Sherlock muttered, his eyes still closed, head laid back against the headrest, having realized they were not heading to the Baker Street flat.
“My place,” Mycroft said. Looking over at his brother, he sighed. “Have you eaten?”
The question was unnecessary, he’d known even before Sherlock made a low noise of dissent. But it served as a statement.
“Not hungry,” Sherlock said, as a protest, as Mycroft fished out his phone from his jacket.
Yet, Mycroft dialed for takeaway. “You will be.”
Sherlock merely sighed.
In times like these, Mycroft wished they were still children, living out the last of their ‘normal’ life in Musgrave, when Sherlock would come running to him for everything, because Mycroft to Sherlock, was this all-knowing being who had the power to fix just about anything. He’d trusted his brother to dry his tears, take his hand make all his worries go away.
More than everything, Mycroft just wished he was that powerful now as he was thirty years ago.
The call made and food ordered, Mycroft expected the rest of the way home to be silent as well. But just as he turned to the tinted windows, he heard Sherlock shift beside him.
“Are you kicking him out for the night just so I’d feel less miserable?”
Well, there goes his plan to let him in on the revelation gently.
“No,” Mycroft said carefully, “he offered to let me pay my full attention to you until this mess is sorted out.”
“There is no mess to sort out, Mycroft.”
Well, he hated that, mostly because it was true. Mostly true.
Sherlock laid his head back again. “Everything’s as it should be.”
Mycroft didn’t like how resigned Sherlock sounded. A part of him—the twelve-year-old, overprotective brother—wanted to blame John Watson, call him cruel for asking Sherlock to be his best man, knowing Sherlock would go above and beyond to fulfill his duties, regardless of the toll it would take on him, while the rational part of him, which was not as blind, knew that was how John could let him know Sherlock was still just as important to him as he was before.
Simply, there was no mess.
“I’m only tired, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, with a sigh. “You can stop worrying.”
He’ll stop worrying when one or both of them are dead, thank you very much.
“Don’t fall asleep now,” Mycroft said instead, as the car slowed to a stop and Jeremy got out to collect their dinner. “I won’t be carrying you to the house.”
Sherlock scoffed, but a tiny smile lingered.
Sherlock was not five anymore. Maybe that meant he could wipe his own tears now.
But that didn’t mean he was alone.
As he checked the soft buzz of his phone, Mycroft saw that it was a text from Greg telling him that he’d arrived at the hotel, asking him to call when he could.
Written for the Week 4 prompt "Kiss Goodnight" of the Aug-Kissed event hosted by @aug-kissed.
“I’m so sorry Greg. He didn’t make it.”
Greg wakes up startled. Anthea’s voice still rings in his ears, the dread in her face haunts him, seeming so real he has to sit up as reality settles around him. He’s on the bed, under the covers. It’s dark. The clock reads 2.05 AM. And he’s not alone.
Mycroft’s beside him, asleep, his body rises and falls as he breaths. Greg spends some time watching him, making sure that Mycroft’s actually alive and well, that the memory of him stepping through the door and collapsing in Greg’s arms last night was real.
He takes a deep breath, hoping it would slow down his racing heart. He doesn’t want to wake Mycroft; however unlikely it is that he does.
The past few days had been hell. Mycroft had been called out to a conference out of the country. It had been a Saturday, and they’ve had plans for the weekend. Mycroft had apologized for it being a last-minute announcement and for not being able to give more details. Greg had kissed him and had told him more light-heartedly than he’d actually felt, that he’d be forgiven when he came back home to him.
And a week ago, Greg had lost all communication with him. Attempts to reach Anthea were in vain. Alicia had absolutely nothing to give him. And Mycroft had just disappeared off the face of Earth, just like that.
Greg had been on the brink of falling apart and losing it entirely. He’d been advised to wait, that everything that can possibly be done to locate them was being done. Sherlock, he suspected, had done some digging on his own and also had come to the conclusion that all they could do now was wait.
“He’d turn up in a couple of days,” he’d said. “Save the panicking for a later date, Lestrade. He’s had much worse.”
That was it.
Today, out of nowhere, he had gotten a phone call and no more than an hour later, an armful of an exhausted Mycroft.
Mycroft had had promised they’d talk tomorrow- which is basically today, it seems and Greg doesn’t even know what to think. What happened out there? He shudders as a thought he’d desperately tried not to think, briefly crosses his mind. How close was he to losing Mycroft entirely?
Glancing at the sleeping man beside him, Greg is suddenly overwhelmed by the need to touch him, gather him into his arms for the rest of the night because right now, what Greg needs is reassurance. He needs to believe that Mycroft’s safe and home, and that it’s all real.
Just as he decides to lie back down, Mycroft rolls over to face him, just barely awake. His voice is hoarse with sleep when he speaks.
“Nightmare?”
Greg smiles. “I’m alright now, sweetheart. Didn’t mean to wake you up.”
Instead of replying he beckons Greg to him. Greg lets himself be pulled in under the covers and into Mycroft’s arms. He feels better instantly. The feel of his lover’s warm skin against his lips, the familiar warmth and his very scent is enough comfort to Greg.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” Mycroft murmurs, gently running fingers through Greg’s hair. “That was not meant to happen.”
Greg has to push himself away for a while to look into Mycroft’s eyes properly. “Don’t apologize, love. I’m just glad you’re home.” He smiles, more to the benefit of Mycroft’s than his. “Besides, I know what I signed up for.”
Mycroft visibly takes a deep breath. “Greg, you didn’t sign up for that,” he says, sounding a bit more awake now. “I didn’t sign up for that.”
“Sweetheart-”
“Well, I did,” Mycroft murmurs. His hand trail down towards Greg’s chest. “More than twenty years ago. But my priorities are different now, you understand. And you are one of them. I will not put my life in danger when I know you’re waiting for me, Greg. I can’t. You are too precious to me.”
Greg stares at him, dumbfounded. “What do you mean- did you-”
Mycroft smiles. It’s that little shy smile that Greg loves. “I stepped down… to a certain extent. My duties are mostly desk work now. The past few days were a mistake. A bad case of poor management.”
“You stepped down? For me?”
“For us,” Mycroft says. He looks proud. “For the very same reason you accepted the position as D.C.I., when you so clearly disliked it.”
Greg hauls himself forward and kisses him. He has to. It’s an urgent press of his lips against Mycroft’s, overwhelmed with love and a need to be as close as they physically can.
“I love you,” Greg breathes against his lover’s lips. “I love you so much. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” And he means it. Every single word of it.
“Mm I know,” Mycroft says, softly. Greg can hear the sleep creeping in to his voice. “I love you too.”
Greg can’t help but smile. He curls an arm around Mycroft’s shoulder allowing Mycroft to nuzzle into his neck.
“Sleep now, darlin’,” Greg says. “I’m gonna call in sick tomorrow. We’ll stay in bed till late, hmm?”
Mycroft burrows in closer. “Mm. You’ve read my mind.”
Greg chuckles and kisses his lover’s forehead. “Good night, sweetheart.”
“Good night, Greg,” Mycroft whispers, almost asleep. “No more nightmares.”
Written for prompt FFF279: Warm Hands of Flash Fiction Friday by @flashfictionfridayofficial
Greg had always loved holding his lover’s hands. It’s something he’d established that night he’d finally convinced Mycroft to take a stroll with him. Mycroft had conceded despite the cold and the sight of that pink-cheeked, thoroughly amused Mycroft trying his best to flirt back, will always and forever be one of Greg’s fondest memories. That night, for the first time he had had Mycroft shyly brush his knuckles against his, asking for permission, asking for more.
Greg had taken his hand then, tangling his fingers with Mycroft’s longer, elegant ones that he was sure had awakened something in him, and had realized he really really didn’t want to let go.
Mycroft’s hand was cool against his own. It somehow didn’t feel like the freezing cold of the night, but more like a comforting reassurance, just like the man. That was when Greg had given in to the urge and softly kissed the back of his lover’s hand.
Today though, just weeks into their engagement, in what was supposed to be the beginning of the happiest days of their life, the hands that cradle him are warm and steady. As he breaks down, he realizes he’d somehow gotten home, and he’s in their living room, kneeling on the carpet. He’s aware of the soothing hand on the back of his neck. He feels it as if through a second skin. But he feels it. And it grounds him.
The hand around his waist draws tight. He feels its warmth through the fabric, bringing back feeling in spite of the hot and cold pin pricks all over his body. The shock leaves his body at the same time awareness hits him square in the gut, ugly and wrenching at his insides. He curls himself into the warm body against him with a whimper and Mycroft’s arms, so incredibly tender, pull him close.
“Myc-” he gasps.
“I know,” Mycroft whispers, his long fingers on his fiancé’s neck moving up to pet his hair. “I know.”
“What are we- oh god-”
“We will get through this. Whatever happens next, my darling, I’m here. With you.”
Greg can feel himself falling apart, trembling helplessly in Mycroft’s hold. He burrows in, closer, into his lover’s neck. He almost doesn’t notice being coaxed into releasing his death grip on Mycroft’s shirt. But he does notice the soft fingers holding his hand. They’re warm, reassuring and everything Greg had needed.
