The night was unnaturally cold for this time of the year. Not that it mattered, but the rain did make what he had to do easier. Or worse. Following the tall man, hidden in shadows, making sure he was alone and an easy target, like everyone else before was exhausting. Sometimes, he cursed this curse. He didn’t want it any more. The end was less bloody than usual. Small mercies, he thought as he cleaned most of the blood.
He wrapped his coat tightly around himself and headed for his home, his shoulder less hunched, hands in pockets.
He didn’t notice the tall man watching him, umbrella held tightly in his hand.
Together in the Night [G] in AO3
Written for @mystradepromptsandscenarios "Can I come in?"
Just across the café, sipping their coffee and typing on their laptop, sat the most adorable person to grace the earth. Atop their head were, what looked like, the silkiest locks of sliver hair, pulled back into a lopsided, messy bun. The brownest eyes around were partially hidden behind round silver frames. The broad torso was wrapped in a peach, woollen cropped jumper, and thick thighs were encased in skin-tight ripped jeans and finishing off the ensemble, a cute pair of black Mary-Janes.
Mycroft couldn’t but wonder what it would feel like to rest his head on that soft wool padded shoulder, arms wrapped around their bare waist, nose being tickled with strands of titanium, pressed close to their warmth and short, thick fingers scoring through his thinning hair.
Mycroft sighed again.
‘Soon.’ He tells himself. ‘Soon I will find the courage to talk to them. Soon.’
Summary: Sherlock and John attend a Halloween party on the trail of a vampire killer -- a man who's been seducing his victims and taking all their blood. Sexy costumes, bad puns, hideous danger, frantic sex in hidden places and some Halloween-flavored fluff are all on hand to "treat" you. Boo.
-------
Ya’ll, this awesome story is from 2012, and it’s the second Sherlock fanfic I ever read. Before this, I’d never even considered the concept of Mycroft + Greg, but the ending put a bug in my ear...
Mycroft Holmes, 16, at university two years early. Fiercely intelligent and curious. Auditing as many classes as he can alongside his own core lectures and seminars. Spending every spare moment – whole nights, sometimes – in the library.
Spiky. Uncompromising. Very, very lonely.
Greg Lestrade, 18 and in the first year of his Applied Criminology course, finding his obligatory Social Theory module hard to handle, using the library to try and understand –
They get talking. Mycroft laughs for what feels like the first time in months, and blushes, and he's just a kid.
Greg has a girlfriend. She's beautiful. Funny. Clever. He plays football, and hangs around with the team – but studying with Mycroft in the library becomes a regular thing.
It takes Mycroft under two weeks to develop a life-ruining, heart-stopping, painful crush.
He knows, to Greg, he's just a kid.
Two years – two years of pining, and Greg won't even allow himself to think it – they're friends. Good friends.
And Mycroft blossoms: some of his spikiness wears away, with a friend. He finds himself with people, tentatively: a group. A guy who asks him out on a date.
He should go, shouldn't he? Because he's learned from Greg to take opportunities when they come. Live life. But –
24. “You okay? You seem a little off today” Mystrade??
Thank you for the prompt, lovely @ggaypilot 💜
“Oh god, here comes my brother, lumbering into view,” sighs Sherlock petulantly. He raises his voice slightly. “Mycroft. How is it possible, with the country in its current appalling state, that you have time to haul your corpulent and poke-nosed spectre around to haunt my every move?”
Mycroft straightens his spine and tips his chin up. “Sherlock,” he says tiredly. “I must beg your attendance at my office. Immediately.”
“I don’t work for you, Mycroft,” says Sherlock, turning away, hand brushing John’s as he goes.
“On this occasion, I shall not be involved,” says Mycroft. “Another government contact wishes to consult you.” He sighs. “Perhaps my absence will mean that you are able to effectively aid them in a matter which I understand is of the highest importance.”
Greg, hands buried in the pockets of his coat against the grey dawn chill, looks perplexedly at Mycroft. He can’t work out what’s different, but something is.
“Government work. Bound to be dull.”
“Sherlock. Please.” The manner is no longer the supercilious but impatient air of someone powerful whose last nerve is wearing thin. There is a faint note of genuine pleading.
Sherlock is regarding Mycroft too, a slight crease of confusion between his eyes. “Very well,” he says haughtily. “We’re taking your car.”
Mycroft gives a terse nod. Only when the long black car pulls away does he relax his posture slightly. He is reaching into the inner pocket of his coat – no doubt to retrieve his mobile phone – and seems unaware of Greg’s continued presence.
“You okay Mr Holmes?” he asks genially. “You seem a bit off today.”
Mycroft glances up, one eyebrow raised in surprise. Neither the look, nor his tone when he speaks, are as cutting as Greg has come to expect. “Quite well, thank you, Detective Inspector.” He sounds more tired than ever, and he words are immediately belied by the fact that he has to make a grab for his pocket handkerchief as a sneeze overwhelms him.
“Oh, damn. Cold, is it?” asks Greg, but he’s not really expecting an answer. Mycroft looks personally offended by having been forced to do something as human as sneeze.
Greg looks at him sympathetically. “You’ll be needing a lift, now,” he says, nodding after Mycroft’s black sedan. “Let me drop you off back at your office. Or home, if you’re feeling that crappy.” He gives Mycroft a grin, having long ago learnt that the only way to get anything like a human reaction out of the man is to keep treating him with relentless calm good humour. It works, slowly. If only I had time to get him a bit more…warmed up each time. We seem to go back to zero every time we meet.
Heavily, Mycroft shakes his head. “I regret not,” he says, answering Greg’s implied question. “A full day of meetings.”
Greg shrugs. “Thought you might say that.” He holds out the keys to his car. “Go and get in the warm. Just be a minute.” He jogs off to the Starbucks nearby, which is just opening its doors.
When he climbs into the car, Mycroft is sitting quietly in the passenger seat, checking emails on his phone. Something about the tilt of his shoulders, the heaviness of his eyelids, though, shows Greg how crappy he must be feeling.
“Here,” he says, holding out a paper cup. “Get that down you.”
Mycroft raises an eyebrow.
“Oh, it says ‘Georg’ on the side because that’s what they went with when I said ‘Greg’.”
Mycroft looks at him perplexedly.
“You know – when they ask what your name is – to write on the…” he grins. “You haven’t been in a Starbucks in years, have you?”
“Good Lord, no.” The tone is ever so slightly snotty, but very self-aware.
Greg snorts a laugh. I always forget how funny he can be.
“Oh, alright, you probably have minions to bring you coffee. I get it.” He urges the cup into Mycroft’s chilly fingers, and inserts the key in the ignition. “Better get going,” he says as he reverses, turns, and signals to go. “This one’s going to cause a good bit of paperwork, ’specially with your brother involved.”
Mycroft takes a sip from the cup, and makes a sound that Greg thinks might be a suppressed groan of appreciation.
“That alright?” he asks.
“Wonderful, Detective Inspector,” sighs Mycroft, and that’s how Greg knows he must be feeling ill.
“Greg, please,” he says, pressing his advantage. He shoots Mycroft a quick smile as they stop at a traffic light. “Can’t do better than honey, lemon and ginger for a cold.”
Mycroft lets his eyelids droop a little, and concentrates on taking another sip. And it hits Greg: shy. He’s shy, and he doesn’t really know what to say. His stomach twists with a strong sense of protectiveness, and that’s strange, because those aren’t the feelings he’s used to having about the elder Holmes brother.
Still. Not a bad thing, as such. Just interesting.
Some Mystrade fluff. Well. Pre-Mystrade-ish. The Reichenfuckening has fuckt my ability to write, but I hope you like it anyway. It’s pretty long so you can also read it on AO3. Love you guys 💜
*
24th June 2016
“Yeah, no, that’s fine, Mycroft.”
“I would appreciate it if you could involve Sherlock in the Hartingdon case, too, as there are a few aspects to it which may link to a matter we have ongoing at the moment.”
“No problem. Just send me the files, as always.”
“Thank you, Detective Inspector.”
“Greg. You know I asked you to call me Greg. And you did, for a while.”
“My apologies, Greg.”
“Alright. You know, I was wondering, we could probably – I mean, if you fancied it – we could...we could do this over dinner, sometime.”
Mycroft freezes at his desk for a moment. He’s tempted. He really is. But he can hardly look at the man. He is unreasonably attractive. If they were to blur the boundaries of their purely professional relationship by meeting on more informal terms, no matter how innocently, the...situation he finds himself in would only worsen. As it stands, the problem is manageable; his painful attraction to the silver-haired DI is bearable when parcelled out in short doses every couple of weeks.
It is kind of Lestrade to attempt to be friendly, but on this occasion, it would be counterproductive.
The man is so kind. And thoroughly admirable in every sense.
Mycroft does not look up from his paperwork.
“Thank you, Det- Greg, but unfortunately I have a lot to attend to at the moment and cannot find the time.”
*
9th July 2016
“Sherlock – no – this is impossible –”
“Hardly impossible, brother dearest. It seems to be happening already.”
“There must be someone else –”
“Nope. All away. Or dead. Some of them are dead. John and I have to go now. Important. Back soon.”
“Sherlock –”
As the car roars away, Mycroft looks down at the small human cradled awkwardly in his arms. The changing bag hangs from his shoulder, where Sherlock dumped it. Rosie blinks at him. “Christ,” mutters Mycroft.
“Er – Mycroft?” He looks up, stomach sinking. Oh, no. “What’s going on?” Greg walks up the path, casually dressed in jeans and a jumper. “Sherlock rang me half an hour ago and said ‘Mycroft needs help’. I panicked and asked him what happened to your security, whether they’d rung Anthea, but he just said ‘not that kind of help’, gave me your address and hung up on me.”
Mycroft just blinks at him. “My brother is infuriating,” he says, at last. “This must count as child neglect in the eyes of a court.”
Greg looks at him, at the awkward way he's clutching a sleepy Rosie and the changing bag. His smile is wide, dark eyes dancing with amusement. Mycroft feels his stomach twist. “You don't need help looking after this sleepy little sweetheart, do you?” Greg asks. He herds Mycroft towards the front door, which stands open behind him. They step in, and Greg closes the door. His voice and eyes are soft, focused on Rosie. “She looks like she just needs a nap.”
Mycroft sniffs crossly. “Well I do not know where she is supposed to do that safely. I have no cot here –”
“Ah, don't worry about all that,” Greg says airily. “Look at her! They can sleep anywhere, kids. She's already nearly away, just getting a cuddle from you in a corridor. Let's go and sit down somewhere, she'll be properly asleep in a minute.”
“On...me?”
“Yeah, on you. You're her uncle. You're the one who's officially looking after her.”
“Good grief,” mutters Mycroft, trying to ignore the fact that his niece has curled a tiny (probably unsanitary) fist around the knot in his silk tie. Her head lolls surprisingly heavily against his chest.
“Let me take that,” says Greg, leaning in to take the changing bag. Mycroft turns and gingerly picks his way down the corridor, every movement made careful by the knowledge of the precious human cargo he carries. He leads Greg into the kitchen-living room, and moves to the sofa.
Greg drops the changing bag on the coffee table. “Hang on –” he comes round the sofa and arranges some cushions. Carefully, Mycroft sits down, leaning back much more than he usually would in order to give Rosie a comfortable surface to nap on. Her tiny eyelids are fluttering, mostly closed but occasionally jerking open again just for a second. “She's fighting it,” says Greg, amusement evident in his voice. “She's Sherlock's daughter alright. Are you comfortable enough?”
Mycroft can feel Greg adjust one of the cushions behind him slightly. He concentrates on watching Rosie, tries not to think too much. “Quite comfortable, thank you.”
“Alright.” Greg comes back round, dropping onto the sofa and leaning forward to unzip the changing bag. “I'm gonna find her blanket. She'll find it comforting and we should probably put it under her head in case she dribbles on your fancy suit. Or throws up.”
Mycroft stiffens slightly. “Pardon?” He can't help glancing down in alarm at the tiny girl nestled against his waistcoat. “Why?”
Greg shrugs as he pulls the soft crocheted blanket out of the bag. “Not ’cause she's ill or anything. They just do. Babies, I mean. Sometimes.” He leans in, tucking the blanket gently around Rosie, slipping a layer of it between her soft cheek and Mycroft’s blue waistcoat. Her tiny hand tangles itself in the familiar-smelling fabric, and her lips purse in satisfaction.
Mycroft watches the minuscule fingers furl and unfurl in the comforting folds of the blanket.
“Shall I put the kettle on?” asks Greg.
Mycroft looks up at him, startled. “Oh – I had thought – perhaps it would be too loud?” His voice is hushed.
“Nah, I shouldn't worry,” smiles Greg. He's not making any attempt to lower his voice. “She's out for the count.”
“Oh. Then yes. I should enjoy a cup of tea.” Mycroft hesitates. “If you – I mean –”
Greg huffs a laugh. “I offered. You're a bit tied down at the moment.”
Mycroft swallows hard and tries not to watch Greg walking away in his dark navy jeans and soft charcoal jumper. It suits him, this informal weekend look. Obviously he pushed his shoes off by the front door, because he's padding around in socks. “You seem very knowledgeable about how to deal with children,” he says, by way of conversation.
Greg finishes filling the kettle and clicks it on. He turns round and leans back against the counter. “Yeah, well, my older sister started having hers when I was about twenty, so I've been around them a lot.” He takes a couple of mugs from a mug tree and searches two caddies before finding the teabags. “They're all growing up and having their own now, of course.” He opens the fridge and pours milk into one mug, then hesitates, looking over his shoulder. “You take milk in your tea, don't you?”
Mycroft nods. Greg pours some into the second mug too then searches a drawer for a teaspoon, fishes out the teabags. He walks around the central island and holds out the mugs for inspection. “They're slightly different colours, so just tell me which one you prefer.”
Mycroft picks the stronger one. Greg likes his tea strongly-brewed, but milky. Mycroft has observed him put a lot of milk in his tea before, in greasy-spoon cafes at the crack of dawn. Greg comes to settle down on the sofa next to him, leaning back against the arm, relaxed and turned sideways with one knee up. He watches Rosie sleep, and sips his tea.
Mycroft rearranges her slightly so that he can pick up his tea. She purses and pouts her lips, pulls the blanket closer to her cheek.
“She's a sweetheart,” says Greg, dreamily.
Mycroft makes a sceptical noise. “I assume that so far we have only seen her on her best behaviour.”
Greg chuckles. “You never wanted one of these, then,” he laughs.
“Neither the time nor the opportunity presented itself,” says Mycroft stiffly. “But no.” He hesitates. Perhaps he is supposed to reciprocate the question? But surely that would be indicative of a more advanced state of friendship than he and the Inspector can be supposed to have achieved?
“I always did, you know,” says Greg, musingly. Mycroft can hear a touch of sadness in his voice, and glances sharply sideways. Greg's eyes are fixed blankly on Rosie. “Emma was always – with being a teacher – the last thing she wanted to think about when she got home was kids. And then I found out she was cheating, and it definitely wasn't the time to add kids into the mix – people think it solves stuff, but it doesn't – and we'd just got back to a place where I thought we could talk about it, and then she did it again. And we broke up for a bit, and got back together...but it wasn't right anymore. We both knew it. Shoulda just moved on, of course, but –” he shrugs, sadly.
Mycroft presses his lips together and watches his niece breathe peacefully.
“Anyway, too old for all that now,” says Greg. Mycroft can hear the forced cheeriness in his voice. “Way too married to my job. Which was the problem all along, of course.”
“Well,” says Mycroft, stung, “I believe your ex wife does have to accept some responsibility for her choices.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Greg look up at him in surprise. He feels himself flush a little, and takes refuge in staring down at the baby. He sips his tea.
“I know,” says Greg. “But it was never that simple. It was both of us. I know that.”
Mycroft does not argue. He lifts one shoulder in a small shrug. “You are hardly too old to be a father, in any case.”
“Yeah, alright,” grins Greg. “I'll just meet and marry someone in under a month.”
Mycroft ignores the sinking feeling in his stomach and concentrates on watching Rosie's eyelashes flutter. “Well.” He doesn't know what else to say.
Greg sighs. “Can I ask a question?”
“Certainly, Detective Inspector,” says Mycroft, generously ignoring the fact he just has.
“Was it such a bad idea, us going out for dinner?”
Mycroft catches his breath, and hesitates. His tone is cautious. “It was...hardly necessary for us to discuss Sherlock over a meal. I do not believe he is in any danger of – problems, now that he has John and Rosie.”
Greg watches him. His gaze feels uncomfortably piercing. “Yeah...but I didn't really mean to discuss Sherlock. I meant –” he pauses. “I wanted to get to know you better. Talk about other stuff, for once. Just – you know.”
Mycroft makes a noise of surprise as Rosie wriggles in his arms and lets out a little mewl. Her eyes are half-open and she's kicking her legs. The mewl turns into a cry.
Mycroft sits up, back poker straight, and looks to Greg for help. “Er –” is all he can say.
Greg grins. “Damn. We were so peaceful there for a bit. She's probably hungry. Can I – can I have a cuddle? I'll shush her and tell you what to do with the bottle and all that.”
Mycroft leans forward, trying not to notice too much as Greg's hands touch his chest in taking Rosie from him.
“Oh, shush, sweetheart,” murmurs Greg, cuddling her close. “Hush hush.” He looks up and gives Mycroft a small smile. “Sherlock and John've left a bottle and some formula in the bag,” he says. “But you need to sterilise the bottle first.”
Mycroft tears his eyes away with difficulty. He finds the bottle and the formula, and walks to the kitchen. Greg makes an exaggerated oof noise as he gets up, muttering soft nonsense to Rosie about how heavy she is. He follows.
“So you need to thoroughly wash all the bits of the bottle with normal washing up liquid first, then rinse in cold water. But put the kettle on before you do that, ’cause you'll need to boil everything for ten minutes afterwards.”
Mycroft nods. “Is a saucepan acceptable for that?”
“Yep, that's good. And they've got liquid formula, so we don't need to worry about making it up or anything.” Rosie gives a yell and kicks in Greg's arms. “Oh, madam,” he smiles, giving her his attention again. “Are you being grumpy? I think you are. Food is coming, little one. Promise.” He starts gently bouncing on the spot, rocking her from side to side.
Mycroft sets the kettle going and looks at Greg quizzically. He nods at Greg's bouncing. “That works, does it?”
“This is my patented get-a-baby-to-sleep move,” chuckles Greg. “It's all in the bounce and rock. Just rocking never worked with my sister's kids. They'd scream right through that.”
Mycroft fills the sink and scrubs carefully at each part of the bottle. “It sounds as though you were a very diligent uncle.” He glances round and sees that Greg is looking just a little awkward.
“Well.” He looks determinedly down at Rosie. “I stayed with them for a bit, when I first started on the force. I wasn't with Emma then…Dad found out I'd been… I was in a relationship with a bloke back then, and Dad threw me out. I needed a place for a bit until I drew my first few pay cheques. Viv – my sister – took pity.” He shushes Rosie again, places a soft kiss on her forehead. “Didn't stop my Dad telling her she shouldn't let 'a man like me’ in the same house as her kids.”
Mycroft flinches, but says nothing.
“Luckily she didn't listen. And I ended up doing a load of midnight baby-soothing because I had a bad case in the first few months. Couldn't sleep much. It was...it was comforting. For me as much as for the baby.”
Mycroft rinses off the last piece of the bottle and reaches down a saucepan, then pours in water from the kettle. He sets it boiling. “Ten minutes?”
“Yep.”
Mycroft sets a timer and drops in all the pieces of the bottle. He leans back against the counter, watches Greg bouncing and rocking Rosie. “She is certainly staying quiet.”
“Only while I keep going,” grins Greg, shooting him an amused look from under his brows. “She'll scream as soon as I stop. Yes, she will,” he adds in soft baby-voice to Rosie.
“So your father…” Mycroft trails off, unsure what he had even been planning to ask.
“Oh, he came round when I ‘decided to turn normal again',” grimaces Greg. “And I quote.”
“Ah.” Mycroft isn't sure what he can say. “That is…”
“Yeah. Isn't it.” Greg looks at him, dark eyes amused. “Still, he's been dead a long time.”
Mycroft can't help a small laugh. “My apologies –”
Greg chuckles. “Really, it's fine. Bit of gallows humour helps a lot, I find. ’Specially with my job. Yours too, I imagine.”
Mycroft nods. “Undoubtedly.” He smiles cautiously at Greg, and receives a beaming grin in return. “You mentioned that you wanted to get to know me better,” he says, tentatively. “It occurs to me that being drafted in under false pretences by Sherlock to help me cope with looking after my niece goes rather above and beyond, but nonetheless…”
Greg looks at him through his eyelashes, and Mycroft's heart turns over.
“Except all I've done is talk about myself,” says Greg.
“Nonsense. You are a good detective,” says Mycroft firmly. “You have learnt, at the very least, that I have not the first idea of how to keep small humans alive.”
Greg laughs. “You'd've googled it, I'm sure.”
“I’d have googled the telephone number of a reputable childcare service,” says Mycroft fervently. “As my brother should have done.”
Greg chuckles and glances down at Rosie, strokes her cheek. “Why didn't you want a family then?” he asks, still looking down at her. “Most people do.”
“Do they?” Mycroft hears himself: too sharp, too spiky. “So many people seem to enter into it thoughtlessly. Automatically.”
Greg cocks his head at him. “Yeah. S’pose so.”
“You remain unconvinced, Inspector.”
“Please call me Greg.”
“Apologies, Greg. Yes.”
“I guess I just...you were never with anyone who wanted a family?”
Mycroft presses his lips together and shakes his head tightly. “No.” He takes a breath. “It would always have been a case of adoption or surrogacy. But in any case, it was never – never something I considered.”
Greg nods. “You're good with her though.”
Mycroft twists his lips in a wry smile. “I hardly think so, Ins– Greg.”
“Babies don't fall asleep on just anyone, you know.”
“I have visited her before. Doubtless she knows my scent.”
“She's not a dog.”
Mycroft gives a lopsided smile. “You see? I know nothing about them.”
“Circular argument.” Greg grins at him. Mycroft feels his cheeks heating and turns away at the blessedly welcome sound of the timer beeping. “Alright, you need to drain the pan and let the bits dry and cool inside it,” says Greg, back in instruction mode. He shifts Rosie in his arms as Mycroft drains the saucepan. She grumbles and lets out a squeak of annoyance. “I know, I'm sorry darlin’, but my arm was going dead,” murmurs Greg. Mycroft puts the saucepan down.
“If you want, I could take her back,” he says, diffidently.
“Nah, ’s’alright.” Greg flashes him a smile. “I'm loving the cuddles.”
Mycroft nods, trying to ignore his stomach flipping.
Greg puts his head on one side, watching Mycroft thoughtfully. “Although actually, I ought to show you the move,” he says. “So you can get her to sleep too. You won't always want me lurking around.”
Mycroft looks at the floor. “Believe me, Greg, I intend never to be left in this position again.”
Greg laughs. “Oh don't talk nonsense. Your lovely little niece deserves to know you properly.”
“Yes, as the distant purveyor of improperly expensive gifts and perhaps, when she is eighteen, a university education, or a car, whichever my brother and John decide they would rather not pay for.”
Greg gives a little snort of amusement. “He's a very silly man, Rosie,” he murmurs to the baby. “He thinks he can get away without changing your nappies and feeding you and dealing with your screaming, but he is wrong. Isn't he? Yes, yes he is. That's what uncles are for.” He grins up at Mycroft. “Come here.”
Mycroft rolls his eyes, but steps a little closer nonetheless. Greg gently gives him Rosie, who screws up her face and gives a preparatory shriek. “Greg –” Mycroft protests.
“Stop it,” says Greg. “If you don't try you won't learn.”
Mycroft frowns crossly at him, which just makes Greg chuckle harder. Rosie flails her tiny fists and gives another grizzling yell.
“Okay, pull her up against your chest like that,” says Greg, his hand gentle on Mycroft's arm. He moves round next to Mycroft, who tries not to concentrate on how close their bodies are, how he can feel Greg's warmth next to him. Greg must be resting his other hand on the counter behind them. “Now rock her from side to side – I sort of just twist from the waist, but it's up to you –” Greg pushes Mycroft gently. “And then I add the bounce in once I've got the rhythm,” says Greg softly, staring down at Rosie. She grizzles some more.
“She doesn't like it,” says Mycroft, frustratedly. “You should –”
“Just keep going,” says Greg. His hand is still on Mycroft’s arm. “It'll take her a bit to get used to it. I'm going to put the formula in the bottle.” He crosses to the stove and starts putting the bottle together.
Sure enough, at last, Mycroft finds a rhythm of bouncing and rocking that seems to please Rosie. She yawns and lets her eyelids droop a little. “I think she's going to go to sleep before we can feed her,” says Mycroft. He's astonished at his own voice: tender, almost. He presses his lips together and closes his eyes for a few seconds.
He opens them to find Greg watching him, eyes dark and wide. “Nah, look how hard she's fighting it,” he grins. “She knows what she wants.” He's emptied the carton of liquid formula into the bottle and now he shakes it at them. “Go and sit back on the sofa and you can feed her.”
Mycroft blinks at him, but sets off carefully to the sofa. He settles himself back where he was before. Greg drapes the blanket around Rosie again, especially around her face. “Just in case,” he smiles. “Here.” He holds out the bottle. “You'll be surprised by how strongly she'll drink it. Hold onto the bottle well.”
Mystified, Mycroft takes the bottle and gingerly advances the teat to Rosie's lips. Immediately, her little fists flail and come up to pull the bottle closer; her tiny lips close around it, and the bottle shifts in his hand as she starts to suck. Powerful indeed. His eyebrows fly up and he can't help a surprised huff of laughter. Greg laughs too, and Mycroft glances up to him.
“She's so strong,” says Mycroft.
“Yep. Determined,” grins Greg, coming to sit down on the sofa. “A real little Watson. And Holmes, come to that.” He laughs. “She'll be both officially, after the wedding. Guess we know who'll be looking after her on the day.”
“Yes. Mrs Hudson will oblige, I am quite sure,” says Mycroft, firmly.
“Spoilsport.” Greg nudges Mycroft's leg with his toes. “Mrs Hudson'll want to dance with her new boyfriend, anyway. He's invited, apparently. Sherlock hasn't been able to deduce anything awful about him yet.”
Rosie takes a gasping little breath and pushes at the bottle. Mycroft's stomach plummets and he pulls the bottle out of her mouth. “Greg – was it too much? Is she choking?”
Rosie grumbles and waves her fists, shrieks grumpily. She smacks her lips.
“What? No! Mycroft, chill out, she was just having a breather.” Greg reaches over and puts his hand over Mycroft’s on the bottle. “She's cross now ’cause she wants her lunch back.”
Mycroft tries to regulate his breathing. His heart is hammering in his chest. Greg doesn't remove his hand from over Mycroft's. Rosie resumes sucking at the bottle with gusto.
“Sorry –” Mycroft stops talking, shrugs slightly.
“Terrified you're gonna kill her? Yeah, yeah, I get it. But you won't. You're a smart man, Mycroft Holmes.” Greg's fingertips graze gently over the back of Mycroft's hand as he withdraws his own. He gives Mycroft a soft, slightly sad smile.
Mycroft does not understand. “So you will be...at the wedding?” he asks tentatively.
“Yeah, they asked me along,” returns Greg. “Just got to hope no-one gets murdered on the day. I assume you will be too?”
“Sherlock did eventually tell me I was invited, yes,” says Mycroft wryly. “Under pressure from John, I have no doubt.”
Greg grins. “Don't listen to the silly bastard,” he grins. “He loves you really. Oh god, sorry Rosie,” he adds. “Forget you heard that.”
Mycroft gives a little smile. “I am fairly sure she will have heard worse at Baker Street.”
“Oh, probably,” says Greg. “Off the clients, if no-one else.” He sighs. “At the wedding, we could –” he hesitates, flicks his glance up to meet Mycroft's, “sit together, maybe. Keep talking. About stuff that's not Sherlock.”
Mycroft straightens his back a little. Rosie finishes the bottle and gives a couple of extra sucks, then crossly pushes it out of her mouth. Mycroft puts it on the coffee table. Greg leans over and takes the blanket. “Give her here,” he says. “I'll burp her. Since all my clothes probably cost the same as one of your socks.” He grins, spreading the blanket carefully over his shoulder and partway down his back.
Mycroft passes her over, and Greg sits up very straight, patting Rosie on the back.
Mycroft stretches. “I assume that the seating plan will control our placement,” he says, cautiously. “I understood from Sherlock that you are dating ‘an extraordinarily attractive brunette forensics officer, easily of childbearing age’. He texted me on Monday to tell me this. I am unsure why. I assume that she will be present.”
Greg's eyes are wide. “What? Penny and I went on one date a few weeks ago, but I didn't want to take it any further.” He pauses. “She was nice and everything, I just –” he gestures with the hand he's using to pat Rosie on the back. “It wasn't – she's a bit younger, and we're in different places. In our lives, I mean. Anyway, it's not like you care. Sorry. I'll shut up. I mean for god's sake, Sherlock. Why's he telling you that stuff.” He subsides into silence, and Rosie hiccups into his shoulder.
Mycroft's stomach is inexplicably tying itself in knots. “Forgive me, Greg, but surely – for a family – you would need to…” he swallows against his own awkwardness. “A younger partner would of course be necessary,” he says, cheeks tinting a little pink.
Greg stares at him as if he's gone mad. “Well, yeah, but I'm way past the age where I could even think about all that. Not a chance. And anyway.” He stops, then rolls his eyes. “Fuck it – sorry Rosie – I mean. Part of the reason why I didn't want to –” he sighs. “We had a lunch date, and it was...I mean, it was going pretty well. I'd taken the afternoon off so I didn't have to rush, and she ended up asking if I wanted to go for a cocktail afterwards, and we did, and –” he clears his throat slightly. “Well, we were quite near her place. And it was pretty clear, you know, it was on the cards that...yeah. But then my phone reminded me we had a catch-up meeting planned after work, you and me I mean, and – and I didn't want to cancel it. I really didn't want to cancel it. So I said a work thing had come up, and then I went and had a coffee near your building, and then I went to see you.”
Greg flicks his gaze up to meet Mycroft's. Mycroft is baffled. He doesn't know what to say.
“Which...I mean, it wasn't a great sign. For me and her, I mean,” says Greg, drily. “Didn't seem right to lead her on, after that, really.”
“My apologies, Greg,” says Mycroft. “I am not sure I have understood your meaning.”
Greg sighs. “What's the point of having a brain the size of a planet?” he asks, with a wry smile.
“Composing lullabies,” murmurs Mycroft.
Greg's grin is unrestrained this time. “Boredom.” He chuckles. “Nah. I mean – I was pretty much guaranteed a shag, but I just wanted to come and see – well. You. What does that tell you?”
Mycroft stares at him, blankly. His mind seems to have shut down. “So when you asked me to dinner –”
Greg looks at him, nonplussed. “What did you think I was asking? I wanted a date. I wanted to go out and have fun, like I just had with someone else, only I wanted it to be you, so I didn't end up just wanting to see you instead at the end of the night.”
Mycroft blinks, slowly. He knows he ought to say something, but he can't possibly think what.
“So when you turned me down,” says Greg, cautiously, “you perhaps didn't actually know you were turning down the offer of a date?”
“Er,” says Mycroft. He looks down at his hands, tangled in his lap. “In fact I did not.”
Greg lets out a breath. “Oh. Right. So...if you did know...I mean – you know now, so – would your answer still be no? Or…”
Mycroft clears his throat, feels his cheeks turn pink. “Or.”
“Oh. Oh,” Mycroft can hear the smile in Greg's voice. “Right.” Greg shuffles forward, so their knees are touching. “When?”
“Before the wedding, perhaps,” says Mycroft, tentatively, glancing up to see Greg's reaction. He grins.
“Well of course before the wedding,” he says. “The wedding’s three weeks away yet. I meant like – tomorrow?”
Mycroft can't help smiling. “Very well.”
“Yeah?” Greg pushes their knees together. “Alright.” He sniffs, suspiciously. “By the way, your niece has celebrated the occasion by making sure you're about to find out what it's like to change a nappy.”
Mycroft freezes. “Er.” He looks up at Greg. “You could show me –”
Greg chuckles. “Not a chance. I'll tell you what to do, from a safe distance. With a peg on my nose.”
You Play the Cards You're Dealt (10300 words) by EventHorizon
Chapters: 4/4
Fandom: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Characters: Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes
Additional Tags: mystrade, pre-Mysrade, Teen Mystrade, Mycroft the Punk, Greg the Geek, Sherlock using his brief appearance to be a troll, Games, Mystrade Monday Prompts, Don't copy to another site
Summary:
It was hard *not* to notice the ultra-cool young man wearing jeans, t-shirts, silver jewelry and a touch of makeup hanging about watching the comings and goings while smoking a cigarette. Greg had a plan to get to know him better and he was determined to make it a success...
Do Greg and Mycroft go on their big date? You'll have to read to find out...
