Chapter Text
On his lunch break, Greg threw on some gym clothes and went for a run; he couldn't stop smiling, and he feared it was starting to put everyone in the office on edge.
He headed up Broadway toward the park, revelling in the stretch of his muscles and the invigorating pump of blood through his veins. Running in trainers, unencumbered by belts and keys and suit trousers, always gave him a delicious sense of freedom. Which, of course, only made him smile wider. An old man collecting litter gave him a strange look.
For about forty-five minutes he let himself run aimlessly to try and get his brain back. The past two days had been spent in a glorious fog of hormones and joy, but he was back at work now, and he needed to focus on something other than the feel of Mycroft's hands and the smell of his neck. All told they'd only spent Friday night and Saturday morning together, but even when Mycroft had gone Greg found himself lost in the middle of tasks, daydreaming as he hoovered and sidetracked as he emptied out the rubbish.
Like a lovesick teenager, he thought, and squashed the thought firmly away.
But now it was Monday, and if he spent the day in as much of a fog as he'd spent the weekend he was going to be in trouble.
Just as he hit the park his mobile pinged.
"Hey sweetheart." Greg trotted over to the side of the path and bent over to catch his breath.
"Er, are you okay?" Sharon said.
"Yeah, just—" Greg panted a few times. "Just on a run."
"Oh, sorry. I'll let you get back to it. I don't want to interrupt."
"Don't be ridiculous." Greg stretched his back and slowed to a fast walk, trying to keep at least a little warm. "What's going on?"
"Nothing, I'm just… It's just… I'm starting to do some of the paperwork for the trip, and I'd like some help. Support. Focus. Something."
"Of course."
"I'd ask Mum, but she's… This is still kind of a fraught subject, you know?"
"I get it."
"And I'd like to spend some time with you before the holidays. So it’s quieter. And this stuff should be done sooner rather than later, in case there are issues with visas and whatnot."
"Of course."
"So do you think I could…come down there? Maybe spend the weekend, hang out? Hey, I know! You can treat me to that vegan place you mentioned…”
"Yeah, I see what you just did."
"Please?" He could hear the smile in her voice.
"Did you think I was going to say no?"
"Not really."
"I've been wanting to see you for months now."
"I know."
"Come on down, then. What weekend?" Greg couldn't stop smiling. This was turning out to be a fantastic week— He stopped dead as a thrill of fear shot through him. Mycroft. He was definitely going to have to tell her about Mycroft. There was no way he could hide it from her for an entire weekend. She'd know something was up, and he hated lying to her. He always had; it had made Christmases and birthdays rather a trial. He was going to have to tell her, and it would have to be soon.
Perhaps it should be now.
"…Maybe not then," she was saying. "Maybe…could we do it in three weeks? Three weeks from now? Would that be okay?"
He swallowed down the cold lump of nerves just behind his sternum. "Erm, sweetheart, there's…something I should tell you." His stomach clenched.
"Oh my god. What are you doing that weekend? That I'm not going to like?"
"No, it's not— It's…" He blew out a long, steadying breath between pursed lips. You can do this. "I've…started seeing someone."
There was a moment of silence broken by the sort of squeal he thought she'd long since given up producing. "That's AMAZING news. How long? Who is it? Do I know her?"
His heart gave a particularly scary thump in his chest. He walked toward the nearest shop to get a bottle of water. "Er, no, you've never met…er…h-him."
There was another, more terrifying, moment of silence. Then she said, "Well? Can I?"
He blinked. "What?"
"Can I meet him? When I come down to visit? Is that what you're saying?"
"I don't…" Greg's brain was filled with static. "I don't know if that's a good—"
"What are you afraid of? Is he ugly?"
"No…"
"Then what?"
The fear resolved in the image of Mycroft and Sharon getting along like gangbusters and turning against him. He wouldn't stand a chance against the two of them joined together. "I'm afraid you'll tell him all the bad things about me and he'll run away." It was only a slight deflection.
To his horror, she laughed. "That sounds like an excellent idea."
"No, Sharon…"
"This is going to be fantastic."
"Sharon…"
"Just wait."
"This is a terrible idea."
"Are you freaked out because he's a him?"
Well. That was blunt. "Aren't…aren't you?"
"I'm just surprised you've managed to pull the trigger on a relationship at all."
"Hey!"
"What the hell do I care if it's a guy? I've known you also fancied guys for ages."
He scrubbed his forehead with his palm and tried to steady himself with another deep breath. That put paid to that fear, at least. One down, 9,999,999 more to go…
"You really, really don't want me to meet him?" she said.
"It's not that—"
"Or do you not want him to meet me?"
Oh for fuck's sake. "No, Sharon, that's not…"
"Then whaaaaat?"
"I don't…I don't know! I don't know, okay. This isn't…"
"You're scared."
He swallowed. "Of course I am."
"It's just new. You'll get used to it. Change is good."
This was intolerable. "I don't want to talk to you anymore."
Sharon giggled. "I'll email you my itinerary for the train down. Three weeks. Don't forget. And tell him— What the hell is his name, anyway?"
Greg heaved a sigh. "Mycroft."
"Mycroft? Who the hell names a kid Mycroft?"
"Sharon."
"I tell you what: I'm getting some very silly mental images right now."
"Sharon."
"He's all posh and ridiculous and wears a monocle or something, doesn't he?"
"No, he…not entirely."
She cracked up. This weekend was going to be torture. "Three weeks. Give him enough notice. That would be polite."
"This is going to give me nightmares."
"Don't worry. It'll all soon be over."
"That's what I'm worried about."
"Love you Dad…"
He sighed again. "I love you too…"
"Byyeee…" She hung up, and Greg just stood on the path, blinking, feeling like he'd just been hit by a truck. He was looking forward to seeing her, but hoped mentioning Mycroft wouldn't turn out to be a mistake.
He picked up a burrito for the walk home, and got back to the Yard just in time to shower and change back into his work clothes. The fresh air had been good for his focus, but his buoyant mood had been skewered by the idea of Sharon and Mycroft meeting each other. Besides the idea of them getting on like gangbusters he couldn't put his finger on exactly why the idea made him nervous as hell, but it absolutely did.
He'd just about settled down at his desk again when there was yet another disruption to his happy mood: Sherlock and John pushed into the room without knocking.
"Sherlock, you just can't—" John was saying, apparently trying to maintain some modicum of manners, but he was ignored. His voice rasped horribly.
"Lestrade, I'm told you need me to fill out some of your damned paperwork."
Greg blinked at him. Sherlock was volunteering to do his own work? It was too much to take it immediately, so he turned to John first. "What's wrong with you?"
"Oh, the…" John gestured vaguely at his throat. "Cold."
"It's that godforsaken thing that you had." Sherlock glared at Greg, and, now that he as listening for it, Sherlock did sound a bit wrecked.
"You both have it?" Greg tried to school his features into complete implacability. He felt slightly bad for John, but there was always a bit of schadenfreude whenever Sherlock was ill. It happened so rarely, and Sherlock was always so miserable to anyone else whenever they thoughtlessly came down with something, that Greg always considered it a minor victory for mankind when Sherlock had even the sniffles.
"Yes." Sherlock jiggled whatever crap was in the pockets of his coat, seeming unsettled and anxious.
"Doesn't feel too good, does it?"
"Could you not gloat, please? Sherlock scowled.
John rolled his eyes. "He's here to do the paperwork because, well…he just is."
"Can we get on with it?" Sherlock paced back and forth in Greg's office like a dark and particularly-cranky lion.
"Seriously, John?" Greg raised an eyebrow. "Is he just here to spread his germs all over the Yard?"
"That wasn't the first intention, no," John said.
Sherlock punctuated this by pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and blowing his nose into it with a vigorous honk.
"Dare I ask what the first intention was, then?" Greg asked. He wanted to back into the corner, away from the two disease vectors.
"You don't want to kn—" John started.
Sherlock talked over him. "No," he said.
"You just want to…do your paperwork," Greg said.
"Yes," John said.
"Absolutely," said Sherlock.
Greg peered at them. "I don't understand, are you dying?"
"Oh, ha." Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"What's the incentive?" Greg couldn't help pushing. This was too entertaining.
"No, no. There is no way I'm tell—"
John grinned. "Are you sure you want to know?"
"JOHN."
Greg looked between them, suspicion pricking at the edges of his consciousness. "Wait. Maybe I don't want to know."
"We're not telling you."
John, however, just grinned cheekily at Greg and flashed his eyebrows.
Greg rubbed his hand over his face. "Nope. I don't want to know."
“I’ve been ill so it’s been ages," John said, just pushing Greg's buttons now. Perhaps this was retribution for all that TMI about Mycroft.
"Stop," both Sherlock and Greg said at the same time, presumably for very different reasons.
"Poor Sherlock doesn't know what to do with himself. All that extra energy going to waste…”
"—Okay." Greg pushed back from his desk and walked around the perimeter of the room, as far away from them as he could get, to the door. "You know, I'm going to get a coffee. Don't touch anything. I'll get you your paperwork when I get back." He shuddered exaggeratedly, and John grinned. Bastard. No wonder he could put up with a Holmes.
The thought brought Greg up short as he fled for the breakroom. If that was so, did that make him a bastard too?
When he got back, John was pacing around the outside of the room, looking at the ephemera posted on Greg's walls with his hands tucked behind his back. Sherlock had flung himself into a chair with his feet on Greg's desk and was currently playing with the stress ball. He squeezed it so the iris popped out toward him. He pulled a face.
"Why do you have this?" he asked.
Greg batted Sherlock's shoes off the edge of the desk and plucked the ball from his hand on his way round. He dropped it into the top drawer. "I'll just be disinfecting that later."
Sherlock slumped and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked like a petulant schoolboy.
"I'm taking pity on you,” Greg said as he turned his chair around and ruffled through the file cabinet behind him for the correct papers. "I guess I can't complain if you're actually going to—" He stopped and sighed and reached over the desk to pull the stress ball away from Sherlock, who had retrieved it again while Greg's back was turned. At that moment, Greg's mobile pinged in his pocket. "Oh, just do your work, for Christ's sake." He pulled out his phone to see who had texted. It was Mycroft. There was no way he was going to read this while Sherlock was in the room. Who knows what he'd deduce, rightly or wrongly.
Greg felt there was a distinct air of the schoolroom about the place as he left John and Sherlock doing paperwork and went out into the corridor.
I will phone you in two minutes. Please find a place where you can discuss something with me.
Instead of dread, Greg just felt a frisson of excitement. The imperious bastard. Warmth spread through Greg’s chest and it was then he realised he was in serious trouble: he would never escape from this relationship unscathed. Everything Mycroft did these days was endearing. Even if it was creepy.
Greg was making his way out to the rear car park when his mobile rang.
“Hey,” he said.
“Gregory.”
“Okay, what have you done? I can tell by the sound of your voice—“
“My assistant will be arriving any moment now. She will leave an envelope by the rear bins of your building.”
Greg snorted. “What’s with all the cloak and dagger, Mycroft?”
This time when Mycroft spoke, Greg heard the smile in his tone. “I’ve set up our secret channel.”
A very different frisson shot through Greg’s body. “Is that so?”
“My assistant will be leaving the details.”
“Couldn’t have a courier do it?”
“There is only one person I trust.”
“This can’t be more important than state secrets.”
“It’s more important to me.”
Greg felt himself go pink. “Er. Okay. Okay then. So this is your assistant? Alice or Anthea or whatever her name is today?”
“Yes.”
"Does she...does she mind about us? It must create more work for her, you moving your schedule around for me, and..."
"Does she mind?"
"Yeah."
"She filters all my incoming emails."
"I'm afraid I don't..."
"Gregory, please think about it for a moment."
He didn't understand. "Sorry, what are you..."
"Who do you think covered your very lovely hide after you sent me that video on an unsecured channel?"
Greg’s stomach dropped to his feet. “She saw it?!"
"I don't know if she…enjoyed the entire spectacle, but she certainly saw enough to know it was going to be an issue."
"So she..." Oh holy hell.
"Made it no longer an issue."
"She can do that?"
"She can do a great many things."
"Your assistants terrify me." Which was a tremendous understatement.
"Good. That's good."
A long black car pulled up at that moment, and out stepped the woman in question.
“She’s here,” Greg said.
“Enjoy,” Mycroft pretty much trilled in return before he rang off. Okay, maybe not everything Mycroft did was endearing.
“I, er, hear you have something for me.”
She looked a bit startled to see him waiting before smoothing it into a perfectly placid expression. “Inspector Lestrade.”
“Planned to make the drop on your own?” he said. “Because now I’m in the Bond film?”
She ignored that and pulled out a brown paper sack. It looked like someone's lunch. “In this are the directions to setting up a secure channel between you and Mr. Holmes. If you need assistance I can provide—“
“No.” Greg coughed and willed himself not to blush. “That won’t be necessary.” You’ve already had too much to do with this already.
“Fine.” She gave him a knowing look and Greg considered crawling into the leaf pile at the edge of the car park and never coming out again. Anthea patted him patronisingly on his good shoulder, but when he expected her to move back to her car her hand turned into a vice around the bones of his clavicle, digging in.
His knees weakened. “Ow. Ow. Ow. Fuck. Is this your version of the ‘hurt him and I’ll kill you’ talk?”
She stared at him openly, expression serious. Pain flared like fire in his shoulder, and she wasn’t even breaking a sweat. “Oh yes.”
“I promise. I promise.”
“Yes?”
“Message received. Ow.”
She continued to pinch for another few seconds before releasing him. “Good.”
He blew out a breath and rubbed the ache out of his shoulder, watching her step lightly into the car. She gave him one last warning look, and it drove off while she was still closing the door.
“Jesus Christ,” Greg said aloud. He stared at the plain paper sack in his hand. What the fuck was he getting himself into?
Message received, Greg typed into his mobile on his way back to his office. He shoved the bag in his pocket.
Excellent.
Your assistant really is terrifying.
I can go over the details of our channel at dinner tonight, if you're interested.
As he stomped up the stairs to his floor, Greg smiled. Oh, I'm VERY interested.
I suspected that might be the case. 7:30?
That's a bit earlier than usual.
I'd like a bit of time afterward for experimentation.
Greg raised an eyebrow and smirked at his phone as he typed, leaning on the wall just outside his office. This is just an experiment to you, is it?
While he waited for a response, Greg tried some deep breathing exercises to will away the nerves in his stomach; it wouldn’t do to go back into his office with Sherlock there, deducing everything that was going on. After a moment of contemplation, grasping for an excuse why he was gone so long, Greg headed for the break room to get a coffee. It was only when he was back at his office door again that he realised that he already had a drink waiting for him in there. He stopped short, trying not to laugh at himself.
For a few long seconds he wavered, then went back to the break room to get another coffee, this time without sugar, then pushed his way into his office.
“I've brought you coffee,” he said.
Sherlock looked up from his paperwork, snorted, and went back to work. John flicked him on the ear.
“Thanks,” John said, while beside him Sherlock covered the side of his head and pouted like a wounded puppy.
“You’re welcome,” said Greg.
He settled back behind his desk and put his feet up to drink his coffee. This time he really did feel like a schoolteacher, watching his students diligently completing their work while he sat back and contemplated…lesson plans, or whatever teachers did. These days they probably surfed the internet.
…The thought of which made Greg pull his mobile out of his pocket again. Mycroft had responded. Nothing so casual. Greg hid his smile behind his coffee cup.
“Ugh,” Sherlock said, his eyes still on his work. There was ink smeared all on the underside of his hand.
“What?” John said, his left arm curled around as he wrote. He seemed barely to be paying attention to the conversation.
“Lestrade.”
“I’m just drinking my damn coffee,” Greg said at the same time John said, “What is he doing?”
“He’s sexting Mycroft.”
“I’m not—“ Greg started, but then John looked up and raised an eyebrow. Greg felt his face turn hot. “—sexting,” he finished.
“Vile,” Sherlock said.
“Shut up,” John replied.
“And I’m leaving,” said Greg, standing and heading for the door again.
“Coward,” he heard Sherlock say as the door shut behind him. Greg leaned against the wall, took a breath of relief, and drank some of his coffee purely for the comforting warmth. He glanced down at his phone.
Nothing so casual, it still said.
Experimentation is serious business? Greg typed back.
It is with you.
Greg grinned so hard his cheeks hurt. He hoped no one was coming down the corridor.
Which was, of course, the moment Donovan rounded the corner with her lunch. Greg hurriedly scrubbed his hand over his face to hide his expression but it was too late: she was snickering at him.
"Wow. That was a ridiculous look.”
"Shut up."
"How adorable."
"Shut up."
“Loitering in the corridor, blushing to high heaven, all soppy. Must be your boyfriend."
Out of sheer habit he opened his mouth to deny it, but all at once the truth of it crashed around him: it was true. Mycroft was his boyfriend. A terrifying boyfriend, and there were complications that went along with it, but it was true.
This time—this time—she was absolutely right.