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The canals of Manchester shimmered in the soft afternoon sun, casting lazy ripples against the stone embankment. The terrace of the little pub was comfortably quiet, tucked just far enough from the bustle of the main street.
Greg sat back in his chair, nursing a pint, eyes fixed on the man sitting opposite him. Crisp shirt, his tailored winter coat unbuttoned, a glass of something dark and expensive resting untouched beside his folded hands.
"So explain this to me," Greg said, giving him a look over the rim of his glass. "Why exactly do your parents host a charity gala… on your birthday?"
Mycroft didn't flinch. He merely adjusted the cuff of his shirt, gaze drifting briefly over the water.
"Tradition," he said simply.
Greg arched a brow. "Right. But whose tradition? Theirs? Or some ancient Holmes family ritual that requires an annual fundraiser on the day you were born?"
That earned him a faint quirk at the corner of Mycroft's mouth - not quite a smile, but close.
"Both, in a way," Mycroft replied. "The gala began the year I turned ten. My father saw an opportunity for political goodwill… and my mother found she rather enjoyed being at the center of a philanthropic spectacle."
Greg gave a soft snort. "So… a joint effort. Happy birthday to you."
Mycroft's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his eyes. "It was efficient."
"Yeah. Bet it was." Greg took another sip of his pint, watching Mycroft over the rim. "So they've been hosting it every year since?"
"Without fail." Mycroft's voice stayed even. "It serves its purpose. As do I."
Greg felt something twist low in his gut at that. The cool, practiced way Mycroft said it. Like it was a job. Like he was a job.
Greg set his glass down gently. "And here I thought we were having a weekend off."
Mycroft met his gaze, sharp, assessing, but softer now. "We are," he said quietly. "At least… I intended it to be."
Greg leaned forward slightly, his arms resting on the table between them. The easy afternoon sun warmed the edge of his pint, but the chill in the air clung faintly to his skin.
"Can I ask you something babe?" he said, voice low but steady.
Mycroft tilted his head, faintly curious. "You've never needed permission before darling."
Greg gave him a dry look. "How influential are your parents… really?"
That pulled a slight flicker from Mycroft's composed expression, not quite surprise, but something close.
Greg held his gaze. "Because when I asked them back at that dinner before Christmas, your mum gave me some line about writing books on maths, and your dad muttered something about working in politics. And then they changed the subject to artichoke farming in Devon or some nonsense."
Mycroft's mouth twitched at that. "Horticulture subsidies, actually."
"Yeah. Sure." Greg leaned back in his chair, shaking his head slightly. "I let it slide because I figured… family stuff. But now we're here, for their charity gala and I'm starting to think I should've pushed a little harder."
Mycroft let out a soft breath, folding his hands neatly in front of him. "My mother is a respected author of advanced mathematical theory," he said calmly. "And my father… works in politics."
Greg gave him a long, flat look. "That's the same answer, Mycroft."
Mycroft's lips curved into a faint, wry smile. "Yes. But now you know it's intentional."
Greg huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Jesus. You lot don't do straight answers, do you?"
"We do," Mycroft replied smoothly. "Just rarely with strangers."
"I'm not a stranger, we've been together for almost a year" Greg said, not accusing, but not letting it pass either.
Mycroft's expression softened just slightly. "No. You're not a stranger, Gregory."
They sat there for a beat, the soft murmur of the pub crowd wrapping around them.
"Then tell me," Greg said quietly. "What am I walking into tonight?"
Mycroft studied him for a long moment, his eyes sharp but unreadable. The kind of look Greg knew meant he was weighing exactly how much truth to lay bare.
Then, with a soft exhale, Mycroft set his glass aside and folded his hands carefully on the table. "You are walking into a room full of people who shape the direction of this country," he said calmly. "Senior civil servants, members of Parliament, private financiers, foreign envoys, key figures in national security… some elected, most not."
Greg blinked, the weight of the words settling like stones in his chest.
"The Holmes family," Mycroft continued, voice steady, "has been intertwined with British political and intelligence structures for three generations. My father has advised three Prime Ministers, both officially and unofficially. My mother's work in mathematical modelling contributed to several economic policies that… do not bear her name."
Mycroft met Greg's eyes without flinching. "And I… am the quiet thread that ties them both together."
Greg let out a slow breath, leaning back slightly in his chair. "Bloody hell," he murmured.
Mycroft gave a faint, almost apologetic tilt of his head. "Quite."
Greg shook his head, half in disbelief. "So this gala… it's not just a fundraiser."
"It is also a staging ground," Mycroft admitted. "For influence, favours, discreet alliances. And yes… a degree of theatre for those who enjoy being seen in the right company."
Greg gave a low whistle, his eyes dropping to his half-empty pint.
"So when I walk in there with you-"
"You will be walking in with me," Mycroft said quietly, cutting him off. "Which means they will all assume you are… part of that world."
Greg looked up at him, eyes narrowing slightly. "And am I?"
Mycroft held his gaze. "You're part of my world."
The words landed with a soft, unmistakable weight.
Greg felt something twist tight in his chest, sharp and complicated. "Yeah," he said quietly, giving Mycroft a faint, crooked smile. "No pressure, then."
Mycroft's mouth curved in that rare, almost fond way. "None at all darling."
The soft hum of the city blurred past the cab windows as they headed toward the venue. The sun was setting beyond the skyline of Manchester.
Greg shifted in his seat, tugging gently at the lapel of the tailored suit jacket. Cut perfectly to his frame, courtesy of Holmes family arrangements. The fabric moved like it had been grown on him, which only made it feel more like a borrowed skin.
"I still don't get it," he said after a moment, glancing over at Mycroft. "Why did your parents insist on this?" He gave the lapel a small tug. "The suit. The whole… making sure I fit the part."
Mycroft, seated beside him with his usual effortless composure, looked up from his phone and regarded him evenly.
"Because they understand the weight appearances carry in their world," he said calmly. "And they would rather you be underestimated for who you are… than dismissed for how you look."
Greg gave a quiet snort, shaking his head. "Yeah, well. Joke's on them. I'm bound to make a fool of myself anyway. I don't know the first thing about this sort of thing."
Mycroft's eyes softened, but enough for Greg to catch it. "I know."
Greg blinked. "Not exactly reassuring, babe."
Mycroft gave a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "You'll do fine."
Greg huffed a dry laugh. "You really believe that?"
"I do."
And somehow that simple, quiet certainty twisted something in Greg's chest. He looked back down at his hands, fingers smoothing over the sharp lines of the suit jacket.
"I'm serious, Mycroft. I'm not built for this world of handshakes and hidden meanings."
Mycroft didn't look away. "Neither am I."
Greg's eyes snapped up, surprised.
Mycroft met his gaze steadily, voice soft but firm. "That's why I learned how to survive it. And why I won't let you face it alone."
Greg swallowed, the knot in his throat unexpected. He gave a small, lopsided grin, forcing some of the tightness out of his voice.
"You know," he said, leaning back against the seat, "I'd rather be spending your birthday somewhere else… say, our hotel room. Just the two of us. No politics. No designer suits."
Mycroft glanced sideways, one brow lifting ever so slightly. "Subtle, Gregory."
Greg smirked. "Didn't say I was subtle."
A rare faint smile tugged at the corner of Mycroft's mouth, but unmistakably genuine. "There will be plenty of time for that," he said smoothly, "as soon as we make our exit… after the speeches."
Greg snorted, giving him a sidelong look. "You've got this all planned out, haven't you?"
"Of course," Mycroft replied, settling back in his seat. "I wouldn't waste my entire birthday evening on a gala. Even one that serves a purpose."
Greg's smile softened, something warm sparking low in his chest. "Then I'll hold you to that."
"I expect you to."
The entrance hall opened up into a sweeping, marble-floored expanse. All polished surfaces, soft golden lighting, and a low hum of carefully modulated conversation. A string quartet played somewhere off to the side, their music weaving through the air like an afterthought.
As soon as Greg and Mycroft stepped inside, a pair of attendants in crisp black offered them champagne flutes with polite, silent smiles. Greg accepted his with a quiet thanks, the chilled glass cool against his fingers.
Mycroft took his own with a nod, the motion seamless, and in that instant, Greg watched something subtle shift in him.
Gone was the relaxed man from the pub and the cab ride. In his place stood the diplomat. Every line of him polished, composed, unreadable.
"Smile," Mycroft murmured quietly, voice low enough only Greg could hear. "Answer politely. Keep it brief. Don't overdo it."
Greg gave a faint snort into his glass. "And follow your lead?"
Mycroft's lips curved ever so slightly. "As always."
Mycroft's hand settled gently at the small of Greg's back. Not possessive. Not for show. A steady, grounding touch.
Greg felt the quiet strength in it, the subtle pressure as Mycroft guided them forward into the flow of the room, like they'd done this a hundred times before.
The first few introductions went smoother than Greg expected.
They were approached almost instantly. A senior MP whose name Greg only half caught, a board member from a private bank, someone with a title that sounded faintly royal.
And all of them… already knew who he was.
"Ah, Mr. Lestrade, the proprietor of Novel Grounds. We've heard so much."
"The bookshop in Covent Garden? Fascinating concept. Diversifying with the café must have been a clever move."
"I imagine the margins are tight. How are you managing supply turnover?"
Greg blinked, caught off guard by the sudden pivot from pleasantries to what sounded suspiciously like business strategy interrogation.
He gave polite, brief answers as Mycroft had told him. "We manage. It's a good community spot. The shop's a passion project, really. More about the people than the numbers."
But every time he spoke, there was a flicker in their eyes. Polite interest sliding just this side of patronizing.
As if Novel Grounds was some clever investment he'd fallen into… not his uncle's legacy, not a place he'd fought tooth and nail to keep alive.
They nodded, they smiled, they exchanged knowing glances Greg wasn't supposed to notice. And the more they talked, the clearer it became that they'd already decided what he was. A charming oddity. A curiosity. A piece in Mycroft Holmes's wider game.
A slow tight knot started forming in Greg's chest, persistent.
They would never understand what that shop meant. And worse… they didn't care.
As their latest set of conversation partners drifted away, Greg let out a quiet breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Mind if we grab a bite?" he asked, keeping his voice light but firm enough to be a real request.
Mycroft gave a small nod, his hand gently pressing at the small of Greg's back again as he steered them effortlessly toward the buffet. The crowd parted for him like water around a stone. Some greeting him with faint nods, others pretending not to notice but stealing glances anyway.
Greg followed, grateful for the chance to step out of the conversational spotlight, even if only for a few minutes.
The buffet was a spread worthy of the Holmes name. Artfully arranged hors d'oeuvres, tiny plates of things Greg couldn't pronounce, and cuts of something expensive on delicate slivers of bread.
Greg didn't hesitate. He loaded a small plate, took a generous bite of something with smoked salmon, and let the flavours distract him from the lingering tightness in his chest.
Mycroft watched him for a moment, an unreadable look flickering across his face. "You're handling this remarkably well."
Greg gave a small snort around a mouthful of food. He swallowed, fixed Mycroft with a look, and said simply, "It's bloody uncomfortable." He stabbed a fork into another canapé. "And exhausting."
Mycroft's brow lifted slightly, but he didn't interrupt.
Greg met his eyes, his voice quiet but steady. "I get that this is your world. I'm trying, Mycroft. But pretending I belong here… it's not exactly second nature." He gave a soft huff of a laugh, glancing down at his plate. "Feels a bit like I'm standing on a tightrope while everyone watches to see when I'll fall off."
Mycroft studied him for a long, quiet moment, his expression thoughtful. "You're not required to belong here, Gregory," he said finally, voice low and measured. "Only to… hold your place."
Greg froze, fork hovering halfway to his mouth. "Hold my place?" he echoed, a sharp edge creeping into his voice.
Mycroft gave a slight incline of his head, as if clarifying a perfectly reasonable point. "To stand beside me. To match the occasion, not the expectation."
Greg set his fork down a little harder than necessary, swallowing past the knot rising in his throat.
"Right," he said, his tone too flat to be casual. "So I don't have to actually belong. I just have to… play the part long enough not to embarrass you on your PR tour."
Mycroft's eyes flicked sharply to his. "That's not what I said."
"No," Greg replied, giving a short, humourless laugh. "But it's what you meant, isn't it?"
A faint crease appeared between Mycroft's brows - not anger, not even irritation - something closer to quiet confusion. "Gregory, I-"
Greg shook his head, the tightness in his chest pulling harder. "It's fine," he said quickly, grabbing another canapé mostly to have something to do with his hands. "I get it. You don't have to explain."
Mycroft opened his mouth, probably to offer some carefully worded clarification that would have only made it worse, but before he could speak, a pair of familiar voices cut across the soft hum of the crowd.
"There you are!"
Greg turned just as Siger and Violet Holmes approached, moving through the elegant throng of guests with the kind of casual authority only people like them could manage.
Violet's eyes lit up as she reached them. "Happy birthday, darling."
Mycroft inclined his head, accepting her brief, affectionate kiss on the cheek with a polite murmur.
Siger gave him a firm clasp on the shoulder. "Looking sharp, son."
Then Violet's gaze slid straight to Greg and her smile turned bright, almost too bright.
"And you must be having quite the night," she said, her voice light but just loud enough for a few nearby guests to catch. "Holding your own among all these sharks."
Greg forced a small smile. "Trying my best."
"Oh, I'm sure," Violet said, reaching out to lightly adjust his tie, a gesture that felt strangely possessive. "We were just saying how delightful it is that you're here. So refreshing for Mycroft to bring someone with a touch of authenticity."
Greg blinked. "Right."
"You know," Violet went on, sipping from her champagne flute, "it takes a special kind of person to navigate our circles when they weren't born into them. But I suppose you've learned to adapt, especially running that charming little bookshop."
Greg felt something cold twist in his gut.
"I imagine you're quite used to… finding your footing in unfamiliar worlds," Violet added with a knowing smile, her eyes lingering a fraction too long.
Mycroft stood silent at his side, his expression perfectly neutral.
Greg swallowed hard, plastering on a polite smile even as the knot in his chest pulled tighter. "Something like that."
He felt Mycroft's presence beside him, but there was no sign of him stepping in. Not here. Not now.
Greg cleared his throat gently. "Right… I'll leave you to it."
Violet tilted her head, her smile unwavering. "Oh?"
Greg gave a small, practiced nod. "Figured you'd want a bit of a family moment."
Mycroft's eyes flicked toward him at that, but Greg didn't meet it.
"I'll just… get some air," Greg added, stepping back.
Violet gave a soft, approving hum. "How thoughtful of you."
Siger gave him a polite, absent nod. "Enjoy."
Greg turned on his heel and slipped through a gap in the crowd, weaving between clusters of polished guests with polite nods and half-smiles, heading toward the wide glass doors that opened onto the terrace he'd clocked earlier.
The cool evening air hit him the second he stepped outside. Sharp, clean, a world apart from the low hum of conversation inside.
He let out a slow breath.
But before he could really settle into the quiet, a pair of voices drifted over from just inside the open doorway.
"…well, I suppose everyone needs a pet project."
"Holmes always did like collecting strays."
A soft ripple of polite laughter.
Greg froze.
"The shopkeeper?" one voice said, low but unmistakably amused. "Honestly. Can't imagine what he's getting out of that."
"It's rather quaint, really. Though I expect it won't last. Mycroft always did grow out of his little… indulgences."
Greg stood rooted to the spot, his heart thudding hard in his chest. He stared out over the terrace, swallowing hard, hands curling into loose fists at his sides.
Of course.
Greg let out a quiet, bitter breath, sharp enough to sting. His hand moved almost on its own, slipping into his jacket pocket for the slim pack of cigarettes he'd tucked there before they left the hotel.
Just in case.
He thumbed one out, flicked his lighter, and cupped the flame against the soft evening breeze. The cigarette caught with a soft crackle, and Greg drew in a long, sharp breath.
The smoke settled heavy in his lungs. Not comforting, exactly, but familiar. He stared out at the darkening canal beyond the terrace, the reflections of city lights shimmering in the water.
Behind him, the voices carried on, softer now, but no less sharp. A soft laugh. The clink of glasses.
Greg turned his back on them and started walking, slow and steady, toward the far end of the terrace - away from the doors, away from the murmurs.
His footsteps echoed faintly against the stone tiles as he moved past scattered groups of guests and finally reached a quiet corner where the soft hum of conversation dulled into background noise.
He leaned against the stone balustrade, resting his forearms on the cool surface, cigarette balanced between his fingers.
The smoke curled up into the night air.
Pet project.
Indulgence.
He swallowed hard, staring out over the canal.
Maybe they were right. Maybe that's exactly what this was. A temporary fixture in the Holmes' family perfectly curated life. A neat addition that would fade out when it stopped being interesting.
Greg took another drag, exhaling slow. He hated how easily the thought slipped in. How naturally it settled beside the doubts he'd been trying to ignore all evening.
"Got another?"
Greg didn't need to turn around to know whose voice that was. Low, smooth, carrying that faint air of amused disinterest that Sherlock Holmes had perfected.
Greg sighed, flicking his cigarette ash over the edge of the balustrade. "Yeah." He pulled the pack from his pocket, handing it over without looking.
Sherlock plucked a cigarette out with practiced ease, lighting it with a match from his own coat pocket.
"Your brother wouldn't approve, even though you're 18 now." Greg muttered, more out of habit than real concern.
"Mycroft doesn't approve of many things," Sherlock replied flatly.
Greg huffed a humourless laugh, finally glancing sideways. "Where've you been hiding all night?"
Sherlock took a slow drag, his eyes fixed on some distant point over the water. "Observing."
Greg snorted, taking another drag. "Figures."
Sherlock gave a faint hum, almost thoughtful. "They've been watching you too, you know."
Greg glanced at him, brows lifting. "Who?"
"My parents." Sherlock said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Since you walked in."
Greg blew out a slow breath of smoke, his stomach tightening. "Yeah. Picked up on that."
Sherlock turned slightly, giving him a look that was far too sharp for Greg's liking. "They've been evaluating you."
"Brilliant," Greg muttered. "Did I pass?"
"You wouldn't know if you had." Sherlock's mouth curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "They don't do approval in the way normal people do. They decide whether you fit into the Holmes narrative, whether you're useful, presentable, compliant."
Greg felt his jaw tighten. "Good to know."
Sherlock took another slow drag. "They had expectations for Mycroft. Expectations about who he should be with, what sort of person would match him."
Greg turned fully now, fixing Sherlock with a look. "And I'm guessing I'm not it."
Sherlock met his gaze evenly. "You're not… them."
Greg let out a humourless laugh. "Yeah. Got that part loud and clear."
"But," Sherlock added, his voice low, "that might be exactly why he's still standing by you."
Greg blinked, caught off guard by that.
Sherlock gave a faint shrug, turning back toward the water. "He's terrible at choosing the right people. But he's even worse at letting go of the ones who actually mean something to him."
Greg stared at him, the smoke curling between them.
"For what it's worth," Sherlock added dryly, "you've lasted longer than most would have."
Greg let out a quiet breath, shaking his head. "Always a pleasure, Sherlock."
Sherlock smirked, looking towards the building, "Ah, the Queen's arriving."
Greg blinked, turning toward him. "What?"
Sherlock gave a faint, almost bored smile. "Figure of speech." He flicked the cigarette away with a practiced snap of his fingers. "Though if anyone could arrange a surprise royal appearance, it'd be Mycroft."
Before Greg could answer or tell him exactly where he could shove his observations, Sherlock turned on his heel. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lestrade."
And just like that he slipped away, disappearing with the same unsettling ease he'd arrived.
Greg let out a slow, tight breath, flicking his own cigarette over the railing.
"I see Sherlock's been at his usual… conversational best."
Greg's shoulders tensed slightly at the familiar voice behind him. He turned his head just enough to see Mycroft standing a few paces away, hands clasped in front of him, expression carefully composed, though Greg caught the flicker of something sharper in his eyes.
"Why did you leave so suddenly?" Mycroft asked, his tone calm but missing its usual practiced detachment.
Greg exhaled quietly, looking back out over the water. "Just needed a bit of air," he said, keeping his voice even.
Mycroft stepped closer, his gaze steady. "Was it something my mother said?"
Greg gave a soft snort, shaking his head. "Take your pick."
Mycroft frowned faintly, his shoulders stiffening. "Gregory-"
"It's nothing," Greg cut in, sharper than he intended. He let out a slow breath, trying to ease the edge in his voice. "I just… figured you'd want a bit of space. Family stuff and all."
Mycroft's eyes narrowed slightly. Not in anger, but in something closer to confusion. "You think I brought you here to… leave you on the outside?"
Greg let out a sharp breath, turning fully toward Mycroft now. "What is this, Mycroft?" he asked, his voice low but edged. "Why are you even out here? Go enjoy yourself. m'fine out here."
Mycroft's expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his eyes. A faint crease at the brow, a flicker of guarded calm. "I came to ask why you left."
Greg gave a soft, humourless laugh. "Yeah, you said that already. But what I don't get is why it even matters to you now."
Mycroft's posture straightened slightly. "Because it does matter."
"Why?" Greg snapped, his voice a little louder now, a little rougher. "I've been standing next to you all night while you worked the room, watching you do your best impersonation of a marble statue. You barely looked at me inside."
Mycroft opened his mouth, but Greg cut him off. "And now suddenly it's 'Gregory, why did you leave? What changed?'" The tightness in his chest burned sharp now, a mix of anger and something far closer to hurt.
Mycroft stood silent, his gaze locked on Greg's, something unreadable flickering behind his carefully even expression. "I thought you understood," he said, his voice low but even. "What you walked into tonight."
Greg stared at him, "What I walked into?"
Mycroft gave a slight nod, as though this was the most reasonable explanation in the world. "I know it may have been… overwhelming," he admitted, his tone edging toward cautious diplomacy. "And I can see why the environment might be uncomfortable, but I truly don't understand why you're directing this anger at me."
Greg let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. "Right. Overwhelming." He shook his head, stepping back a half-step. "Like I accidentally wandered into a lion's den and should've known better."
Mycroft's eyes narrowed slightly. "That's not what I said."
"No, but that's what you meant, isn't it?" Greg snapped, his voice sharper now. "You thought I'd just smile and nod and play along because I knew what this was, what I should represent in there."
Mycroft's mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.
Greg felt the knot in his chest twist painfully. "You really don't get it."
Mycroft met his eyes, something hard flickering in his own. "Then explain it to me."
Greg stared at Mycroft, his heart hammering against his ribs, his frustration crackling just beneath the surface. But before he could say anything a voice called from the terrace doors.
"Mr. Holmes? They're ready for you inside." A tall man in a sleek suit stood framed in the doorway, glancing between them with polite curiosity.
Mycroft didn't even turn. His eyes stayed locked on Greg's, unmoving.
"Tell them I'll be there shortly," Mycroft said, his voice clipped and cool.
The man gave a brief nod and vanished back inside.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Greg huffed quietly. "Don't keep them waiting on my account. Play your part."
Mycroft's mouth opened slightly, as if to stop him, but Greg was already moving, stepping past him without another word.
"Gregory-" Mycroft's voice followed him, quieter this time, almost hesitant. "Please… stay."
Greg slowed but didn't stop. He shook his head, glancing back over his shoulder. "I'll just meet you back at the hotel."
Mycroft took a half-step forward, something uncertain flickering in his eyes.
Greg held his gaze for a heartbeat longer, long enough for the weight of it all to hang heavy between them, before turning away again.
"Go do your speech," he said, his voice soft but firm. "I'll be fine."
And this time, Mycroft didn't stop him.
Greg walked off the terrace, back into the crowd, leaving Mycroft standing alone in the soft wash of evening light.
The hotel door shut behind him with a soft click, echoing a little too loudly in the quiet room.
Greg stood there for a long moment, staring into the dim space - neat, expensive, impersonal.
He let out a slow breath.
Then, without ceremony, he reached for the knot of his tie, tugging it loose with one sharp pull. The tie landed on the chair by the door. The jacket followed, draped carelessly over the back of it.
The shirt came next - crisp, tailored, suffocating. He peeled it off, letting it fall onto the chair in a heap.
Piece by piece, he stripped away the suit that felt more like a facade than clothing. The polished shoes. The cufflinks. The belt.
By the time he'd toed off his socks and slung the trousers over the chair, he stood there in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, breathing a little easier.
He reached into to his duffle bag and pulled out the pyjamas he'd packed without a second thought that morning. An old knitted jumper, sleeves slightly frayed, and soft cotton shorts that had seen better days.
They didn't fit the venue. They didn't fit the night. But they fit him.
Greg slipped them on, the familiar fabric settling over his skin like a quiet exhale. For the first time all night, he felt like himself again.
He pulled back the covers and slid into the cool sheets, the soft weight of the knitted jumper pressing comfortingly against his skin.
He lay on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling, the low hum of city noise filtering in through the cracked window.
The words played on a loop in his mind.
It's rather quaint… He always did like collecting strays… I thought you understood what you walked into… Please, stay.
He let out a slow breath, his hand resting on his chest, fingers curling loosely into the fabric of the jumper.
It wasn't just what had been said tonight, it was everything that hadn't.
The way Mycroft hadn't stepped in. The way Violet smiled like she was doing him a favour by introducing Greg to these people. The way Sherlock dropped his little remarks like they didn't mean a thing.
And then there was Mycroft. Looking at him like he couldn't quite figure out what Greg wanted. Like Greg was the one making this complicated.
Greg closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing past the thick knot in his throat.
He didn't know if he'd done the right thing by walking away. He didn't know if it even mattered anymore.
He just knew that lying here, alone in this polished hotel room, he felt further away from Mycroft than ever before.
Greg let out a slow breath and shifted onto his side, one arm curling beneath his head as he stared across the room.
They'd been doing fine. Better than fine.
At least they were in 'his world'.
In London. At the shop. With Cat popping by to steal pastries. With Matt making himself at home on the back stairs. With late nights upstairs, sharing bottles of cheap red wine, Mycroft in a soft jumper reading him Neruda because Greg had once admitted he liked the sound of his voice.
There, they worked. There, it felt right. Effortless. But now…
Greg swallowed, the knot in his chest pulling tighter.
Now that he was stepping into Mycroft's world - with its sharp smiles and veiled insults, polished facades and silent expectations - he wasn't so sure anymore.
He'd thought they were building something real. But maybe that was only true in the world Greg knew. In the world he belonged to.
What if, once they crossed that line, it all fell apart?
What if Mycroft realized that the man he fell for in a quiet bookshop didn't have a place beside him in this world - the world of titles, influence, and people who made Greg feel two inches tall without even trying?
Maybe this was always going to happen. Maybe he was kidding himself thinking he could ever fit.
The soft click of the hotel door opening stirred Greg from his thoughts.
Greg blinked slightly as soft footsteps crossed the carpet. He shifted slightly, sitting up against the headboard as Mycroft stepped into the muted glow of the bedside lamp.
The difference hit Greg all at once.
Gone was the polished figure from the gala. The perfect tie, the sharp suit, the practiced expression that never slipped.
There stood Mycroft. Shoulders a little slumped, jacket folded neatly over one arm, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hair was slightly mussed, like he'd run a hand through it one too many times.
He looked tired. And real. Like the man Greg had come to know. The man he'd learned to love.
They stared at each other for a moment. Just quiet, heavy air hanging between them.
Greg felt something shift in his chest. All the doubts still sat there, weighing him down. But seeing Mycroft like this… it tugged at something deeper.
Mycroft met Greg's eyes for a long, unreadable moment. Then, without a word, he walked over to the chair where Greg had draped his discarded suit.
He laid his own jacket over it, folded with careful precision. The tie followed, slipped off with a quiet, practiced motion. His cufflinks came next.
Piece by piece, he shed the remnants of the evening.
Greg watched, heart tight in his chest, as Mycroft unbuttoned his dress shirt and slipped it off, folding it neatly before setting it aside.
His armour removed, Mycroft crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out a soft jumper - one of Greg's.
The navy one, with the small, patched hole on the left cuff. The one Mycroft had quietly swiped from Greg's flat weeks ago and never bothered to return.
He slipped it on over his head, smoothing the fabric down, and then tugged on a pair of dark, elegant pyjama bottoms - silk, of course.
When he finally turned back toward Greg, there was no trace of the diplomat, no sign of the man who worked a room like a general commanding troops.
Just Mycroft. Standing there in a borrowed jumper and pyjamas, looking… hesitant.
Greg's heart ached in a way he hadn't expected. He exhaled softly and reached out, his hand open - steady, offering.
For a heartbeat, Mycroft just looked at it.
Then he took it. His fingers closed gently around Greg's, warm and sure, and he sat down on the edge of the bed beside him.
They sat there in the soft lamplight, their joined hands resting between them, neither rushing the moment.
After a long silence, Mycroft finally spoke, his voice low, stripped of its usual polish. "Gregory… will you please tell me?" He turned slightly, meeting Greg's eyes. "What upset you tonight?" His fingers gave a slight, almost uncertain squeeze. "And why you walked away?"
There was no demand in his voice. No calculated curiosity. Just a quiet, honest question.
Greg let out a slow breath, looking down at their joined hands for a moment before lifting his eyes to meet Mycroft's. "It wasn't just one thing," he said quietly. "It was everything."
Mycroft stayed silent, his attention fixed on Greg.
"The people inside… they looked at me like I was some novelty. Like I'm this… charity case you dragged in for show." Greg shook his head, giving a soft sigh. "Your mother even said it to my face. How refreshing it is that you brought someone 'authentic'."
Mycroft's jaw tightened, but he didn't interrupt.
"And then I overheard those people on the terrace. Talking about how I'm just another stray you've picked up. A bit of fun that won't last."
Greg swallowed hard, feeling the knot in his chest pull tight again. "I know I'm not part of their world. And that's fine. But standing there, watching you work that room like you were born to it… watching you be exactly who they expect you to be… I started thinking maybe I'm just the temporary distraction they all assume I am."
He let out a shaky breath, his voice roughening. "And maybe that's all I'll ever be to you."
Mycroft's eyes darkened, but Greg pressed on, needing to say it. "We've been good, you and me in my world. Around my friends, my family, the shop. I started wondering if that's the only place we work."
"I don't know if I fit in yours." Greg gave a small, bitter smile. "Or if you ever really wanted me to."
The words hung between them, heavy and unflinching. Greg stared at him, heart thudding in his chest, waiting.
Mycroft's hand tightened slightly around his, grounding him with nothing more than that quiet, steady touch.
"I'm sorry." The words came soft but certain. No evasion, no careful phrasing. Just that. "For what they said. For how they treated you. For what you heard."
Greg stared at him, his heart thudding painfully hard.
Mycroft drew in a slow breath, his voice quiet but steady. "That… is exactly why I didn't introduce you to them sooner."
Greg blinked, caught off guard by the blunt honesty in those words.
Mycroft gave a faint shake of his head, his expression softening. "I was afraid of this." His eyes searched Greg's face, his hand still holding onto his. "Afraid that the moment they started pulling you in… it would… taint us."
He swallowed, his voice low, almost brittle. "That it would make you doubt what we are."
Greg felt something twist sharply in his chest.
"I didn't want them, or anyone else, to make you feel like you weren't enough. Because you are." Mycroft's hand shifted, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of Greg's knuckles. "You're more than enough."
Mycroft took a slow, steadying breath, his eyes never leaving Greg's. "You mean more to me than any of that," he said quietly, the words falling soft but certain between them. "More than these events. More than appearances. More than what people think I should be or who they think I should be with."
Greg swallowed hard, his throat tight.
"You don't ever have to come to anything like this again." Mycroft's voice dropped lower, earnest in a way Greg had never heard from him before. "I'll deal with my parents. I'll deal with all of it. You don't have to stand beside me at some party or gala to prove anything to anyone."
He shook his head slightly, a faint, rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "The only place I need you… is with me."
Greg felt his chest ache, but this time it wasn't with doubt.
Mycroft let out a quiet breath. "I'd rather spend every night at Novel Grounds with you than spend another evening surrounded by people who don't see you the way I do."
"And I'm sorry," he added softly. "For how I behaved tonight. I've spent so many years learning how to… survive in that world. How to act, how to wear the right mask, how to be exactly what's expected of me."
He gave a small, almost bitter smile. "I did it tonight without thinking. I slipped into it the moment we walked through those doors. I shut you out without even realizing."
His shoulders dropped slightly, the tension in them loosening. "It wasn't fair to you. It's not who I want to be with you." He shook his head, voice quieter now. "I know what it looked like. And I know how it made you feel. And I hate that I made you feel like you didn't matter. Because you do. You're the only thing that does."
Greg didn't say a word. He simply leaned forward, tugging Mycroft's hand gently until the distance between them disappeared.
And then he kissed him.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't tentative. It was heated. The kind of kiss born from everything they'd just dragged into the open.
Frustration, relief, fear, love… all of it pressed into the way Greg's hands framed Mycroft's face, pulling him in closer, grounding them both in something that felt realer than anything words could say.
Mycroft kissed back instantly, no hesitation, his hands gripping the front of Greg's jumper, holding on tight like Greg was the only steady thing in the world.
They kissed until the sting of everything unsaid melted into something deeper, something that hummed low between them, fierce and consuming.
When they finally broke apart, both of them breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, Greg gave a small, breathless laugh.
"That's more like it," he murmured, his voice low and rough.
Mycroft let out a soft, shaky breath that might've been a laugh, his eyes closing briefly as he leaned into Greg's touch.
Greg smirked softly, brushing his thumb over Mycroft's cheek as their foreheads rested together.
"We should probably finish the night the way we meant to," he murmured, his voice low and rough around the edges.
Mycroft opened his eyes, the faintest spark of amusement flickering there beneath the soft affection. "Oh?"
Greg leaned in again, kissing him slower this time. When he pulled back, he gave Mycroft a pointed look. "You did promise we'd make an early exit."
Mycroft let out a quiet breath, his lips curving into a rare, genuine smile. "I did."
Greg caught that smile and before Mycroft could say another word, he shifted his grip and turned them both with slow, steady pressure.
With a quiet huff of surprise, Mycroft found himself flat on his back, Greg settling over him with a smooth, natural ease.
Greg braced one hand beside Mycroft's head, the other trailing slowly down his side as he leaned in.
"Good," Greg murmured, his voice low and rough. He pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of Mycroft's mouth, then moved along the sharp edge of his jaw, his lips barely brushing the skin.
Mycroft drew in a slow breath, his head tipping back slightly as Greg's mouth found the soft spot beneath his ear.
"Gregory…" Mycroft's voice was little more than a whisper, a thread of breath against Greg's temple.
He kissed his way down Mycroft's neck – slow and unhurried - the heat between them building with every soft, deliberate press of lips to skin.
Mycroft's hands slid up along Greg's arms, curling lightly around his shoulders, holding him close without a hint of hesitation.
Greg's voice rumbled low against his throat. "You're mine tonight. Just mine."
Mycroft exhaled, his fingers tightening slightly. "I always was."
Greg shifted his weight slightly, his hand sliding down Mycroft's side, fingers brushing over the soft fabric of his pyjama bottoms. He moved with deliberate care, giving Mycroft every chance to stop him, though neither of them seemed inclined to.
His fingers found the waistband, and with a quiet, almost reverent touch, he began easing them down.
Mycroft let out a soft, shaky breath but didn't move, his gaze locked on Greg's face.
Greg caught that look and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I want all of you. No hiding."
Mycroft gave a soft hum, almost a laugh. "You already have me."
Greg met his eyes, his voice low. "Good."
With careful hands, he slid the pyjama bottoms down over Mycroft's hips, slow enough to savour the moment, to make sure Mycroft knew exactly how much this meant.
Mycroft lifted his hips slightly, helping him, his expression softening as Greg worked them off completely.
When they were gone, Greg leaned back just enough to take him in. Not with hunger or greed, but with a quiet, unspoken awe.
"Beautiful," Greg whispered, and meant it.
Mycroft let out a soft breath, the faintest flush colouring his cheeks. "You're impossible."
Greg smiled softly, pressing one last lingering kiss before pulling back just enough to sit upright on his knees.
Mycroft's eyes followed him, something deeper flickering beneath the surface.
Greg reached for the hem of his jumper, gripping the soft knit and tugging it over his head in one smooth motion. He dropped it carelessly to the floor, meeting Mycroft's gaze again.
Mycroft's eyes traced over him with a quiet intensity that made Greg's pulse skip. "Your turn," Mycroft murmured, voice low, a hint of something warmer curling beneath his words.
Greg smirked faintly. "Patience."
He shifted, fingers hooking into the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, sliding them down with slow, deliberate ease.
There was no rush. No bravado. Just the soft sounds of fabric against skin, the quiet hush of breath between them, and the steady way Mycroft's eyes never left him.
When Greg was finally free of the last barrier between them, he let the pyjama bottoms fall to the floor beside the bed.
He leaned forward again, bracing his hands on either side of Mycroft, lowering himself slowly until their bodies aligned - skin to skin, warmth melting into warmth.
"Better," Greg murmured, his lips brushing Mycroft's as he spoke.
Mycroft's hands slid up his sides, pulling him impossibly closer. "Much."
They moved together with slow certainty, every shift of Greg's body over Mycroft's drawing a soft gasp, a quiet hum of approval.
Greg kissed him deeply, his hand threading into Mycroft's hair as he murmured low against his lips, "Mine… all mine tonight."
Mycroft let out a soft, broken breath, his fingers curling tightly against Greg's back. "Always."
There was nothing rushed in the way they touched. Every glide of hands, every press of skin meant something. Greg moved with steady purpose, his lips finding Mycroft's neck again, whispering words against sensitive skin.
"You feel… incredible," Greg murmured, his voice rough with desire.
Mycroft tilted his head back, a soft sound escaping him, quiet but honest. "Then don't stop."
Greg gave a low chuckle, his hand sliding slowly along Mycroft's side. "Wasn't planning on it."
They fell into a rhythm. A heated, wordless understanding that built with every movement, every shared breath.
Mycroft's soft moans mixed with Greg's whispered praises, their hands finding familiar places with new intensity.
"So good for me," Greg breathed, their foreheads pressed together, as he moved his hips in a steady rhythm. "Perfect."
Mycroft caught his gaze, eyes dark and unwavering. "Take what you want."
Greg kissed him hard at that, their bodies moving as one in a rhythm that burned slow but deep. It wasn't frantic. It wasn't polished or careful. It was raw, powerful, and laced with soft groans, quiet gasps, and the occasional whispered, wrecked word.
By the time they finally stilled, both of them breathless and spent, tangled together in a tangle of limbs and sheets, Greg brushed his lips against Mycroft's temple.
"I'm never letting you go."
Mycroft gave a soft, content hum, his hand resting over Greg's heart. "You'd better not."