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As he stood barring the door to the flat at 221B from an irate John Watson, Mycroft Holmes considered his options. There weren’t many. Sherlock didn’t have enough sense to be barring the door from the inside. Mycroft hadn’t engaged in hand-to-hand combat in many years, and it didn’t take a genius to realize that John Watson would absolutely wipe the floor with him. The man had been a soldier and was completely capable of physical violence if pressed. His only slim hope, at the moment, was that Gregory Lestrade had received his text message and would be able to diffuse the situation.
Involving the Detective Inspector wasn’t ideal. The friendship that had grown between them in Sherlock’s absence was, in Mycroft’s view, tenuous at best. Mycroft Holmes did not have friends. But Greg Lestrade had walked up to him at Sherlock’s funeral, tears in his eyes, and said earnestly,
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t do more. I want you to know that your brother was a good man. I will always believe that.”
And despite himself, Mycroft had been touched by those kind words. The Detective Inspector had an openness about him that was unusual, a genuine desire to believe the best of people even though in his profession he saw the worst. He could see why Sherlock, in his way, had valued the man. He’d given the Inspector his phone number, just as a precaution. Whether he knew it or not, Greg Lestrade had been threatened by Moriarty’s criminal network and wouldn’t be safe until Sherlock was able to take it apart.
After the funeral, Mycroft found himself continuing to turn his CCTV cameras to Lestrade’s crime scenes even though Sherlock wasn’t there. Gregory Lestrade was no brilliant intellect, but Mycroft had been impressed with his knowledge and his logic. One evening, after a particularly trying case, Greg had pulled out his phone and sent a text message. Mycroft’s phone had dinged. One new message, from Detective Inspector Lestrade:
[21:40] I’m not going to sleep tonight. You probably never sleep. Coffee?
Surprised, Mycroft had looked back at the CCTV camera footage open on his computer screen. Gregory Lestrade was staring straight into the camera on the corner, waiting for a response. Testing, Mycroft turned the tiny red light in the corner of the camera off and on in a sequence – Morse code for ‘yes.’ He was rewarded when Lestrade grinned broadly.
Ever since that first meeting (it was not a date, Mycroft refused to call it a date), the Detective Inspector and the British Government had been meeting every couple of weeks for coffee. Usually they went to a little hole-in-the-wall café that Greg fancied, and sat for a couple of hours, talking or sitting in companionable silence. Mycroft Holmes did not have a word for his relationship with Gregory Lestrade. He supposed it was friendship, though there were moments where it felt like it might have been something else. If John Watson didn’t murder him in front of the door to 221B, he might have the chance to find out.
Sherlock had assured Mycroft that Greg had thoroughly forgiven him for faking his death. And as a Detective Inspector, Greg had successfully talked his way through hostage negotiations and other tense situations. The current state of things at 221B required that kind of tact. Also, Greg was a close friend of John’s, and might be able to get through to him where Mycroft could not. There was little doubt in Mycroft’s mind that his name was right below Sherlock’s on the good doctor’s shit list. He hadn’t wanted to involve Lestrade, but he hoped the man checked his texts and got there soon.
“Move away from the door and let me at him,” said John. His voice had taken on a low and dangerous quality, and the glint in his eye indicated he might throw Mycroft down the stairs, and then kick the door down to get at Sherlock. Below them, another door opened, and Gregory Lestrade took the stairs two at a time. He got a grip on John’s shoulders. The soldier started to throw him off, then seemed to realize it was only Greg and aborted the movement. Greg didn’t release John’s shoulders, but he did take a careful step back.
“Steady, mate. I don’t fancy explaining to Mrs. Hudson why Mycroft is in a heap at the bottom of her stairs.”
“She’d understand,” said John, the edge still in his voice, and Mycroft privately agreed.
“If you break down the door, or put a hole in the wall, you’ll never get your deposit back,” said Greg.
John cracked a fleeting smile, his posture dropping back into something less combative.
“Two years, Greg. Two years thinking he was dead, mourning, I –“ John’s voice caught, and Mycroft sudden realized something about John Watson that he never had before.
His feelings for Sherlock had always been strong, that had been obvious from their first meeting. And Mycroft had said it himself; the former soldier was very loyal very quickly. But he hadn’t realized John Watson’s feelings ran so deep, that they’d turned from loyalty and friendship into something else entirely. No wonder he’d been so broken when Sherlock had died.
Sherlock had said John had punched him at the restaurant where he’d first revealed himself alive, and had tried to have another go since then. He’d assumed when the man showed up at Baker Street that his intent was violence, but the crack in his voice said otherwise. Mycroft studied John quietly, seeing him in a new light. The doctor took a deep breath and Greg squeezed his shoulder sympathetically.
“I missed him,” said John faintly, “I was angry, dear god was I ever angry at him when he showed back up, waltzed back into the world like he’d never been away, like it was nothing to him, all that time. Still a bit furious about it but – I missed him.”
There was no threat in his words. The anger had drained from him, and standing on the steps in front of the flat he and Sherlock had once shared, John Watson just looked sad.
“Doctor Watson?” Mycroft said, “I’m stepping away from the door.” He could hear the telltale noises indicating Sherlock was on the other side, waiting. Mycroft moved aside, Greg removed his hands from John’s shoulders, and the doctor opened the door.
“John,” Sherlock said, staring at him with wide eyes. No doubt he’d been eavesdropping and had come to the same conclusion as Mycroft. John Watson forewent all pretenses and threw himself at Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the taller man and dragging him into a kiss. Sherlock stood frozen for a moment before he put his arms around the doctor and kissed him back.
Mycroft knew he should close the door, especially because the good doctor was working Sherlock’s shirt loose and Sherlock was pushing the man’s jumper up, but he didn’t seem to be able to. Gently, callused hands reached around him and closed the door. Mycroft turned towards Greg.
“Didn’t see that coming,” said Greg, “I mean I knew John felt - well,” he gestured at the door, “didn’t think they’d progress so quickly.”
On the other side of the door came a loud thud, as though somebody had pinned somebody else against the door.
“Yes, Sherlock, god –“
“I think,” Greg cleared his throat; “we’d better make ourselves scarce.” He offered Mycroft his arm and Mycroft took it.
Out on the street, Mycroft was still wondering how he hadn’t seen it, how he hadn’t seen the real reason behind Watson’s depression when Sherlock wasn’t there, how he’d missed all the signs. If he’d missed that, as obvious as it seemed now, what else could he have missed? What good were his deductive powers if he couldn’t use them?
“Mycroft?” said Greg, bringing him back to the present, “I was just wondering if you’d be able to give me a lift back to mine? Caught a taxi here because it sounded urgent, but I’d rather not pay for another if I don’t have to.”
“Of course,” said Mycroft, “I’ll let my driver know.”
He sent a message to his driver asking him to bring the car. He’d sent the man home upon arrival because he hadn’t known how long the situation would take. Gregory was speaking again,
“Happy for them, of course. They’ve been stupid for each other since they met, really, about damn time. But John’s had it worse for sure. It’s not easy, being attracted to a Holmes.”
He went silent. Mycroft’s brain struggled to catch up with the implications Greg had just made. He wasn’t used to feeling so far behind. He looked at Greg, who was resolutely not looking at him, his cheeks tinged pink.
“Gregory?”
“Shit, Mycroft, I – I mean if John and Sherlock can manage it, maybe – we’ve spent so much time together, since Sherlock - I’m not sure what to call it anymore,” Greg’s laugh was rueful. “We’re friends, I know we are, and I –“
Mycroft’s brain had stopped working altogether. Greg met his shocked gaze and held it. His face was still pinkish but his eyes were determined.
“You’re bloody gorgeous, Mycroft Holmes, and I’m crazy about you.”
Greg’s mouth met Mycroft’s and Mycroft grabbed for him, in danger of falling over with shock and the sheer rightness of the feeling. He had absolutely no experience with any of this – sentiment. Emotions were not an advantage, but for the first time in his life Mycroft Holmes didn’t care. He knew the emotion he felt for Greg Lestrade, and he was seized by the need to make sure Greg knew it too. When they broke apart, Greg’s face had gone from slightly pink to bright red.
“Got ahead of myself a –“
Mycroft stopped him from finishing his sentence by kissing him again.
“On the contrary, Gregory, I think you’ve timed things exactly right.”
Mycroft’s town car pulled up and the two men got in. Greg scooted over so he was pressed against Mycroft’s body.
“Do you need to go back to your flat? I was rather thinking we could go to my house instead.”
Greg’s eyes lit up. His kiss was all the answer Mycroft needed.