Chapter Text
There are many who are shocked to learn of the Iceman’s thaw.
Anthea responds with delight, a gushed oh, Mr Holmes, before she remembers herself and shakes his hand, offering him the appropriate intimate partner registration paperwork. Greg’s coworkers react with congratulatory confusion, a few whispers of wasn’t he married? To a woman? and wait, the freak’s brother? rattling about the Yard, but most are happy for him. Sherlock shows the expected horror; John mumbles the anticipated well-meant, awkward right, okay, and you’re happy?
The Americans, of course, are absolutely floored.
Mycroft has spent upwards of twenty years in international security. Whether on the ground himself or manipulating matters from far, far above, He has been wrapped up in it for the entirety of his career. And, almost since the beginning, the Americans have been wrapped up in him.
In hindsight, he should have seen it coming. American political strategy is entirely based on corruption via hedonism. Sex is powerful. In the history of the world, national secrets have been exposed, personal characters defamed, people killed, and governments destroyed all for a pretty face and a willing body.
Accordingly, the Americans are furious that under five presidents and eleven Central Intelligence Agency directors, they have still failed to corrupt Mycroft.
Mycroft vividly remembers the first time it happened.
He had been twenty-five, rapidly scrambling up the ranks of MI5. He had already started to make subtle moves away from MI5, preparing to forge into his own, independent career. And he’d been at a dinner with the President of the United States. The man was rather dull, if Mycroft was being honest. But even then, the world leaders could tell what a threat Mycroft was. Or, in their eyes, what an asset he could be.
Mycroft had been mid-meal, politely ignoring one of the other diplomats at this tedious function as he droned on about a catastrophic something or other that was really not particularly catastrophic, when the man himself clapped a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft was quite proud of how little he cringed at the contact, though his knees locked immediately in discomfort.
“Michael,” the President said with a sharp-toothed politician’s smile, “have you met my intern, Emily?”
Emily glanced up at Mycroft with what could only be called a coquettish glance, red-painted lips parting in a faux-shy smile. “Hi,” she breathed, leaning forward just slightly to expose her generous chest, and Mycroft only barely held in a laugh.
It was a compliment, in its way, to be seen as a target for such corruption. But subtlety was a virtue that this administration sorely lacked. And so did, apparently, every administration after that one.
Kaitlyn had come next, swapping the timid Emily for someone a bit more forward, with fuller lips and darker hair. Then had been Mariah, Misty, and a girl called Dana who Mycroft was certain was only barely eighteen.
Mycroft was subjected to a parade of the Americans’ flirtiest, skimpiest women, each one certain they could corrupt him. Cameras abounded at every interaction, of course— the most secretive of officials always fell the hardest when a sex tape hit the media.
Years passed; subsequent presidents and CIA directors grew bolder or subtler with their attempts. One director became visibly frustrated when he introduced a voluptuous young lady to Mycroft and Mycroft merely smiled tightly and continued verbally dismantling the new CIA plans for the Russians. There were no more women from the CIA until the next director, who, in fact, did not bring Mycroft a woman.
Mycroft vividly remembers the first time that happened.
Justin was obviously an escort. There was nothing the matter with that, of course, but it did make the poor man stick out terribly in the dull, dim environment of a government social.
Though Mycroft hated to admit it, even some fifteen years later, Justin had turned his head. He had been very attractive, with puppyish brown eyes and a full, soft-looking mouth. Mycroft had wondered for years what would have happened had he given in and indulged in the fantasy that the Americans so dearly wished him to experience. How long would Justin wait to interrogate him? He was no trained operative—Mycroft could obviously see that—so how long would they wait for the real operative to appear from the shadows?
Interrupt as early as possible, if you will, Mycroft had thought wryly as he surveyed the man’s figure, though I’ll perfectly understand mid-way.
Yet the Iceman’s self-control was legendary for good reason. The Americans seemed to decide that if one man could not attract him, no man would. The parade of women resumed almost immediately, interrupted only rarely by the occasional man. Young and old, they came, of all appearances possible. Some were sultry; some irritatingly innocent. Many attempted to trap Mycroft alone in washrooms or empty hallways. A rather entertainingly high number spilled drinks on him, apologising profusely and falling all over him with fluttering eyelashes and pouty lips.
It was laughable, really.
And terribly, terribly lonely.
The Americans had made their intentions perfectly clear. Mycroft folded his private life neatly into a box and buried it deep, deep within, where no one could find it. He erased all quiet dreams of romance; he abandoned even his awkward fumbles for intimacy, paid and unpaid alike.
Finally, they stopped. The Americans had given up. Mycroft Holmes was utterly incorruptible, it seemed.
He was horribly alone, too.
And then— Greg.
Mycroft stifles a smile at the thought. Greg. His Greg. Greg, who hadn’t been put before him like a turkey on a platter, instead blazing into his life entirely without Mycroft’s expectation. Weeks of unexpected flirting had turned into months of dinners. Years of friendship. A stammered confession in the pouring rain. A kiss.
A year of perfection. A year of thoughtful gifts, happy dinners, gentle nights in, and hilarious nights out. A year of kisses in the rain; a year of kisses by the fireside. A year of quiet care.
A year of love.
Even their occasional fumbles were managed; conversation flowed easily, even when the topics ached.
All the while, Mycroft was careful to keep his private life exactly that: private. His life was his own; Greg’s life was his own, too. He had no desire to expose Greg to the conniving serpents with whom Mycroft spent his days. There was no need. There seemed no reason to introduce Greg to his work, to his world— what would be gained? Harassment? Disappointment? Danger? They could only lose, could they not?
Yet Mycroft had noticed. He had picked up the small comments, the quiet questions. The murmurings of Christ, can’t even imagine what it’s like and you went all by yourself? He had fought it for months. Greg could not truly want to witness the world in which Mycroft lived. Greg did not want to know the ugly truth, see the hideous underbelly of the globe. He never asked.
But Mycroft knew he wanted to.
When the garishly ostentatious invitation arrived at Mycroft’s office, he barely bothered to open it before rolling his eyes and flinging it into the bin. But he missed, the gold-trimmed paper sliding along his desk, barely avoiding slipping off the edge. For some reason, the simple misfortune gave him pause. Perhaps… hm. He was overdue for a holiday, after all. It was work, of course, but combining business and pleasure could not hurt, could it?
And Greg had been thrilled.
Now, as the car slows to a stop, Mycroft allows a tiny smile. He glances across the backseat at Greg, who is staring out of Mycroft’s window, open wonder on his face. The driver opens the door; Mycroft steps out, turning back to offer a hand to Greg.
“Oh, fuck off,” Greg breathes as he climbs out of the car, startling a laugh from Mycroft’s lips. “You didn’t tell me this thing was in a bloody castle!”
Mycroft quietly reorganises his predictions. The Americans’ first shock would not be seeing his partner.
It would be seeing Mycroft Holmes’ smile.
Anthea steps out of the front passenger seat of their sleek rented vehicle, her lips quirked in a slight smile that even Mycroft rarely sees. She falls into step behind them as Mycroft guides Greg toward the bright lights marking the front door. It is a rather impressive venue, Mycroft thinks as he gazes up at the vastness of it. Isolated on a great plot of land, the old estate is quite beautiful. He has attended worse events. Even one hosted by the Americans cannot be excessively dreadful, especially in such a location.
“Mr Holmes,” a black-clad staff member murmurs as his party approaches the door. Mycroft hands off his and Greg’s coats, internally rolling his eyes at the ostentatiousness of it all. The Americans’ events are always rather obsessive about appearing… regal, often to the point of ridiculousness. At least the staff are not in costume. It could be far worse, Mycroft thinks with a shudder.
He knows he is focusing on things that do not matter. He chides himself for it as they enter the brightly-lit venue, Greg at his side and Anthea at his heels. He is judging the decor to shift focus from the stress of this event, he knows. From the stress of his presence, rather than the event itself. This one is fairly routine, as these things go. It is ostensibly a purely social event, but all attendees know that is patently untrue. His agenda for the evening is short, though, and much of it will be handled by Anthea, dropping quiet words into the ears of other assistants. Most of the attendees she will speak to are far more assistant to their employers than she is to Mycroft, but they need not know that. She will place the right information in the right hands and then they will both pray that it is appropriately communicated.
Mycroft’s own responsibilities are few. Anthea had protested constantly every time he attempted to give himself another assignment, declaring that for Greg, this should be a purely social event. His presence is a political statement in itself, she had reminded him. As is Greg’s.
Mycroft glances over at Greg, his nerves increasing slightly in pitch and volume. Greg is gazing upward, open wonder on his face as he observes the vaulted ceilings and intricate detailing of the building. Seeming to sense Mycroft’s gaze, he tips his chin down, smiling at Mycroft.
“You never told me it’d be in such a gorgeous old house,” he says, gesturing around them. “Are these things always in places like this?”
Mycroft has never considered the location of these horrendous events before. After a moment’s sifting through his memory, he nods. “I have been here once before,” he tells Greg, forcing himself to look directly at Greg and ignore the eyes that have flicked in their direction in this long gallery. “Many years ago. They hold an event here every year, I believe.”
Greg’s eyes are warm, deep pools of comfort as Mycroft’s nerves knot themselves yet tighter. He seems to understand— perhaps there is a tightness in Mycroft’s voice, a deeper lining of his face that he can see. Mycroft tries to force himself to relax, but Greg’s eyes only soften further as he speaks. “Usually skip these, then?”
“Mm,” Mycroft agrees, slowing their pace slightly. He does not wish to enter the room. Not yet. Not ever, actually, if he could have his way. He knows Greg is excited about this; he knows he will enter eventually. But he also knows that he is terribly nervous in a way he has not been in decades. “As this event is largely social, I often avoid it.”
Greg waggles his eyebrows, drawing a slight chuckle from Mycroft’s lips. “ ‘M I special, then?” he asks. “Come all the way back here for me?”
Mycroft feels his cheeks heat slightly. “You are, rather,” he replies, feeling eyes bore into him from all around. “I expect there may be some— surprise at your presence. Do not let it unnerve you.”
“Don’t let it unnerve you, love,” Greg murmurs, a knowing smile on his face. “Won’t bother me. And if anybody bothers you, they’ve got an officer of the law to answer to.” He winks—actually winks—with his joking words, a hand coming up to briefly touch Mycroft’s arm. “C’mon. I’ve always wondered what you bloody do all day.”
Mycroft hears Anthea smother a laugh as they finally enter the hall. It is just as ornate as the rest of the house, warmed by soft lighting and a rather higher volume of people than Mycroft had expected. This event has grown since he last attended, it seemed. It will have grown three times as excruciating for every additional attendee, he knows.
Champagne glasses appear in his and Greg’s hands, delivered by a discreet server. Anthea declines; Mycroft knows this is so she appears colder. One is considerably more approachable with a drink in one’s hand. People take her more seriously when she is the soberest figure in the room.
He hopes that holding the glass, whether he drinks it or not, will have the opposite effect on him. For once, he almost wants to be spoken to. Better to be spoken to than about, yes?
Mycroft realises that, beside him, Greg has said something.
“Sorry?” he says, glancing over, a faint flush on his cheeks.
Greg smiles. “There you are,” he says. “Miles away, you were. Nah, all I asked was what the hell happens now? Have you got a lot of politicking to do? Schmoozing with the Americans, yeah?”
Mycroft cannot hold back a smile at Greg’s terminology. “Actually, there is very little on my agenda,” he admits. “Anthea has taken on greater responsibility for this event than I.”
Greg’s eyes soften slightly. “ ‘S that for me?” he asks. “You don’t have to stop working just for me. I’m thrilled to be here with you, don’t get me wrong,” he adds, “but I don’t mean to be a burden.”
“You are anything but,” Mycroft reassures him. “I assure you, I am very glad of your company. These events are invariably agonising.”
Greg laughs, taking a sip of his champagne. “Christ, I thought I looked ridiculous when we left the hotel,” he remarks, his gaze flicking around the room. “Don’t look half-bad in here, now.”
“Half-bad?” Mycroft arches an eyebrow. “Greg, you look…” He trails off, unable to find a word of sufficient magnitude.
Greg blushes, seeming to understand his meaning. “Question,” he says. “When you said people might be surprised to see me, did you mean—”
Yet Greg does not get to finish his sentence, interrupted by a subtle gesture as Mycroft suddenly recognises the man approaching him. He has only a moment to prepare himself for his first interaction of the evening.
“Lord Sinderby,” Mycroft says with a hint of surprise. “A pleasure to see you.”
Sinderby shakes his hand stiffly, ever the buttoned-up Briton. “Holmes,” he says brusquely. “Unexpected to find you in attendance. I seem to remember you avoiding this particular function.”
Mycroft braces himself, a strange flutter of nervous excitement running through him. “I do, most years,” he agrees, “but my partner and I thought a holiday in the States sounded rather appealing.”
Sinderby takes a very deliberate pause. Mycroft can practically hear the man thinking. Sinderby is notoriously impossible to catch off guard. This is no doubt a new feeling for the man.
Mycroft suddenly feels rather satisfied with himself. This could be fun, he decides, turning to Greg and gently touching his arm. He might just enjoy this.
“Have you met Greg?” is all he says, the words simple but the meaning thudding heavily onto the tiled floors.
Greg, perfectly on cue, smiles broadly and extends his hand to Lord Sinderby. “Pleased to meet you,” he says, all East End accent and boyish smile. “DI Greg Lestrade. Metropolitan Police.”
Seven people are actively listening to this conversation, Mycroft notes as Sinderby shakes Greg’s hand. At least nine more are watching it from afar. He had expected some oddness, but not quite sixteen people’s attention. It should die down in a moment, though; the assistants will pass Greg’s information to their masters and then everything will once again go quiet.
Mycroft returns to the conversation to find Greg and Sinderby making idle chat about Greg’s work with the police. It is rather less awkward than Mycroft expected it to be. Greg is holding his own, even in conversation with such a pompous fool as Atticus Sinderby.
“I’ve always held such great respect for the profession,” Sinderby is saying.
Mycroft resists the urge to roll his eyes. Greg is a perfect angel, though, nodding along and smiling broadly at appropriate points as Sinderby natters on about this and that. Mycroft is rather impressed. He had been unsure what to expect from Greg. Certainly not meek silence, which is how many politicians’ partners tend to behave at these functions. Yet neither had he expected conversation to flow so easily and comfortably between Greg and the serpents’ nest in which Mycroft spent his days. It was perplexing, Mycroft thought. And somehow quite wonderful.
“Well, I’ll leave you two, then,” Sinderby says suddenly, stiffly shaking Greg’s hand again and nodding sharply to Mycroft. “I wish you a pleasant evening, Detective Inspector, and you a productive one, Holmes.”
Mycroft opens his mouth for a snarky retort, commonplace in his interactions with Sinderby, but Greg speaks before he can.
“Ah, please,” Greg says, a friendly smile on his face, “call me Greg.”
Sinderby takes a moment, then seems to rather puff up at the chest. “Of course,” he says, the closest thing to a smile Mycroft’s ever seen from him ghosting across his face, “Greg.”
Greg leans close as Lord Sinderby walks away, murmuring directly into Mycroft’s ear. “Question,” he says, mirth obvious in his voice. “Was that a gay thing or a we’ve-never-seen-you-with-anybody thing?”
Mycroft adds laughter to the list of things the Americans are shocked to learn he can, in fact, do. He ignores the looks thrown in their direction as he makes a sound that is frighteningly close to a giggle. “The latter, I believe,” he murmurs in response. “I would be rather surprised if it is the first. Though I will add a third to your list of speculations—” he flicks his gaze to the shadowed figure hovering nearby—“as I am certain there are a fair few who assumed I was intimate with Anthea.”
They both dissolve into proper laughter at that, Mycroft noting the expressions of their onlookers as Greg brushes their shoulders together. The contact is even more electric than usual, somehow, setting Mycroft alight. I am his, Greg’s movement seems to display, the words emblazoned on a neon billboard above their heads. And he is mine.