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It started out innocently. A brief moment of giggles in a quiet home between two slightly drunk men. Mycroft threw himself into the familiar steps of a waltz without thinking and with far more abandon than he ever had before. Gregory had clearly forgotten most of the steps he had only learned for a long past wedding that didn't need dwelling on now. Their dance was messy and the embodiment of perfection in Mycroft’s eyes.
The fact that he didn't pull away. The shocked and delighted laugh he let out as Mycroft dramatically spun him. If the government official wasn't drunk before, he certainly felt so now.
The intention was innocent. Mycroft had long since dismissed his feelings about a head of silver hair and radiant smile. But when Gregory’s lips pressed against his without precision, his heart jumped in his chest in an uncomfortable and unprecedented manner.
Despite the rush of the moment, Mycroft would recall everything from that point onwards with complete clarity for many years to come. He only glanced at his tie hitting the floor for an instant, but the image wouldn't leave him. The first brush of Gregory’s hand along the nape of his neck would be permanently ingrained in his memory.
In the moment, he was barely cognizant of his knees hitting the carpeted floor until his fingers were pulling down a fly without being given express permission from his brain. They didn't need it. Mycroft was running on pure instinct and desire.
He treasured every sigh, every moan, every tightened grip on his hair, every unintentional scratch of a nail on his scalp. He didn't pull back until it looked like Gregory’s knees might collapse under him. Only then did he stand, practically scooping his friend the brief distance to the couch.
They talked over painkillers and toast in the morning and had set up a proper date for the next weekend before the detective had to leave. Mycroft would also remember the minutes he spent pressing his forehead against the door, cataloging every moment.