Chapter Text
Nearby a pneumatic drill was pounding the road, while out in the street a brass band marched by. Greg groaned and opened his eyes, to discover to his horror he had gone blind in the night. No, not blind, as his brain informed him that his face was pressed up against a wall of some kind of stuffed material. He closed his eyes again, praying for the blessed relief of sleep, except the brass band wouldn’t let him. He rolled to onto his other side and nearly landed on the floor, it appeared his bed had shrunk in the night. Bewildered, he cracked open an eye, squinting in the sunlight and focused on the chair in his immediate line of vision. It contained a bowl, a glass of water and a bottle of paracetamol. Behind the chair he could just make out the fabulous flocked wallpaper of the sitting room at 221b Baker Street. Vague memories of the night before came back to him, Bradstreet and his family, knocking back the Bacardi and Cokes, Sherlock arguing the toss with someone, hitting the decks pretty hard. He hoped that was the worst of it.
Greg groaned again half in pain and half in embarrassment; he consulted his stomach, concluded the bowl was not required, reached for the glass of water and drank half of it down, then decided he should attempt the paracetamol. He fumbled with the child proof lock, of course such things were now necessary at Baker Street where an energetic toddler ruled the roost, before accepting defeat. It required too much effort on his part.
A shrill whistle invaded his head, setting off the pneumatic drill again. It was followed by more harmonious whistling which heralded the arrival of his host.
“Good Morning, sleeping beauty, and how are we feeling today?”
“John, for the love of God, could you keep it down a bit, mate.”
“NOT REALLY!”
“Seriously? You’ve kept that one up your sleeve for over three years?”
“Sure have,” John replied with a triumphant tone, as he deftly undid the paracetamol bottle and handed a couple to Greg along with the glass of water. “Here take these… you’ll live. Now what do you want first, coffee or a quick shower before his nibs gets up and takes all the hot water?”
Greg rather a thought a shower sounded appealing and said so.
“There’s a towel and a spare toothbrush in the cupboard, you should scrub up well enough not to scare the other passengers on the tube on your way home.”
******
The shower was bliss, Greg disregarded John’s more utilitarian brands, and Rosie’s Peppa pig variety and helped himself liberally to Sherlock’s poncey shower gel and shampoo, and while he had no choice but to dress in yesterday’s clothes as he glanced in the mirror as he left the bathroom he both looked and felt a hundred times better than he had expected to. He could almost begin to face breakfast.
Greg found John in the sitting room with a pot of coffee and gratefully accepted the mug that was handed to him, and sat back down on the couch, now free of his bedding.
“No Rosie?”
“Still downstairs. I didn’t want her scarred for life by seeing you in your boxer shorts.”
Greg looked sheepish.
“I might have rather overdone it last night.”
“You could say that.”
“Anyone I need to apologise to?”
“Don’t think so Greg; you were plastered but so were a lot of people. You fell over in the pub and again going up our stairs, but one of the good things about living here is that Mrs Hudson has seen it all before and done most of it. You didn’t proposition anyone or heckle during Bradstreet’s speech, you might get a bit of joshing on Monday, but we’ve all been there.”
There were sounds of movement from Sherlock’s bedroom, followed by the shower starting up.
“Good, he’s awake, I’ll just text Mrs H to tell her I’ll be down in fifteen minutes, and then I’ll do breakfast. You can have something with us if you haven’t got to dash off… Funny…”
John stopped talking and peered at his phone.
Greg looked at John; he had a bad feeling about something but couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
“What’s funny?”
“Mycroft texted me last night and it looks like I called him back, three times no less” John shrugged and “Ten to eleven. Must have knocked my phone when I was herding you into the… what is it?”
Greg groaned again, it seemed all he was capable of this morning, he felt sick, what had John done with the bowl?
“Are you ok, thought of Mycroft making you nauseous. He has that effect on people.”
Greg shook his head, he tried to speak but no words came out. His face must have given something away though as John wasn’t fooled.
“Come on man, spit it out.”
“What?” Greg croaked.
“Whatever it is that’s stuck in your gullet.”
There was a long pause, a very long pause, John finished his text and then stared pointedly at the inspector. There was no way John was going to let it pass; Greg took a deep breath.
“It was me.”
“What?
“It’s all coming back to me; I used your phone to call Mycroft last night.”
“Whatever for?”
“To tell him what I think of him.”
John seemed to find this amusing and burst out laughing, when after some minutes this subsided, he said, “You told Mycroft some home truths and yet you live? I wouldn’t worry about it mate, Sherlock does that at least three times a week, even I have a go sometimes. He’ll have heard much worse from the Koreans… water off a duck’s back.”
Greg put his head in his hands and whispered, “it wasn’t exactly home truths, John. I told Mycroft Holmes what I’d like to do to him…” then rallying a bit, he added “and I hope Sherlock’s never said anything along the lines of what I did.”
John was about to reply when he was distracted by Sherlock emerging, suited, booted and coiffed to the nines, from his bedroom. Greg reflected that Sherlock had no business to look so put together considering the state he had been in the night before, you’d think he would at least have the grace to be hungover, although Greg supposed with the amount of abuse Sherlock had given his body over the years alcohol probably didn’t make that much of a dent.
John poured Sherlock a coffee and handed it to him.
“What’s the matter with him?” Sherlock asked in his usual blunt manner indicating Lestrade.
“He’s having flashbacks, used my phone last night to make threatening calls to your brother.”
“Really?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow, “Never knew Gilbert had it in him.”
Greg had had enough, “I am here you know, and my name is Greg, which you also know, and they weren’t threatening phone calls, at least not in the way you’re talking about, I only wish they had been.”
A penny dropped, and both men turned to look at Greg stunned before John collapsed with laughter. His infectious giggling set Sherlock off, and it was a few minutes before either man was capable of speech.
“Thank you both, I’m glad someone finds it funny.”
John tried, rather unsuccessfully to keep a straight face. “You are honestly telling me, that while I was outside trying to hail a cab, you used my phone to booty call Mycroft Holmes, oh Greg what have you done?”
All three were silent then, as they contemplated the enormity of that Question.
“Do you think he’s heard them?”
“No.” Sherlock said with conviction, “he has minions who listen to his messages for him.”
Greg, relaxed flopping back down on the couch, “Oh thank Christ for that! I mean, they won’t know it was me, will they?”
John scowled at Sherlock and muttered “stop it” under his breath before turning to Greg.
“No, you dopey wazzock. You called Mycroft’s ultra private number, only four people in the world have it, Anthea, Sherlock, his mother and me… if he hasn’t listened to them yet, it’s only a matter of time.”
Meanwhile Sherlock had wandered over to the window. “I can tell you with absolute certainty that he has heard them.”
Greg gasped, “Is that another one of your deductions?”
“No need to deduce anything, his car’s just pulled up outside.” Sherlock turned back to face the room and said in his most dead pan voice “Well Inspector, it appears your milkshake does bring all the boys to the yard.”
Greg was off the couch in an instant, panic across his features. “Where can I hide? There must be a fire escape… What about upstairs, John’s room? Doesn’t the window open out onto the roof?... Sherlock! Help me, this is your fault.”
“My fault?”
“If you hadn’t got vocal in the pub last night., Mycroft wouldn’t have had to send that text, John wouldn’t have left his phone and I wouldn’t have been able to make those calls, so your fault.”
“Don’t quite follow your logic, Lestrade, but even so you’re too late.”
In the silence that followed they clearly heard a heavy tread on the stairs. All three turned towards the door.
John took control. “Right! Whatever is going to happen next doesn’t require an audience. Sherlock… with me.”
Both Sherlock and Greg protested, but for different reasons.
“Don’t leave me,” Greg pleaded.
“Sorry mate, you’re on your own.” John said, just as the door opened.
“Morning Mycroft. Sherlock, I said you, me, Rosie, Speedy’s – now. We’ll leave you to it.”
John bundled a reluctant Sherlock out of the door, as it closed their peals of laughter echoed on the stairs.
Flustered, and aware he was not at his best, Greg compensated by trying to play host, offering Mycroft coffee and a seat, both of which he declined. Greg cursed the man for being so utterly composed, and for not sitting down, which meant that Greg, who was really feeling quite faint ended up standing too. Greg decided the only way to survive the ordeal was to face it head on.
“Look what I said last night,” He began, “Those messages…”
“I sincerely hope, Inspector, that you’re not about to say they were the result of a dare or a bet.”
Greg, who had been toying with both excuses, was effectively silenced.
Mycroft examined his fingernails and said idly “I understand it is claimed that drunks, along with dreamers, find it impossible to lie.”
Greg latched onto the comment and replied, “Having arrested more than enough drunks to last a lifetime, I wouldn’t agree.”
“I concur, a liar when drunk will lie to save his neck, it is the fundamentally honest man who will struggle. You are, I believe a fundamentally honest man, are you not Inspector?”
The fingernails received another perusal. Greg could stand it no longer.
“Look Mycroft, if you are going to have me done for sexual harassment, just say so, the Chief will have my resignation on his desk first thing Monday morning.”
“Not at all, Inspector, nothing could be further from my mind.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Well, as you ask so directly. I would like to take you up on your kind offer.”
“My kind offer?”
“I hope you are not going to make a habit of repeating everything I say, Gregory it could make any association between us quite wearing.”
“Association?”
Mycroft inclined his head by way of warning and Greg stuttered an apology. Mycroft continued. “According to your telephone message, which we have verified to be the truth, you apparently ‘fancy me rotten’ and rather to my consternation, although I have had some years to acclimatise to the idea, I feel the same… Do sit down, my dear, before you fall down.”
Greg sat down rather heavily on the couch.
“Perhaps I will join you.” Mycroft settled himself next to Greg, “Where were we? Your offer, something about a good seeing to?”
“Do you have to be quite so literal?”
“Did you not mean it?” Mycroft’s composure faltered a little.
“No, I mean yes, I did mean it, but I wasn’t thinking straight...” Mycroft smiled. “Stop it, I just mean we’re not kids, neither of us, sorry, this is probably going a bit fast, but I’m not looking for just a hook up, so if that’s all you’re after… I’d rather we knocked this on the head before it gets too messy.”
“I’m amenable to exploring all possibilities. If it helps Gregory, I have liked you for a long time.”
“Have you?" Greg registered his surprise before continuing, "It does, thanks.”
“Good. We can work out the finer details at leisure.”
Mycroft took a small black book from his inside jacket pocket, it turned out to be a diary “I took the liberty, I hope you have no objections, of downloading your rotas for the next six months this morning. We are both busy men, and I thought it would save valuable time if I knew when you were likely to available.
“I see that, barring incidents of national importance we are both free next Friday evening, shall we have dinner and take it from there?”
Mycroft smiled again, but Greg now recognised it as masking nerves.
“Sure, I’ll get my people to call your people.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Joke… Mycroft.”
“Ah yes, a joke… very good.”
“You really do have people, don’t you?”
“Yes, Gregory, I am afraid I really do.”
“It’s going to take a bit of getting used to.”
“I hope you are willing to try.”
“Yes, my dear, I’m willing to try.”
They sat on the couch together for some time, not talking or touching but with the air of having settled something.
Greg sighed “Those two are going to dine out on this for years.”
“For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?”
“Seems a bit much, when they can’t even sort their own act out.”
“Perhaps we could give them a little push.” Mycroft reached over to pick up John’s phone from where it lay on the coffee table, as ever it was unlocked.
“Now let me see,” Mycroft quickly typed a text then took out his own phone.
“It’s no good,” Greg observed “They’re down in Speedy’s together. Sherlock’ll know the text isn’t from John.”
“Ah but you see I have on my phone a useful little addition developed by our American cousins. It clones any phone you put it against, like so, and can set a delivery time for the text and make the message disappear. Perhaps you’d care to take a look before I press send.”
Greg leaned in a little close, taking the opportunity to breathe in the scent of this gorgeous man, his gorgeous man apparently, as he read what Mycroft had typed.
“Yes, I think that might do the trick, go for it,” reading the text one last time before it disappeared.
“Sweetheart, when are you going to divorce your work and marry me? JW”