The room was quiet after he’d asked his request and he shifted a bit uncomfortably under the unblinking stare of the consulting detective. John seemed frozen, hand lifting his cup halfway to his mouth before he’d stopped and just looked at Greg. If it hadn’t been so nerve wracking, he would have said it was comical, but there was really nothing funny about this. He’d lived with this too long, if he didn’t at least try to do something about it, he’d go insane.
“…You want me to help you woo Mycroft.”
“I wouldn’t say woo, exactly,” Greg muttered, running his damp palms on his thighs.
“As in Mycroft.”
“As in your brother, Mycroft ‘Minor-position-in-the-British-Government’ Holmes, yes.”
Greg gave him a look before glancing at John for help. He wasn’t even sure why Sherlock was asking. Why else would he be asking this if he wasn’t interested in Mycroft? What part of that didn’t the normally genius man not understand? John seemed to struggle with it, but did break his paralysis enough to speak. He set down his cup, saying, “Because he likes Mycroft, Sherlock. He wants to date him and…things like that.”
Something seemed to click in Sherlock’s head because he paled, a cringe crossed his face, and then his whole body seemed to shudder in what Greg assumed was revulsion. “John, do not ever insinuate Mycroft and sex again. Ever. You just killed parts of my brain.”
Greg frowned. “Hey!”
“It’s Mycroft! Sex. Mycroft! Imagining it is the stuff of my nightmares! How can you?”
“I don’t know, I think sex with Mycroft sounds fantastic, so why don’t you help me get some?” he spat, annoyed at Sherlock’s comments.
Sherlock moaned in horror and actually got up from his chair to go over to John’s and sat on the arm as far as he could get away from Greg, ignoring the doctor’s surprised look at his sudden new chair accessory. “In answer to your request: no.”
“Sherlock, no one alive knows your brother better than you! I’m not going to even get a chance without your help.”
At the stubborn look on the man’s face, he felt his hope destroyed. There was no way he could get anywhere without Sherlock. He had no direct line to Mycroft and had to go through his PA every time and he sincerely doubted the man would rearrange his insanely busy schedule if he just asked, not for a mere copper to have a coffee with. Maybe if he was with the government or had more influence, but he was just a Detective Inspector…
John seemed to sense his disappointment and rallied behind him. “Come on, Sherlock.”
Sherlock gave John a horrified and confused look, as if stunned that John wouldn’t agree with him. “What?”
“There’s no harm in it. At least help him get one date with Mycroft and then let him take care of the rest, right? You won’t have to finish anything. Or think of it like a case. The most intriguing element is Mycroft because I don’t think any of us here have any idea how he’d react, right?”
The consulting detective seemed to hesitate and Greg flashed a thankful look at John, who smirked. They both knew that if Sherlock agreed to help, there was no way that he would stop until Mycroft and Greg were together. There was just no way that Sherlock could leave something unfinished, like getting him one date and that was it. “There is some appeal to manipulating Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered, staring off into space. There was a smaller shudder, as if at some thought he’d had, before he locked eyes with Greg’s again. “If I do this, you have to do exactly as I say no matter what.”
While Greg wasn’t enthused about that, he nodded in agreement. “Where do we start?”
“First off, you have to understand a few things about Mycroft. Don’t expect to pay for anything, he loves shoving how much money he has in everyone’s faces and he will predominantly pick the establishments you will frequent. Even more annoyingly, he’ll probably order for you. Be prepared for his overbearing presence, he does so love to think he’s omniscient. Also, don’t assume you can keep this hidden from him for long. Mycroft is nothing if not observant.”
Did Sherlock think he had just met Mycroft yesterday? He had known the man for years, but he so rarely saw him and talked to him. He hadn’t even gotten close to the door to put his foot in it, but that didn’t mean he knew nothing at all. Still, he didn’t correct Sherlock because he didn’t want to antagonize him and cause him to rethink his agreement.
“We need to arrange a meeting with you and Mycroft and force you to spend time with each other.” Sherlock pressed his lips together before he nodded to himself. “You’ll have to be left in the dark for most of the plans because you’re not a good enough liar to fool Mycroft.”
Oh, he did not like the sound of that. “Sherlock—”
“I’ll keep him in line,” John interrupted, seeing his worried look. “Don’t worry.”
John, keep Sherlock in line. That idea was laughable, but he didn’t say it. Instead, he stood up, straightened his suit and nodded at the consulting detective. “Sherlock, thank you.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t thank me yet, Lestrade. When you do have Mycroft in love with you, you really might end up cursing me instead. You really don’t know what you’re getting into.”
Greg knew that Sherlock was very rarely wrong and he did know his brother more than anyone else… The fact that Sherlock was still willing to give him out told him something and maybe he was right, that he shouldn’t get too close, like a fly to a spider. He considered it for all of five seconds and decided that even if he might be walking toward a web that wouldn’t let him go, he’d do it willingly because there was something about Mycroft Holmes that drew Greg in and made him fall in love.
“No, I don’t,” he said after a minute, “but I won’t change my mind.” Sherlock’s eyebrow rose and he gave Greg a considering look, as if deciding that he was made of sterner stuff than he thought. Curiosity prompted him to ask, “You’re okay with this? With the possibility that I could be dating your brother?”
Greg knew as well as John did that despite the invectives he heaped on him that Sherlock did love his brother. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t get so emotional or angry about it. The consulting detective pursed his lips and grudgingly admitted, “I suppose if Mycroft has to…date someone, you’re the best choice. You’d understand his schedule and his priorities and I suppose you’re not half-bad to look at. You’re easy to manipulate, which Mycroft would find reassuring, and you’re loyal to a fault, so at least you wouldn’t deliberately hurt him.”
“…Thanks for that?” Was that supposed to be a compliment of some kind?
“Go away, Lestrade. Now. I have to clear my brain of the thought of Mycroft having sex.”
He couldn’t help but laugh a bit and closed the door behind him.
Nothing happened for the first few days and the only contact from Sherlock had been a single text later that first day that said to continue as he had been for now. If he hadn’t known that Sherlock never backed away from a challenge then he would have worried the man had changed his mind, but he should have known better. There was no way that Sherlock wouldn’t continue to take advantage of his chance to manipulate his older and slightly smarter brother.
With a particularly savage murder on his hands, though, Greg hadn’t had a lot of time to give much thought to his feelings for Mycroft or what might happen. He had buried his attention in phone dumps of the victim even past lunch and his coffee had gone cold. His office was quiet so the familiar chime of a text sounded terribly loud in his ears. Frowning, he grabbed his mobile.
Stuck in a warehouse with a bomb. Can’t turn it off. Sven minutes left. John’s freaking out. Call Mycroft. Terrorists. SH.
Something clenched in his gut. Sherlock had said he’d been working on a big case, so he had assumed any plans they’d been talking about had been put on hold. Of course none other than the dynamic duo had gotten themselves in a jam. As he yanked on his jacket, another text came giving him the address. Of course it was something to do with terrorists. Did Sherlock honestly just stumble by happenstance into the really big things or was it intentional?
“Hey, where are you going?” Donovan demanded as she saw him almost jog out of his office.
He was already speed dialing the number he had on his phone for Sherlock’s brother. “Got to pop out for a bit.”
He didn’t hear her as he was out the door. The phone rang only once before it was picked up. “Mycroft Holmes’ PA.”
“It’s Lestrade, I need to talk to Mycroft about his brother.”
It was about a few seconds at most before he heard the smooth, velvety tones of the elder Holmes’ voice. It always caused a shiver to go down his spine before he could help it. “What’s going on now?”
“Sherlock’s case seems to have involved terrorists,” he explained, yanking the car door open and getting in. “Now he and John are stuck and they have about seven minutes before a bomb goes off. I was going to call in bomb disposal, but Sherlock said to call you instead. Got any idea why?”
“No, frankly,” Mycroft said and he could almost hear the frown in his voice. “What is the address? I’ll meet you there.”
He pulled the mobile from his ear to forward the two texts he’d received. “I’m about two minutes away.”
“I’ll be there, Detective Inspector.”
The line went dead and Greg focused entirely on getting there in time, yet even in two minutes a sleek black car had already beat him to it. Had Mycroft already been going somewhere? How had he gotten there so quickly? “You call anybody in?”
“If there are still terrorists in the surrounding area, calling in a tactical team will only set them off. Unless you’re sure they aren’t in the building and have found them?”
Greg frowned and shook his head. He looked at the door, noting the lock had been broken and pushed it open cautiously. “Sherlock? John?” he called, but only the silence met him.
Mycroft followed him in, but his PA didn’t. He turned around and asked, “Isn’t she coming?”
“No. Someone has to remain outside to handle directing authorities if necessary.”
“Shouldn’t that be you then?” A devastating ginger eyebrow rose at him as if asking him silently ‘Do you think I wouldn’t come in if my brother was in danger?’ “…Right then.”
They went further into the small and empty office building, but he didn’t see a single sign of John or Sherlock, or even a bomb. He tried the light switch after a minute and found that it wasn’t working. He was about to turn to talk to Mycroft when he felt something hard and heavy slam into the back of his neck. He stumbled forward, falling to the floor, as his world went pitch black.
He woke with a pained moan, rubbing the back of his head. He was on his back now, on a small sofa instead of the floor. “…Mycroft?” he grunted, struggling to sit up and tried to ignore the bout of nausea. It was still dark and he couldn’t see very well.
“I’m here, Detective Inspector.”
“It appears as if we were knocked out some time ago. It’s now evening. I came to around an hour ago.”
“Bollocks,” he cursed, reaching for phone.
“You won’t find your mobile. Both our wallets and phones are missing. I’m assuming they were confiscated by whoever attacked us.”
He peered into the darkness near his right and thought he saw Mycroft leaning back in a desk chair as if it were a throne. “What are we still doing here? Shouldn’t your PA have done something after the first hour?”
“Yes. I’m not entirely sure why she hasn’t. She should have called someone within the first half an hour of no contact unless…”
“Unless she wasn’t able to,” he finished grimly. “If whoever attacked us got to her first.”
“Correct. There is no electricity in this building so we can’t use their phones or computers, the doors are being blocked from the outside, so they won’t open, and the windows have been sealed up, also from the outside.”
“Why didn’t they kill us? Why just knock us out? Where are Sherlock and John?”
“I don’t know,” Mycroft said grimly. “They are not behaving in a way I’m used to people like this doing. It would be far easier to kill us and the fact that they haven’t could mean that they have a larger and more complex plan. As for the brainless pair, it’s possible that either they found a way out shortly before we arrived or they were kidnapped.”
This was demented! It was as if someone had thought of all the ways out of the building and blocked them off to make sure they didn’t…leave… The thought blindsided him. Sherlock and John were gone. The building was literally sealed from the outside to stop them from leaving. Sherlock had texted him deliberately.
It couldn’t be that this was set up by Sherlock. That he would deliberately fake a bomb threat to get Greg and Mycroft in a room together for a few hours in the most clichéd of circumstances. He wouldn’t. …No, he most definitely would. There was no way, though, that he could tell any of this to Mycroft without revealing the entire conversation that he’d had with Sherlock and his reasons behind it. He groaned, falling back to rest on the sofa that Mycroft must have moved him to when he’d come to.
He heard the rustle of clothing and felt a hand touch his shoulder. “Are you all right, Detective Inspector?”
“Call me Greg, please. I think we’ve moved past ‘Detective Inspector’ a few years ago.”
There was a pause before he heard the scraping of a chair near the sofa and the man sat down next to the sofa. “Very well. Gregory. How bad is it?”
How bad was what? Oh, his head. He had mistaken Greg’s groan of consternation for pain. “Now that you mention it, it’s throbbing, thanks,” he said truthfully. Whoever hit him had done a damn good job. He tried to think back to that moment and if he’d had to bet money, he’d swear that the one who hit him so expertly was John. He would swear that he felt that slightly shorter man behind him, now that he was paying attention to the small details in his memory.
“My apologies that I don’t have anything to give you for the pain. It should dissipate soon.”
He smiled a little at the gentleman that Mycroft was. Here he was, knocked out same as Greg had been, and it was hardly his fault, but he was apologizing for not having painkillers. “Don’t suppose there’s anything to drink in here? I could use a coffee.”
“Unfortunately no.” Mycroft sighed, seemingly in longing. “Coffee sounds like a marvelous idea.”
“You probably know all the best coffee joints in town.”
“With the amount of work you do, I bet you drink a ton of it.”
There was a soft chuckle. “Not as much as you think, but I do know of an excellent café that serves the best coffee I have ever tasted.”
“You’ll have to take me there sometime.”
“…Yes, I think I will.”
Why the pause? He swore he had felt those blue eyes rake over his form and he attempted to suppress a shiver at the thought. What did that mean? Did that mean Mycroft was interested even a little? “So…” He struggled to find a topic, knowing this could be the only decent time he got to talk to the man. “You got here even before me.”
“I was already heading in this direction, it took very little to get here.”
“Well glad your PA was there next to you then.”
With his eyes adjusted now to the dark, he could see a bit better and noted Mycroft tilted his head at him. “You are always welcome to call me personally.”
“I don’t have your number.”
This seemed to honestly stump the man. “You don’t?”
“No, just hers apparently.”
“I’m honestly surprised. I thought you would have asked Sherlock for it.” He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a small card, slipping it into Greg’s hand. Was it his imagination that it seemed like his fingers lingered on his? “I must offer my sincere apologies then, Gregory. I had no idea the reason you never called me directly over the years was that you didn’t have my number.”
He couldn’t help but smile. “It’s okay, Mycroft. I’ve got it now.”
“No, I’m afraid it’s not okay. After all you have done over the years, it is an incredible oversight not to have given you the courtesy of being able to contact me directly.”
“Why is it such a big deal to you?” he asked curiously.
There was a pause, as if Mycroft was trying to put together what he wanted to say in the right way. “You have done more for my brother and I than anyone else I have ever known. Your stalwart friendship has helped Sherlock in ways greater than even I could attempt and you have risked your job, and your life, more than once for the both of us. It is inexcusable that if you, in return, needed my help and you were unable to get in contact with me immediately. It is also quite rude, considering that I have had your personal number for years and the courtesy was not shared.”
“…This really bothers you, doesn’t it?”
Greg smiled and sat up a bit, bracing his shoulders against the arm of the sofa as he waited until Sherlock saw fit to let them out. “It’s okay, Mycroft. Really. I’m not upset,” he said, adding to himself ‘not anymore’ now that he knew it wasn’t an intentional slight. He reached out to touch the man’s lower arm in reassurance, fully expecting him to pull away…but he didn’t. Instead he found himself admiring the material the expensive suit was made from, running his fingers idly over it.
“…Thank you,” Mycroft said at last.
“Your understanding of the matter.”
Greg just grinned in delight. “It’s not like it was any great hardship, Mycroft,” he said as he shoved the small business card in his pocket.
Before he could say anything more, or Mycroft, there was a thump at the door and it was thrown open. He looked over Mycroft’s shoulder, whose back was to the entrance of the building, and spotted Anthea. Behind her was Sherlock and John, both appearing grim-faced, but Greg knew for a fact that that was an act. It was too coincidental, there was no way anyone would convince him that this hadn’t been a set up by the younger Holmes brother.
“It is about time, Anthea,” Mycroft told her and stood up, fixing out the creases in his suit.
“I’m sorry sir, I was attacked and knocked out.” There did seem to be a bruise around her eye to prove her story and Greg looked deliberately at the two men in the doorway. They appeared innocent, but he doubted it. “I found your mobiles and wallets in a nearby skip.”
Greg happily took possession of his phone again and noticed quite a few missed calls from Donovan. As he heard Mycroft questioning Sherlock about the bomb and where it was and what was going on, he met John’s eyes. The man had lost the battle and he had to turn away. There was a twinkle in his brown gaze and Greg couldn’t help but smile back.
“Well, isn’t he stubborn,” Sherlock muttered and Lestrade looked up from his notes over to the side of the crime scene to Mycroft.
“Sherlock, this really isn’t the time for this.” The consulting detective raised his eyebrow. “The Prime Minister’s son has been kidnapped!”
“Boring. Mycroft’s resistance is much more interesting.”
Resistance. Sherlock seemed to be of the opinion that Mycroft was somehow resisting feelings he most certainly had, but Greg didn’t really see it. Not once in the past month since they’d had that conversation had Mycroft even acknowledged that they’d had a tentative coffee break in the future. They had, in fact, only spoke once since then and that was over the phone.
“Gregory,” Mycroft interrupted, coming up to them with a bit of a urgency in his step, “what have you found?”
“Kidnapper came in through the window, but there’s no sign of a struggle, so either he was asleep when he grabbed the boy or he used some kind of drug to knock him out. We’re talking to others in the neighborhood, but so far no one saw anything.”
Mycroft pursed his lips, looking at the house and the open window where the kidnapper had come through. He even went over to it, peering inside, and a frown appeared on his face. “This makes very little sense,” he commented at whatever detail that Greg had clearly missed.
“It’s been two hours, we should have heard from the kidnappers by now if they wished to ransom the boy. Something is…wrong here.” He looked suspiciously around the block, even landing on Anthea, who seemed surprisingly calm and almost laidback about the whole situation.
The statesman’s phone rang, pulling him from whatever contemplation he had, and Greg buried himself in work, ignoring Sherlock’s muttered comments. John wasn’t there, something he began to notice only peripherally at first until after the boy had been missing for four hours. Sherlock had remained at his side the entire time despite showing no interest in the case. Finally it settled in his gut and he grabbed at the man’s arm, pulling him away from everyone. “Sherlock, what do you know?”
“Why do you assume I know anything?”
“Because you’re sticking to me like a burr and I haven’t seen John yet. You two are joined at the bloody hip, for god’s sake, so what’s going on?” A budding horror went through him. “You didn’t…”
“Tell me you didn’t kidnap the Prime Minister’s son to help me get a date with Mycroft!”
“Fine, I won’t tell you.”
He groaned deeply and buried his face in his hands. Sherlock apparently honestly thought there was nothing wrong with this. How could he be so stupid as to ask this man to help him with anything, when he apparently thought it was fine to kidnap governmental officials children! “You do realize kidnapping is against the law, right?!”
“Relax, Lestrade, he came willingly. I explained the situation and he agreed to help. He seemed particularly enthused at having some fun making his parents worry about him. Besides, I bribed him with some candy.” Sherlock shrugged, still eying his brother nearby, and began to mutter almost to himself, “He’s being exceedingly stubborn, preferring to ignore what he’s feeling. Perhaps something more direct is going to be necessary…”
“Don’t worry so much, it’s annoying. John is with him.”
“Sherlock, I swear to god—”
“I even left you clues, Lestrade! Find them, lead Mycroft and his peons right to the boy, and earn yourself some praise if you must. You’ll at least impress Mycroft.”
Now he was really, really regretting his decision of asking Sherlock for help. “I didn’t want you to kidnap anyone! Now go over there and tell Mycroft the truth!”
Instead, Sherlock crossed his arms and deliberately stopped talking entirely. After another hour of threatening, cajoling, and begging had had no change, Greg decided he didn’t have a choice. He followed the clues left behind by the younger Holmes and within twenty minutes had ‘rescued’ the boy. The ‘kidnappers’ had conveniently disappeared and, with a hint of smugness at being the center of attention, the twelve year old said he didn’t know who they were and they wore masks, so he had no idea who had taken him.
“Very well done, Gregory,” Mycroft commented to him as they watched the Prime Minister bundle his son into a car and everyone began to disperse. He was not looking forward to the paperwork that he’d have to do that would end up keeping him in his office until two in the morning. Coming home at that hour to an empty flat after three months of being divorced was depressing.
“Thanks, but I didn’t really do anything,” he said, but he wasn’t feeling particularly enthused. His success, the praise he was receiving from Mycroft, was false because it had all been set up. He felt…dirty, like he needed a shower. He didn’t want to do it like this and he began to wonder if he should ask Sherlock to stop. He appreciated the enthusiasm that the other man put into it, but…
“…Are you all right?”
He blinked, finally looking at the taller man. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Then…shall we postpone our meeting? I am aware that I promised to show that small café, but sadly I haven’t had any free time to arrange it before now.”
“No, definitely not. Let’s go now. Anything to avoid the paperwork,” he added with a smile.
“Good.” Like a gentleman, he held open the door to his car and with a bit of hesitation, Greg slid in. The trip to the café wasn’t far, which was good because he really was feeling exhausted. It was nine at night, who drank coffee at this time of night, but he wouldn’t ever turn Mycroft down. Thankfully the man guided him to a small corner booth and Greg didn’t even realize that he’d ordered a coffee for both without even his input. Ah well, not like he cared. He was too tired to care. Besides, whatever he picked was probably going to be good.
“You’re sure you’re all right? You seem to be…depressed. We found the boy unharmed.”
“Cases involving children always do this to me, even if it’s a happy ending,” he said truthfully. “It…bothers me when adults involve children in their problems.”
As the coffee was placed in front of them, Greg took a sip and his eyebrows rose to his hairline. “This…is amazing, Mycroft.”
“Isn’t it, though? It is probably some of the best coffee I have ever had.”
He sighed, leaning back against the booth and relaxing, feeling his muscles drain as he sat next to the younger man. They talked about unimportant things and he couldn’t help thinking that he felt the most relaxed he had been in years…
Greg felt his whole body jerk awake as if someone had set off an alarm right into his ear. “What—” He flailed a bit and there was a grunt. Finally it sunk in that he was being carried and then gently sat down on a bed. “…Mycroft?”
The elder Holmes finally came into view as he blinked his eyes repeatedly, but it felt as if someone had dumped sand into them. “Go back to sleep, Gregory.”
“You fell asleep against me in the café. I’m sorry to have kept you up so late. I didn’t realize you were so exhausted.”
He tried to sit up, but Mycroft pushed him back down and began to tug off his shoes. “Need to go back to work, get the paperwork…”
“That can wait until morning. You need to sleep.”
“...Please don’t tell me you carried me out of the café and to the car.”
“Did you expect I had Anthea do it?”
He moaned in embarrassment, hearing Mycroft chuckle as he gently manhandled him out of his jacket and set it on a nearby chair. As if he’d been there a million times before, he pulled out some of his pajamas from his dresser and set them on the bed with a moment of hesitance. As if steeling himself, Greg watching quietly, he resolutely removed his tie and then his shirt. Was it his tired brain imagining that those fingers lingered a bit on his chest before pulling on the top of his nightwear? “Do you object?” he asked quietly, glancing at his trousers.
Greg shook his head and blessed everything that he was so sleepy that he didn’t react in arousal as he felt Mycroft remove his slacks. He left his boxers on, pulling the soft cotton pants up and then tucking him into bed. “Good night, Gregory,” he whispered, touching the detective’s salt and pepper hair before letting himself out. Greg fell asleep with dreams about the man’s touch.
“It’s Mycroft’s birthday today.”
“Really?” Greg looked up from his place on Sherlock’s sofa.
“I should get him something then.”
John’s arrival in the room from the kitchen made him miss the look on Sherlock’s face. “I know exactly what you should get him for his birthday. This I guarantee will make things impossible for Mycroft to ignore and you’ll get what you want.”
“Really? What is it?” he asked as John handed him a cup of tea. He took a sip, eyebrows drawing down in confusion when he saw the doctor mouth the words ‘I’m sorry’.
“You,” was the last he heard from Sherlock’s lips before he felt woozy and passed out.
There was only a mild headache as he woke, letting out a soft moan of confusion. He was cold and he shivered, but whatever he was lying on was like a heavenly cloud wrapped in silk. Things began to flood back to him and his eyes snapped open. It was hard to miss Mycroft standing next to the bed, staring at him with a blank face. The second thing he noticed was that he was stripped down to his boxers and when he made to sit up, he realized he was handcuffed to the bed. Handcuffed to the bed. His own handcuffs! A ribbon had been hung around his neck with a note attached to it.
Slowly, silently, Mycroft set down his briefcase and umbrella, reaching out and picking up the note, noting the unrestrained fury in Greg’s eyes. He couldn’t say anything because there was a gag in his mouth, but he would kill Sherlock for this. Just kill him.
A ginger eyebrow rose and that smooth, sexy voice said, “Well, isn’t this interesting.” Blue eyes flickered to him, looking him up and down. “It says, ‘Happy Birthday, Mycroft. Please enjoy me as you see fit as your present.’ On the back, it adds, ‘I do mean anything’.”
Mycroft folded the note and set it on the desk with a long-suffering sigh. “I highly doubt that you tied yourself to the bed, so let me hazard a guess: Sherlock. It is, after all, his handwriting. He wasn’t even trying to hide it. I shall have to reprimand Anthea, because he never would have gotten in here with you without her help.” With efficient movements, he released Lestrade and the detective bolted out of bed, murder on his mind. He yanked the gag, a silk handkerchief, out of his mouth.
“That son of a bitch! Yes, it was Sherlock and this time he’s gone too far! I put up with the rest of it, I suffered through whatever plans he thought of, but going so far as to drug me and tie me up here is the last straw!”
In his anger, he didn’t see the way Mycroft moved, how he carefully asked probing questions. “What other plans?”
“The other plans! His genius plans of knocking me out and locking me in a room with you! Of actually bribing the Prime Minister’s son into going along with that kidnapping farce to make us work together! I swear to god, I regret the day I ever walked into that flat and asked him for help!”
“Help with what?”
That question splashed cold water on his anger and he realized that Mycroft had walked closer to him in a predatory manner. “Uhh…”
“Gregory, what did you ask him? Do confirm what I have already begun to suspect since the kidnapping of the Prime Minister’s son. I would like to hear it from your own lips.”
“I…might have asked…him for help…getting a date with you… Look, it wasn’t supposed to be like this! I just wanted a bit of help getting to know you, to…being able to talk to you and maybe go out on a date or two. I just…”
“You have feelings for me. You were hoping to start a relationship.”
Greg sighed. “Yeah. I didn’t know where to start. I didn’t even have your actual phone number. Sherlock is the one person alive who knows you best and I thought… It was a stupid idea, asking him for help.”
He flinched when Mycroft invaded his personal space, but a hand only gently stroked down his neck to the ribbon. “Then I shall have to thank my brother and John, and Anthea of course. He couldn’t have done this without her help.”
Greg blinked. “What?”
He pulled the ribbon apart and Mycroft gave him a predatory smile, gently backing him toward the bed again. “I shall have to thank Sherlock since this is, perhaps, the best birthday present I have ever had.”
Oh, what the hell did he just get into?