I’m going to kill Sherlock, Greg thought to himself, not for the first time in his life. Not for the first time that day, if Greg was being truthful with himself. However, never once in all the years that he’d known the younger Holmes had Greg meant it so seriously. And it was all because of Holmes the elder, a murderer, and a very small, very tight closet.
Greg had to swallow back a strangled giggle before it could do more than make its way into his chest. He was in the closet. Literally. And bloody god be damned if he wasn’t eager to leave it, posthaste. The issue, of course, was the fact that he was not alone in said closet. The bigger issue than that was who he was in the closet with.
Mycroft. Bloody. Holmes.
He assumed this was cosmic retaliation from his taking the mickey out of John the other day about his unacted upon crush for his flatmate and resident pain in Greg’s rear end, but then even after his excruciating divorce with the ex-missus, Greg had never thought the universe could be so cruel. And yet…
Here he was.
In a dark…
Much too small closet with none other than the great and terrible Mycroft Holmes himself.
All because Sherlock had been chasing some international serial killer-for-hire named after some sort of poetry. Mycroft, meanwhile, had apparently likewise been on the case, assisting one of the MI numbers in tracking down her location. And now here they were, Greg somehow caught in the middle after one of his main suspects to a murder case was assassinated in police custody, stuck in a bloody closet together while the killer hunted them.
Greg was of half a mind to simply chance the killer and get as far away from an enclosed space with Mycroft Holmes as possible. He was already having to refrain from asking if that was Mycroft’s brolly or if he was just happy to see him, but he really didn’t think he’d be able to say that without dying. His own “brolly” was going to want to wake up soon with how closely they were pressed together, a scant inch or less between them, Mycroft’s hot breath ticking the hairs at his ear as they tried to find a comfortable position without giving their own location away.
God, he needed a stiff drink.
Better make that two, he thought as he tried to shift his weight some and ending up all but sprawling himself against Mycroft’s chest, their legs already tangled together as they tried to both fit in the only hiding spot available to them on short notice. Mycroft let out a small grunt at the additional weight, and it was really becoming far too much for Greg’s lizard brain. It had been a long time since he felt the solid shape of a man against him, or any shape of another person for that matter. Praying to whatever deity was listening at the moment, Greg hesitated before placing his hands at Mycroft’s (surprisingly slim underneath the bulk of his ubiquitous suits) waist to grant him enough leverage to shift away just the smidgeon necessary to unpress their lower halves, hoping Mycroft understood and forgave the need.
A startled, abrupt laugh burst from Mycroft’s lips, the muscles under Greg’s fingers tensing as Mycroft automatically jerked away.
Both froze in horror (and surprise), waiting for the muffled shot of a silenced gun to piece the flimsy wood of their hiding spot, or for the door to simply be ripped open to reveal the villainess and whatever creative instrument of death she had on hand this time, and only as the seconds passed into minutes (but which felt like hours) without outside noise did they allow themselves to relax. Were they safe then? Had the killer left? Escaped? Been apprehended?
Most importantly, however, what the hell was that?
Replaying it in his mind, Greg came to the startling conclusion that Mycroft Holmes, the man behind the British government, was ticklish. Jesus fuck. Was that really what had happened? His fingers, still lightly pressed against Mycroft’s clothing, itched to try again. He had to know. And, to be fair, they were still in a very awkward position, knees bent uncomfortably so, feet at unnatural angles. If he didn’t more soon, he may very well be unable to support himself much longer, and then they’d really be making some noise. So, you see, he had to grab Mycroft by the waist again to give himself the support he needed to give them both some much needed space. It was simply a necessity and nothing else. Besides, it seemed like the killer was gone and they’d never be able to exit the closet in the position that they were in.
So. He went for it.
With more purpose this time, Greg’s fingers moved in against, pressing into Mycroft’s waist, sliding to his lower ribcage, squeezing as a moment later he pushed away to attempt to get his feet under him properly; Mycroft, on the other hand, twisted away with another choked laugh, breathless and almost panting, confirming Greg’s beliefs. Mycroft Holmes was bloody fucking ticklish. Greg’s mind didn’t know what to do with that information, froze as implications set in, and was still frozen when the closet door was summarily ripped open while Mycroft gasped for breath.
Light assaulted them, causing Greg to blink automatically, but it took some time before he could focus on Mycroft whose face was an alarming (and yet charming) shade of pink. And Mycroft refused to look back at him.
“Honestly,” a disgusted but familiar voice huffed. “If you two are quite finished, the killer got away over fifteen minutes ago. What have you even been doing in here?”
Greg slowly dragged his eyes to Sherlock, who was staring at a pink and ruffled Mycroft in clear disdain, John a short distance away watching them both with raised brows. Right. Well. Maybe it was time for that stiff drink or six after all. If John didn’t wipe that look off his face, he’d make him buy them.
A few awkward moments later, he and Mycroft were disengaged and all four of them were leaving the dilapidated building to convene with the woman heading the manhunt for this killer, a terse silence between him and the elder Holmes, when a sudden thought assailed him:
Mycroft didn’t even have his umbrella that day.