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We Have More In Common Than You Like To Believe

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He doesn't really know what he's doing inside the sub-par club.

Well, not really. Greg had asked so nicely, had insisted so much, he couldn't possibly refuse.

He doesn't really know why he agreed to it.

Well, that's a lie too. Greg has a lovely round arse and a sinful tongue, and he had used both in succession to convince him to come to the club.

It's so dark he can barely see the people around him, and the music makes it so he has to yell at his boyfriend to get the message across.

An hour later finds him sulkingly sitting at the edge of the bar that's further away from the dance floor, nursing a glass of truly awful whisky. Greg is nowhere to be seen and he wants to leave right bloody now, but he promised Greg at least 3 hours so there's nothing he can do.

He grudgingly contents himself with the fact that he'll be getting a mind-blowing blowjob after doing this.

A body plasters itself against his back and Mycroft lets his head fall back to the man's shoulder, recognizing Greg by touch and smell.

“Sorry I left you alone, love” Greg whispers an apology and kisses his temple before straightening up once again, leaving Mycroft oddly cold for a moment in the uncomfortably warm club. He spins on his stool to look at his boyfriend, who is wearing a disarming grin. “Look who I found on the dance floor!” Greg says excitedly and turns to face a blond man standing close to them expectantly. “Myc, this is John. John, this is Mycroft”

Ah. He has heard about John, though he hasn't met him before. Army doctor. Second lieutenant. Surgeon. He and Greg were close friends in secondary school and they met again a couple years back during one of John's leaves. Now they go out for drinks every time John comes to London.

Mycroft gives the man an assessing glance. He's handsome, in a rugged, somewhat understated way, but his apparently undeterrable confidence is what makes him really attractive. Bisexual (gay club, so definitely homosexual, but glanced at the group of girls that went past them with a bit too much interest to be strictly homosexual), currently in a relationship with another man (guilty expression after looking at the girls, scans the crowd to see if he's been noticed), left handed (scalpel calluses on his fingers) yet uses his right hand for handling firearms (different set of calluses on his other hand), stronger than he looks (shorter than average, yet completely at ease in his own skin), adrenaline junkie (he's a soldier, for god's sake), caring (doctor), resourceful (if he wasn't before, being an army doctor made him so), perfectionist (surgeon), loyal (not only soldier, but a commissioned officer), practical (simple, yet good and durable clothes, comfortable shoes), hard-worker (has to, to be both a doctor and a surgeon), patient (ditto). Overall, a good man (necessarily, for Greg to hold him in such high regard).

He doesn't flinch under Mycroft's stare. Novel.

John sticks his hand out for Mycroft to shake and gives him a charming smile. “Nice to finally meet you, mate. Been hearing a lot about you” he says in a slightly nasal tenor. An almost imperceptible southern accent, Mycroft can tell. The same as Greg, though his is much more noticeable.

Mycroft gives the man his 'casually polite' smile and shakes his hand. Strong, firm grip, yet not bone-crushing. Exactly what he expected from the man. “Likewise” he says.

“So, Sergeant Lestrade” he pats Greg cheerfully on his back. Greg was promoted only a couple months back and it seems John has only found out now. It's still new enough to joke about it, but Mycroft notices the friendly pride behind the words. “What did you bribe yours with to get him to come here? Pulling off rank already?”

“Beg your pardon?” Mycroft chimes in, looking slightly confused.

John tilts his head slightly to the side and stares at him for a brief moment before replying. “Well, it's just that you don't really seem the clubbing type. You're way too tense. Plus, you've been sitting here for a while now and haven't even finished your first drink” He points his chin at Mycroft's glass, where the two ice cubes it previously held have long ago turned to water.

Mycroft's only reply is a raised eyebrow. John, feeling somewhat uncomfortable now, speaks again. “Sorry mate, didn't mean it in a bad way. My boyfriend's the same.” John snorts and manages to convey both annoyance and affection. “You wouldn't believe what I had to do to get him to come here” He looks pointedly at Greg when he says that and they both laugh, obviously John's relationship a regular topic for both of them.

John turns around, apparently unprompted. “Over here!” he yells and stands on his tiptoes to wave his hand over the heads of the people around them. Oh. The boyfriend then, probably. Mycroft stares at the back of John's head and challenges himself to deduce as much as he can from the boyfriend before he meets him.

Londoner (otherwise John wouldn't be spending his entire leave in the city), taller than John, but skinnier and less muscular (not like that's too difficult), probably from a rather wealthy family (traces of RP English pronunciations), prone to accidents or perhaps just reckless (John only relaxed when he heard him arrive, doctorly concern), elegant and possibly more than a little vain (he was definitely the one that had done John's hair), deeply loyal, at least to John (the doctor wouldn't have accepted him otherwise), somewhat manipulative (John's comment implying whatever he agreed to was not exactly fair for what he got), spoiled (wealthy and manipulative, of course he's spoiled), kind (John wouldn't accept anyone cruel), somewhat antisocial (went away when John found Greg), works in London but leads a fairly active life (recent scrap on John's forearm, possibly a wall, most likely the asphalt street. Another policeman? Greg's friend? No, he'd know.)

The observations pile up one upon the other, mere facts with Mycroft not bothering to weave them together.

If he had, he might have had noticed it earlier.

“John, I don't know why you insist coming here, the bartender is appallingly-” a familiar voice rumbles and a very familiar man enters their little circle. John turns to face the newcomer, but the man's words die in his throat as soon as he spots Mycroft and he closes his lips tightly. His face is completely neutral, but his eyes betray a quick succession of emotions (confusion, embarrassment, rage, realization) before settling in a sort of amused disconcert.

John – who Mycroft realized he had widely underestimated – could clearly read every emotion behind those eyes. Still, he wasn't that good, and his eyebrows raised and furrowed in confusion. “Right” he said, obviously more than used to his boyfriend's oddities. “Anyway, Sherlock, this is Greg – you remember Greg, right? - and his boyfriend, Mycroft. Greg, Mycroft, this is Sherlock.” he made what he thought were the proper introductions, his hand pointing to each of them as he said their names.

Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock reacted. Mycroft's eyes were fixed on Sherlock, while Sherlock stared at everything except his brother.

“Alright, mate?” Greg, friendly as usual, gives Sherlock a couple pats on the shoulder, so strong that the man bends a little to the opposite side. “Good to meet you. 'Bout time I had a face for the name, John never shuts up about you.”

Sherlock finally focuses on Greg and, after a quick glance at John, smirks. “Does he, now?” he preens and shakes Greg's hand.

“Ta Greg, really” John complains halfheartedly, playfully shoving Greg with his shoulder. Both men smile and their start chatting together, momentarily forgetting the other two.

Which means than Sherlock is now staring straight into Mycroft's eyes, a smug smile on his face and a glint on his eyes than Mycroft has learned not to ignore.

Not five minutes have passed when Sherlock's mobile chimes. His grin widens as soon as he reads the message. “John! Patterson has received another letter. Let's go!” he says and all but manhandles John out, the doctor leaving after a few hurried apologizes and awkward smiles that can't really hide his excitement.

“Interesting bloke, ain't he?” Greg comments, watching both of them leave. “Seems like a bit of a handful, though.”

Mycroft can't help the snort that comes out of him at that comment.

Greg looks at him and raises an eyebrow questioningly, but promptly forgets about it. He wedges himself between Mycroft's legs and wraps his arms around a lightly freckled neck. “Now, I think leaving is not such a bad idea” he whispers right into Mycroft's ear, in a gruffy voice never fails to make Mycroft shiver. “What do you say?” Greg nips his earlobe before taking a hold of Mycroft's wrist and dragging him to a cab.