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It's hardly a surprise to find Sherlock's brother sitting in the kitchen. If Greg's feeling trapped by the jazzy Christmas songs and the hubbub of multiple conversations, he can't imagine Mycroft Holmes would enjoy it at all.
Every year, the Baker Street Christmas Eve party gets bigger and louder, and even Greg's finding it a bit much. The flat is full of people, some are John's friends and colleagues, some are Sherlock's clients and vaguely criminal connections. (Greg knows not to ask how people know Sherlock; he doesn't want to learn anything that should be noted in a police file.)
Still, it could be worse. This year, the office Christmas do ended at a pub with thumping dance music, everyone yelling to be heard over the noise. Greg woke up with a sore throat and a headache, despite switching to water halfway through the night. At least here he can use the excuse of getting another drink to retreat to the relative quiet of the kitchen.
Sitting at the table, Mycroft seems lost in thought, his hands steepled under his chin. He doesn't look up as Greg comes in.
"Having fun?" Greg asks, reaching for the bottle of red wine on the table. It's a pinot, which wouldn't be Greg's first choice, but no one's opened the cabernet yet. As a compromise, he only pours half a glass.
There's a sharply raised eyebrow as Mycroft flicks his gaze over to Greg. "Undoubtedly," he says, voice cool with sarcasm.
Greg snorts, grinning. He pulls a chair out and sits down. "I feel like loud music and crowds used to be fun, but maybe I was just drunk."
"Or pursuing other outcomes," Mycroft says mildly.
It takes Greg a moment to follow Mycroft's meaning and another moment to realise Mycroft could be right. If Greg was here trying to pull someone, he might have more tolerance for the noise levels. But Baker Street parties are always such a strange mix of people, and Sherlock's only one step away from work; he'd have a better chance of winning the lottery than meeting someone here.
"What are the chances of winning the lottery?" Greg asks out of curiosity.
"Too small to justify the cost of entry," Mycroft replies promptly and Greg laughs.
"And yet I still buy tickets."
The corner of Mycroft's lips quirk up and his eyes narrow in silent amusement.
Greg sips at his wine. It's not bad but it's not great. "What?"
"You continue working with Sherlock." Mycroft's voice is low, smug and teasing. "It's hardly a surprise you'd be an unreasonable optimist."
No one he works with would describe him like that. Greg feels like he should object but… it's kind of true. He hopes for the best, even though he knows how terrible people can be. "Been paying a lot of attention to me?"
"The appropriate amount," Mycroft replies and it almost, almost, feels like flirting.
Greg gets friendly when he drinks but he knows what flirting feels like: that buzz of interest, that spark of warmth, the urge to smile. And this feels only a few inches away from that, so Greg leans a little closer and toys with the stem of his wine glass. "Yeah? And what's the appropriate amount of attention?"
Mycroft lifts his chin, stares at Greg like he's calculating Greg's shirt size. "Enough to be sure you wouldn't be a bad influence on my brother."
"I haven't been considered a bad influence in a long time," Greg promises and he's rewarded by Mycroft's gaze flicking down to his mouth and back up again.
"I'm not entirely sure I believe that."
"That I used to be a bad influence?" Greg asks, taking a sip of wine. "Or that it was years ago?"
Mycroft tilts his head, mouth curving up into a small, secretive smile. It definitely feels like flirting now. "Bad influence. I doubt you've ever truly wished harm on anyone."
"You haven't seen me when West Ham loses."
There's a thump from the room behind them, a sudden lull as conversation stops. Greg straightens, instinctively turning in his chair to look towards the doorway, ready to intervene if necessary. A moment later someone laughs, and chatter starts up again. So whatever happened, no one's injured. If something's broken, that's John and Sherlock's problem to deal with.
Greg relaxes into the chair. When he glances over, Mycroft doesn't seem to have moved.
"The pedestal table in the eastern corner," Mycroft declares without a hint of doubt.
"The round one?" It's dark and heavy, with dubious burn marks across its surface, courtesy of Sherlock. It also has a single leg and would be easy to knock over, especially after a few drinks. "No wonder it made a noise."
Mycroft agrees with a nod. "Possibly not the wisest furnishing for a party."
"I don't think anyone's ever accused Sherlock of being wise."
There's a flicker of a smile, but Mycroft doesn't insult his brother further. In fact, he doesn't say anything else.
With the kitchen doors closed, the cacophony of the party is muted into background noise. They fall into a silence that feels more comfortable than it should. It's been a big week and it's a relief to be able to sit here quietly. To take a moment just to sip his wine and think about calling a cab soon. Greg drew the short straw this year and he's working Christmas Day, so he can't be up too late tonight.
"I could give you a lift," Mycroft says, apparently reading Greg's thoughts.
"It's creepy enough when Sherlock does that," Greg mutters, "and I know he's guessing half the time."
"I wasn't guessing," Mycroft says primly. He frowns a little, like a well-behaved kid caught sneaking out of bed. "I was extrapolating from the available evidence."
It still sounds like guessing if you ask Greg. But he'd rather have a ride home than argue the point. "If it's not out of your way, I'd appreciate it."
Mycroft doesn't offer any reassurances or claim it isn't any effort. He only says, "The car will be arriving in twenty minutes if you'd like to make your farewells."
Almost empty glass in hand, Greg heads back into the noise and works through the crowd, saying goodbyes to anyone he knows and catching John by the window. He says the right things – thanks for the invitation, great party, got to work tomorrow – but he's already thinking about getting home and sliding into bed.
He gets his coat from the bedroom and then heads downstairs. Mycroft's waiting outside, bundled up against the cold in a soft black coat with a dark grey scarf tucked around his neck. "Ready to leave?"
"Yeah."
Mycroft waves towards a black sedan parked further up the street, and it hums to life, headlights turning on and lighting up the street. Mycroft starts briskly walking towards it, and Greg follows.
When Mycroft stops and opens the back door, it takes a moment for Greg to realise Mycroft's holding it open for him. Greg's not sure how he feels about someone holding a door open for him. It's a pointless gesture, totally unnecessary, but it's kind of chivalrous. A little charming, if he's being honest.
Greg gets in the car. It's warm inside, comfortable. There's a privacy screen between the backseat and the driver. Greg finds his seatbelt and fastens it while Mycroft walks around to the other side and gets in.
"I thought the chauffeur was supposed to open doors for you," Greg says while Mycroft adjusts his own seatbelt.
"I am capable of opening a door," Mycroft replies, forgoing any information about the unseen driver -- both driver and bodyguard, if Greg were to guess. Mycroft doesn't ask Greg for an address, but it's a safe assumption Mycroft already knows his address, date of birth, and National Insurance number. Greg wonders when Mycroft told the driver his address, how the driver knew he wasn't taking both of them back to Mycroft's place.
Does Mycroft ever take a bloke back to his own place? Greg finds that he's fairly interested in the answer to that question.
He settles instead for, "I'm sure you're capable of many things," and is rewarded with another flicker of a smile.
They drive at the slow pace of central traffic. Greg watches the buildings as they pass, the white Christmas lights shining in the dark, the red brake lights of the cars around them. He feels like a tourist, noticing the decorations and how many top floor windows are lit up. They're familiar streets but he's usually the one driving, paying too much attention to idiot drivers to look at streetlamps and neon signs.
It's a very civilised way to travel through central London. He shouldn't be surprised by that. Mycroft seems like the type to enjoy the comforts of civilization. "Any plans for Christmas?"
"Family," Mycroft says, but he makes the word sound like a punishment. "You?"
"I'm rostered on this year." Greg shrugs. "Someone's got to do it."
"If it makes you feel any better, I would much prefer to be working tomorrow."
Funnily enough, it does make Greg feel a little better. "It's not like I had big plans. My brother and the kids are spending Christmas with their in-laws this year, so it was only going to be me on the sofa, watching Christmas specials and eating too much fruit cake."
The look Mycroft gives him is soft, fonder than it should be. Greg's wary of reading too much into it. It feels dangerous ascribing hope or wistfulness to a man more logical than Sherlock. But he still can't help asking, "What?"
"Nothing," Mycroft says, glancing out the car window. He folds his hands in his lap, knees tucked together, taking up as little space as possible for a man his height.
"Nothing? Really? We're alone and it's Christmas Eve, this is the time to say something sentimental and embarrassing."
"Not embarrassing," Mycroft clarifies with a mocking twist to his lips. "Simply… indulgent."
"Christmas is the time to indulge."
Mycroft sighs, in a dramatic way that reminds Greg of Sherlock. "It was a passing thought. That spending a quiet Christmas with you would be… pleasant."
Greg grins. "See? Not so hard to admit. And you know we could do that, if you wanted to. I'm not working Boxing Day."
It's rare to see a Holmes surprised, but Mycroft blinks and opens his mouth, then closes it without saying anything.
"Or if you're more of a traditionalist," Greg offers cheekily, "I could take you out for dinner for a first date."
"No," Mycroft says, watching Greg very closely, "a quiet meal at home will be fine."
"So Boxing Day," Greg says as the car pulls into his street. "Come round to mine in the afternoon. We'll watch telly and eat too much fruit cake."
He should probably leave it at that – get out of the car calmly like a respectable adult – but Greg has the ridiculous urge to lean across the seat and kiss Mycroft's cheek. It's just a peck, nothing salacious at all, but it makes Mycroft draw in a sharp breath of surprise.
"Boxing Day," Mycroft says faintly.
"It's a date," Grey says, closing the car door firmly before Mycroft can change his mind. He hums Jingle Bells under his breath as he heads inside.