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It had been one of those long, burdensome weeks. Responsibilities and meetings piled up, and the nights went by without sleep. The excessive workload that had unusually overwhelmed Mycroft Holmes finally took its toll on him - a toll even his brilliant mind couldn’t avoid. It was truly tragic.
So when Mycroft finally returned home after holing up in his office for three days straight, he didn’t even bother to notice that raindrops were dripping off him in abundance, turning the hallway floor into a muddy puddle. His umbrella and the ride home were no use against the nasty weather, which perfectly matched his utter exhaustion.
As soon as his dark gray coat hung on the coat rack, Mycroft crossed the threshold into the living room without a word, meeting the brown eyes fixed on Holmes’s unusually hunched figure.
Greg was sitting on the couch, curled up under a blanket with a bowl of salty snacks that Mycroft couldn’t immediately identify. In his hand rested a remote control, warm from constant channel-surfing.
“You look like you went looking for Atlantis.” Lestrade laughed, receiving an offended look in return. “I guess this wonderful weather hasn’t been kind to you.”
“Your powers of deduction never cease to amaze me.” Mycroft practically threw himself into the empty seat next to him, loosening his tie. He looked absolutely exhausted and a bit older than he actually was. His pale face was highlighted by dark circles under his eyes, and his lips seemed suspiciously blue to Greg. “The local elections. The case of the serial bomber in North Wales. The particularly brutal murder of the ex Prime Minister. And Sherlock. At the end of the day. Like a bullet between the eyes.”
Mycroft cupped his entire head with both hands, as if he wanted to squeeze out all the thoughts inside that were keeping him from getting a wink of sleep. Lestrade felt a pang of sympathy in his chest, so he set the bowl of crackers aside to wrap his arms around the exhausted man.
“That’s okay. It’s over now.” He said soothingly, stroking Mycroft’s back, his hand making slow circles. “You’re so tense...”
“Try not being tense when your brother ended up in detention for breaking and entering because the apartment’s balcony seemed ‘suspicious’ to him.” Mycroft hissed through clenched teeth, but quickly regretted it. His migraine was starting to bother him again. “Sorry,” he mumbled, to which Greg waved his hand somewhat theatrically, still smiling tenderly. “…Why are you here? Weren’t you supposed to have a night shift?”
“I was. There was a slight change of plans. A colleague asked to switch shifts. Apparently, a date or something.” Lestrade explained simply, his tone making it clear that it wasn’t important right now. “But you know. I’m glad I’m home early.”
Mycroft lifted his face from behind his hand, looking to Greg for some further explanation of that statement. The inspector shrugged.
“I’m here with you. I can take care of you.”
He said it so casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. With the corners of his mouth slightly turned up, his hands fully focused on trying to comfort the body of someone he loved. For a moment, Mycroft tried to find something in him that would indicate he was joking. Maybe a quick glance to the side, a millimeter-wide furrow of the brow, a hesitation in the practiced movements of his fingers. But the longer Holmes looked, the harder it was for him to focus on spotting any contradictory signal.
Well, he just had to believe Greg when he said he was being sincere. Although he didn’t fully understand the need Lestrade had expressed.
Instead, Greg placed a warm kiss on Mycroft’s furrowed brow, taking his time with it.
“You absolutely have to take a bath,” he remarked after that long moment of silence.
“Is that a suggestion?”
“You haven’t set foot in this house in three days. Even someone as obsessed with hand sanitizer and fancy hygiene products as you must need to wash that entire damn week off.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes, but unfortunately had to admit the other man was right. No matter how hard Mycroft tried to mask it with expensive cologne and deodorant promising 48-hour protection against sweat, his exhaustion was taking its toll. He needed a good bath. To relax. Maybe his spine would finally stop treating him like its worst enemy.
Greg seemed to sense what Mycroft was thinking, so with a quiet groan typical of a middle-aged man, he got up from the couch and muted the commercials playing in the background for a moment.
The walk to the bathroom was silent. Usually talkative and quick with a sharp remark, Mycroft massaged his aching temples, occasionally rubbing his bloodshot eyes. As Greg walked up the stairs of their house in his ridiculous socks (it’s worth noting that they didn’t match; one featured something like piggy banks, and the other had a pattern straight out of a grandmother’s tablecloth), he said nothing. Unheard of. The date of this silence regarding Lestrade’s lack of taste was worth noting and remembering.
“Undress. It should fill up soon.” Lestrade said, testing the water temperature in the tub with his hand.
Mycroft didn’t hesitate for a moment. Six months ago, he would have been reluctant to appear naked in front of another person. When Mycroft first stayed the night in Lestrade’s old apartment because they'd worked late on a case involving the British government’s elite, Greg had offered him a place to sleep. Their relationship was no longer at the stage of awkward small talk that made Mycroft’s ears turn red (something he had always hated). It was much further along - the first kiss, the not-so-first dinner he’d agreed to after the inspector’s relentless pleading. But back then, that kind of intimacy wasn’t on the table. Not that “please, stay for the night” automatically equaled sex. But even the slightest sharing of a bed - an attempt to establish a certain physicality encompassing a sleeping body - somewhat discouraged Mycroft.
And to be even more precise, it terrified him.
The relationship, however, managed to teach him something more than the unceasing deduction of his life, linked to constant evaluation, criticism, and overly harsh conclusions about himself. He couldn't speak of love for the body, but rather of a process of acceptance over the past few months. Because Mycroft was beginning to forgive himself a little for being middle-aged. For not being athletic. For not being perfect. Greg made it easier by doing so little at the same time...
He simply desired Mycroft. Sexually, or perhaps just on a human level. Lestrade wanted to see that man in bed, but also in the kitchen drinking the same tea; Earl Grey with milk and two teaspoons of sugar. He wanted to see him reading in an armchair, wearing the glasses he kept secret from the world and which Greg was the first and only to discover. He longed to see him, no matter how and where.
In his three-piece suit, an elegant tuxedo, in a bathrobe. And naked.
Just as Mycroft stood now. Lestrade had been staring at his body for quite some time, completely forgetting about the bathtub filling with water.
Mycroft would sometimes deny himself his favorite sweets because of a complex about his extra weight. It wasn’t extreme, but it happened that Greg would tuck into a well-deserved doughnut after work while Mycroft clearly fought the greatest temptation, shooting Lestrade a deadly glare. Sherlock often teased his older brother about his slightly rounded figure, and Lestrade quickly realized that deep down, and despite his pride, Mycroft remembered those comments all too well.
The understanding and directness with which Greg expressed his view of Mycroft's body soothed the scars left by years of doubt. They didn’t disappear, but they became much more bearable to live with.
“Gregory.”
Lestrade blinked few times, realizing that Mycroft was standing directly above him.
“Turn off the water before you flood our bathroom.”
Ah. Water was still running from the faucet, though the tub had long since been full enough, the foam forming a fragrant cloud resting on the surface of the water. Mycroft didn’t hesitate for long. He stepped into the tub, letting the warmth wash over his feet first, then slowly sat down and leaned against the wall. He involuntarily let out a groan he’d been holding in for what felt like a whole week. His shoulders instantly relaxed, and his eyes fluttered.
“Is your back still bothering you?” Lestrade asked, sitting down on the edge and brushing aside Mycroft’s hair, still damp from rain and sweat.
“Bothered is an understatement. Medieval torture is definitely a better description,” he muttered indignantly, and Greg refrained from snorting at the overdramatic statement. “Anthea says I sit at my desk too much.”
"She's a smart woman then."
Mycroft decided not to reply, but they both knew that if it weren’t for his exhaustion, he would give Lestrade another meaningful look.
“I’ll get the ointment. I’ll be right back.” And with those words, Mycroft was left alone for a moment, openly relishing the way the water caressed his skin, and muscles he hadn’t realized were tense began to relax.
The weight of the week lifted, and Holmes felt as if he had finally exhaled the breath he’d been holding. Exhaustion caught up with him and seeped into his very bones. But now he no longer had to fight it. Certainly not alone.
With every passing minute, his eyelids grew heavier, his shoulders sank lower, until the only part of his body protruding was his head - not even that, since his chin was completely submerged. It was a blissful feeling; to be able to surrender to sleep without a shred of guilt, as he once had.
What woke Mycroft was Greg returning to the room, carrying a wooden breakfast tray in his hands, the sort they were more likely to see in the bedroom than in the bathroom. On the tray was a single, unlit candle, which he immediately placed in the corner of the tub. To his embarrassment, Mycroft must admit that he couldn’t read the label from that distance. But that wasn’t what interested him now. Because after lighting the scented candle, Lestrade picked up a glass bowl of strawberries drizzled with dangerously tempting chocolate.
Holmes felt a faint blush tickle his cheeks.
“A little sweetness after a bitter week,” Greg declared, picking up a plump strawberry and bringing it to Mycroft’s lips, waiting for permission. “To survival.”
Mycroft wanted to repeat those words, but nothing came out of his mouth. Instead, he parted his lips slightly, and after a moment felt the sweet-tart taste of the fruit mingle with the still-warm melted chocolate on his palate. Before he could savor it himself, Greg was already gently rubbing his lower lip with his thumb. On his face was still that slightly amused, warm smile.
“The day I discovered that chocolate is your weakness will forever be one of my favorites.”
He remembered that day. The case of the thief at the nuclear power plant. Mycroft had been informed by Sherlock of the pattern in which these crimes were taking place. Theft and the potential trafficking of biochemical waste were the last things Mycroft had wanted to deal with at that time. Lestrade still remembers how the irritated man waited for any update regarding the capture of the culprit, taking sips of his cold coffee again and again, when, in all his anger, he finally mistook the paper cup and drank the cheap chocolate from the machine in the waiting room. Now Lestrade found it incredibly amusing that it had taken so little to ease the great genius’s anger.
“Don't exaggerate,” Mycroft protested as he settled into the bathtub. “Chocolate won't help my back.”
“You know, all you have to do is ask,” Greg raised an eyebrow, laughing, and set the tray on the bathroom counter next to the sink. Mycroft looked a little disappointed until Lestrade opened the tube, which smelled exceptionally strong of herbs. He squeezed some ointment out and began rubbing it between his hands to warm it up, so it wouldn’t shock the fastidious Holmes with its coldness. He would definitely take offense at that.
The next moment of silence was filled only by the sound of small movements in the water and Lestrade’s hands as they applied a layer of thick balm to Mycroft’s arms and shoulders. The touch was already practiced, but it still held that hint of flirtation, especially when Greg’s finger brushed against one of Mycroft’s collarbones, and Mycroft instantly turned his face toward him as if he wanted to say something. Instead, their lips met briefly. Their noses brushed tenderly before they parted to look at each other again.
“That’s enough. After the bath, a second layer on the lower back.”
Mycroft rested his head in his hand, as if to hide his obvious satisfaction.
“You really don't want me to fall apart on my way to the bedroom."
“That would be a great pity.” Lestrade grabs another strawberry, tasting half of it himself and bringing the rest to the lips he had just joined with. “Will you be so kind as to wash your hair yourself, or should I continue to do everything for you?”
“If that's what you want.” Mycroft replied contentedly, not even arguing much against the accusation of his supposed laziness. Or perhaps simply acquired comfort. “I won’t stop you.”
Lestrade feigned irritation for a moment as he opened a bottle of expensive shampoo, the only brand Mycroft actually would tolerate, its distinctive scent of essential oils more reminiscent of perfume. Over time, Greg found himself unable to imagine his beloved smelling any other way. The scent he wore reminded Lestrade all too much of morning kisses on the forehead or of a head resting on his shoulder while watching a predictable action movie.
With just a few strokes, Mycroft’s hair was submerged in foam, and Greg couldn’t resist scooping up a small bit on his finger to draw a fluffy spot on Mycroft’s nose.
“Very mature, Gregory.” Mycroft groaned, triggering an uncontrollable wave of laughter in the man. “Remind me. How old are you turning this year?”
“Oh, shut up.” Greg chuckled as he rinsed the foam off Mycroft, which was now resting not only on his hair but also on his face. “It’s me giving you a bath.”
“Which was your suggestion.”
“Which you didn’t hesitate to take advantage of, if I recall correctly. Without batting an eye.”
Stepping out of the tub, Greg wrapped a towel around Mycroft’s wet body. While Holmes stood in the water sucked down the drain, Lestrade dried his hair, trying not to rub it too hard. Mycroft’s fingertips remained wrinkled from being soaked in water for so long, yet he offered the man his hand so he could step out of the tub more easily.
“Now I can let you into bed.” Greg grins and crosses his arms, watching as Mycroft puts on his robe by himself from now on.
“You say that as if you weren't the one who, after a sixteen-hour shift, goes straight to bed instead of taking a shower.” Mycroft retorts, picking up one of the toothbrushes lying in the cup. “At times like this I want to strangle you.”
“You'd be too sad without me,” he replies smiling. “You wouldn’t find another one who could put up with you.”
Mycroft couldn’t argue with that. He didn’t have the slightest intention of doing so. Because while he believed that the universe isn’t lazy and nothing happens without a reason, he actually felt incredibly lucky to be able to share his life with this particular man.
“Well,” Holmes began, sitting up as Lestrade rested his head on the fabric of his cotton bathrobe. “If I haven’t lost my mind yet, I think I’m capable of putting up with you a little longer.”
And Greg smiled even wider at that, planting another kiss on his beloved’s jaw.
Mycroft Holmes doesn't remember the exact moment he forgot about the exhaustion that haunted him.