Chapter Text
Greg knew that Mycroft knew that he knew.
And he knew that because they were shagging each other’s brains out every time they met to talk.
He figured it was because even while Mycroft didn’t seem to think Greg was a complete idiot, he was nothing in comparison to Mycroft, so even a veiled reference to Greg knowing something he shouldn’t because he’d figured it out on his own must be like porn to the elder Holmes brother. There was something about this situation that made them both absolutely mad for each other, like they’d die in the next hour without an orgasm gotten at the other’s hand. The electricity of it kept Greg going back for more.
And Greg wasn’t…entirely blameless in the fact that he began regularly bringing it up just to push all the right buttons. One mention that he possibly knew and the next thing he knew, Greg had his legs in the air while Mycroft pounded him through whatever surface they happened to be doing it on or vice versa.
If anything, Sherlock Holmes’ death had done wonders for his sex life.
Greg looked down at the scotch in his hand, glowing a beautiful golden colour as it caught the light of the fire. This was one of the most decadent rooms he’d ever been in his life. The sofa was so comfortable he couldn’t bear getting up and every piece of furniture in the room was expensive.
And then there was Mycroft Holmes, the epitome of posh comfort, sitting beside him. He looked tired. Greg guessed they’d both had pretty shit weeks for one reason or another He probably shouldn’t have pushed his way into the man’s home when he was trying to rest. Ah well, he was here now.
“Doesn’t seem like he’s gone, does it?” Greg mused slowly.
“Gone is such a useless way of saying it,” Mycroft sighed impatiently, “Why don’t you say what you really mean?”
Greg shrugged.
“Maybe he’s not,” Greg replied. He looked off into the distance.
“What do you mean by that?” Mycroft asked sharply, frowning at the other man.
“Well you know,” Greg said contemplatively, “Loads of people say that they’re always with us, right? Don’t think they’re far off myself.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Are you saying Sherlock Holmes is alive if only in our hearts?”
Greg smirked. “More than that, Mycroft. He’s alive in more than that. Even you can’t deny that.”
Mycroft’s expression cleared. “Do you really think I want to think of my brother right now?”
Greg nodded, sure of it. “I don’t think you ever stopped.”
He winked.
Mycroft pounced on him.
“You know,” Greg said with a smile, sitting on the corner of Mycroft’s desk, “Sherlock would throw a fit if he knew what we were doing.”
Mycroft’s eyebrows rose but the rest of his expression was quite bland.
“Given that he’s been dead for some time now and likely to be for some time in the future, I don’t think there’s a reason to worry.”
Greg reached out to stroke Mycroft’s tie. He could see the man’s eyes growing dark.
“Maybe I should say we’re shagging at a press conference,” he teased with a smirk on his lips, “If anything could make Sherlock Holmes return…from the dead, that might just do it.”
“Do you think it likely?” Mycroft asked, his head tilting up.
“Oh I think it’s a certainty,” Greg whispered, his breath wafting against the lips being offered to his own.
Mycroft pulled Greg’s head down and kissed him hard.
“Anderson is convinced Sherlock is alive, you know,” Greg said by way of greeting.
Mycroft sighed. “And good evening to you too,” he said tritely, standing up and smoothly moving towards the detective inspector. “I presume you told him the truth.”
“I told him to all intents and purposes, Sherlock was dead,” Greg answered, cocking his head a bit, “and just because he figured out evidence to prove he was alive didn’t mean he’d come back because of it. That good enough?”
Mycroft looked down for a moment. “That makes it sound as if you’ve given him hope that he will come back, does it not?”
Greg grinned. “Well I didn’t say it exactly like that. Besides, he’s still convinced.”
“Hope springs eternal then?” Mycroft asked, smiling.
“You bet it does,” Greg replied gruffly before pulling the other man into a passionate kiss. Mycroft pressed himself against the other man, pushing Greg with a thump against the nearest wall. Greg moaned when he felt Mycroft’s hands grip his arse like he’d never let go.
Air. He needed air.
“Bed,” Greg demanded breathlessly, “The desk nearly killed my back.”
Greg took a deep breath, enjoying the languorous afterglow he always felt after the adrenaline of shagging. He could hear a clock somewhere, probably that grandfather one in Mycroft’s study, ringing to announce the hour. Life was good.
“Have you visited John lately,” Mycroft asked, voice honeyed and melted from having sex.
Greg blew out a slow breath.
“I check in on him now and again,” he answered, “He’s progressing, I think, through his grief. Dating someone new who might just stick this time.”
“You should give him that dvd you showed me tonight. Make sure he watches it, it should do him good.”
Greg turned to look at Mycroft; the other man's eyes had closed his eyes to enjoy the calm.
“Alright. Least I can do for him and Sherlock. It’ll be hard for him to go through this but I guess it’ll help in the end.”
Mycroft opened his eyes. They stared at each other for a moment. A good shag did wonders to loosen Mycroft up. Greg sometimes fancied he was the only person who saw Mycroft unguarded…or as unguarded as a man like Mycroft could be.
“It’s all we can do for him right now,” Mycroft murmured, “We have to prepare him to accept the future, whatever it brings.”
Greg smiled and pulled Mycroft in for a soft kiss.
Message sent, message received.
And Many Happy Returns for them all.