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Mycroft tried to pull his hand away but the man only held it more tightly, he even had the audacity to rest his head on his shoulder.
“Greg?”
“Hmm?” he lifted his head. “Oh, it is you,”
“What is the meaning of this?” the woman demanded.
“What do you think, Susan? I’m on a date,”
“A date!”
“We are divorced if you forgot.”
“But,”
“What? You are surprised I have a life after you?” Greg snorted. “That someone finds me desirable?”
“You…this,” she dragged her boyfriend away in disgust.
“Sorry about this,” Greg sighed.
“As you should be,” Mycroft stepped back, brushing a non existing dust off his suit. “Was that truly necessary?”
“Absolutely.”
“What did you accomplish by making your ex wife jealous?”
“Making myself feel slightly better. You enjoyed the show as well, admit it.”
“I can assure you I did not. I tried to distance myself from you,”
“No you weren’t,” Greg grinned.
“How unfortunate that you are a detective,” Mycroft sighed.
“Do we know each other?”
“No.” Mycroft of course knew everything about him, anyone who ever crossed paths with his brother had a file. “Now if you excuse me,”
“Right, you want to enjoy the exhibition.”
“Don’t you?”
“I found the ticket, to be honest.”
“I see,” Mycroft sighed inwardly, his quiet evening was over.
“There is this kid,” Greg kept trailing him. “He keeps turning up on crime scenes, solving cases with a glance, making us look like idiots.”
“No wonder the public has no faith in the police,”
“We have protocols to follow,”
“That’s no excuse for being incompetent.”
“What is your excuse for being an arse?” Mycroft chuckled despite himself. He understood why Sherlock listened to the detective. “Sorry,” Greg smiled at him.
“And I return the sentiment.”
“Anyways the kid had the ticket.” Greg kept following Mycroft. “I check his flat regularly to make sure he is clean…I mean the flat is clean. He got kicked out a few times because of the state of the flat.”
“So you found the tickets in the rubbish,”
“Yeah,”
“Never heard of the artist?”
“Last time I was in a gallery was on a school trip.”
“Why bother coming then?”
“My therapist says I should get out more, not that I want to. Finding out that my wife was cheating on me for years destroyed my self esteem. I feel like no one wants me around so it’s easier just to stay home, alone. That way I can avoid,”
“Are you always this noisy?” Mycroft interrupted. He had to cut him off or Greg would spiral further.
“Sorry,” Greg mumbled but the silence didn’t last long. “I never thought a painting could feel this sad,”
“Sad?” Mycroft turned towards him. “These are just paintings of starry skies,”
“Yeah, but…that’s how they make me feel.”
“Then don’t look,” he grunted.
“I want to.” Greg said quietly, stepping closer to the painting. “You can feel the pain, the longing, the loneliness and despair radiating from them,”
“Surely not all of them are like that,” Mycroft muttered.
“Let’s find out,” Greg smiled at him.
“Well it was definitely not what I expected.” Greg sighed. The gallery was closing before they could look at all of the paintings.”
“Apologies, if you are disappointed,”
“The paintings were stunning, almost like looking at the real night sky,”
“Just depressing,”
“I still enjoyed it.” he said with a shrug. “I know it is strange, but it’s comforting, knowing I’m not the only one who feels like this. And you?”
“It wasn’t how I intended to spend my evening,”
“Meaning me disturbing you?” Mycroft nodded. “Sorry,”
“It’s fine,”
“What is your name?”
“Is it necessary to share?”
“You already know mine,”
“Mycroft,” Greg’s smile was too charming and the name slipped out before he could stop himself.
“It was lovely meeting you, Mycroft.”
“It wasn’t terrible.”
“You can joke,” Greg chuckled.
“Good evening, Detective.” Mycroft smiled faintly.
“Wait!” Greg hurried after him.
“Yes?” Mycroft did enjoy their evening together but he really wished to be alone now.
“Want to meet again?”
“Why?”
“Well,” Greg scratched the back of his neck. “Because of me you didn’t get to see all of the paintings,”
“The exhibition is sold out.”
“Oh, didn’t know it was so popular.” he sighed. “Pity,”
“I have two tickets for the closing day, you could accompany me,” Mycroft surprised himself as much as Greg with the offer.
“I’d love that.” Greg’s eyes were shining as he smiled. “Could you give me your number?”
“For what purpose?”
“In case something comes up. Like work, an accident or something with the kid,”
“Very well,” Mycroft took Greg’s phone and typed in his number.
“Thanks. I’ll call you.”
“Feel free.” Mycroft felt so drained he’d agree to anything just to get home. “Good night, Detective.”
“Night, Mycroft.”
*
“This one’s new,” Greg stopped in front of the painting.
“You noticed,”
“I’m a detective in case you forgot.”
“Of course,” Mycroft said with a small smile.
“This one feels different.”
“How so?” Mycroft glanced at him, raising an eyebrow.
“I feel happy looking at it.”
“Happy?” Mycroft’s tone was sceptical.
“And hopeful,”
“Hmmm,”
“The date! It was the opening night.”
“Indeed.”
“I hadn’t even noticed before that every painting’s title is a date.”
“You were preoccupied with your ex wife and your own misery,”
“Yeah, right. Sorry.”
“I’d say I understand,”
“But you don’t.”
“No.” Mycroft admitted. “Never been married.”
“What about the ring?” Greg asked, nodding towards Mycroft’s hand.
“Helps avoid unwanted attention.” Mycroft explained.
“I see. That is good…I mean not that you are lonely,”
“I never said I was lonely.”
“But you are.”
Mycroft looked at the painting in silence. “Life happened,” he murmured. “No need to feel sorry for me.”
“I’m not.”
“Good,” Mycroft chuckled. “Let us not waste more time or you won’t be able to enjoy the exhibition.”
“Nor you, if I keep being noisy.”
“I don’t mind.” Mycroft admitted reluctantly.
“This date,” Greg trailed off. “I remember it, Sherlock, the kid I mentioned before, he was in the hospital.”
“Hmmm,” Mycroft nodded, he remembered too well.
“It was a long night,” Greg sighed. “Not the first and I fear not the last either.” he stepped to the next painting. “This date, Sherlock got arrested for calling the Chief a blabbing baboon in front of the press. He wasn’t held for long…his family is well connected. Chief hates him with all his might ever since, of course he wouldn’t say it in fear it could cost his position.”
“You don't fear yours?”
“Me? Why would I?” Greg laughed lightly. “Without me Sherlock wouldn't get access to cases, no one else can tolerate him for more than a few minutes without wanting to murder him.”
“I applaud your perseverance.”
“This date and,” Greg moved along scanning the dates. Then turned around, a sudden realisation on his face. “They’re all connected to Sherlock.”
“Nonsense,” Mycroft said quickly. “You are projecting.”
“No. I remember these dates very well because Sherlock was always in trouble and later I was as well. With my boss, with my wife...she wasn’t happy about me helping Sherlock,”
“You are close to him.” Mycroft hated the flicker of jealousy in his voice.
“He is like a little brother I never had.”
“Consider yourself lucky,”
“You are not close with your brother?”
“I was…once,” he sighed wearily. “When we were young he followed me everywhere, asked countless questions. I wanted him to stop…now I’d give anything to bring those days back.”
“He still loves you,” Greg said quietly. “Even if he doesn’t show it. I can tell from the way he talks about you,”
“You’ve figured it out,”
“I’m a detective after all.”
“A good one,” Mycroft admitted.
“High praise from a Holmes,” he bowed slightly.
“You can not save our relationship, I’m afraid. Too much has passed.”
“I don’t think it is beyond repair,”
“Don’t waste your time on me,”
“I’d gladly waste all my time on you,” Greg whispered so softly Mycroft couldn’t hear it.
“How may I repay you for your suffering?”
“It’s fine.” he waved it off.
“I insist.”
“Alright, if you insist. Dinner, every time I have to deal with Sherlock.”
“Every time? Aren’t you asking a bit too much, Detective?”
“I think it’s a fair rate.”
“I accept,” he shook Greg’s hand after a long silence.
“Good, I’m looking forward to it.” Greg smiled. “I have to say, it’s been a long time since I enjoyed myself this much.”
“I’m glad I could assist in your recovery.”
“I hope you’ll have another exhibition.”
“It was a one-time event.”
“Pity,”
“I never intended on displaying my paintings,”
“Then what happened?”
“My assistant,” Mycroft grunted. “Out of spite,”
“Ah, good to know.”
“Why?”
“So I know who I need to approach if I want to see your art again,” Greg smiled at him.
“You could just ask me, I’d show you.”
“Then why don’t you want them to be admired?”
“It’s a waste of time.”
“What, painting?”
“Useless talent,” he murmured
“Says who?”
“My parents, Sherlock, my ex,”
“They are wrong. Your art is stunning,”
“It is useless because you can not make a living off it, what my mother always said.”
“You don’t have to. You can paint just because you love it or because it helps you relax, express your feelings,”
“It does help.” Mycroft said quietly. “A healthier coping mechanism than my brother’s at least.”
“So you know.”
“Of course,” he sighed. “He’s been more manageable since he met you.”
“If this is manageable I’m scared to ask what he was like before.”
“There is a reason none of my earlier paintings are displayed.”
“May I see them?”
“Maybe one day,”
“Deal, oh,” Greg glanced at his phone. “Sorry, I have to go,” he read the text.
“It’s alright,”
“Thank you for the evening Mycroft, I’ll call you.”
“I’ll be waiting.” Mycroft smiled, soft and genuine.
“Good,” Greg replied, smiling back.
*
Over the following months, Greg’s presence became a constant intrusion, Mycroft no longer minded.
He even gave in to Greg’s persistent requests to see the rest of his art.
“Don’t forget that I warned you.” Mycroft said as he opened the door to his studio. The space was just as organised as Greg expected, not a brush out of place, not a drop of paint on the floor. Mycroft retrieved several older works from storage and arranged for Greg to see.
Greg walked slowly among them, quietly taking in each piece before returning to where Mycroft stood, hands clasped behind his back.
“It’s probably a good thing I did not see these at the exhibition.” Greg mumbled.
“It wouldn’t have been beneficial for your mental health.” Mycroft agreed.
“They are gorgeous of course but,” he wasn’t sure how to put into words the deep sorrow that overtook him.
“It wasn’t an easy time,” Mycroft admitted, the emotions he tried to bury resurfacing once more.
“And not just because of Sherlock’s addiction.” Greg took Mycroft’s hand.
“You are far too perceptive, Gregory.” Mycroft smiled softly at him.
“I try,” Greg gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Thank you for showing them to me.” His gaze shifted to a covered painting in the middle of the studio. “What about that one? So depressing you don’t even want to look at it?”
“That is something new.”
“Oh,” Greg’s eyes lit up. “May I?” Mycroft gave a small nod. Greg pulled the cover off the painting, he stared at it speechless.
“It’s beautiful,” he said after a while.
“Not as beautiful as you are,” Mycroft whispered, making Greg blush.
“The date,” his voice trembled, the stars reflected in Greg’s eyes. “I took you to the botanical garden,” he smiled, remembering their date. “We got drenched, your expensive suit completely ruined…I thought you’d never want to meet me again.”
“That was the day I realised my feelings for you,” Mycroft’s voice was shaking slightly, “You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly. “I’ve always had trouble expressing my feelings with words.” Mycroft gently brushed his fingers against the canvas. “I overheard my mother complaining to father many times that I’m cold, heartless, wondering what they had done wrong to end up with such an ungrateful child like me. I did try to convey how much I appreciate them, how much I love them through my paintings.”
“They just didn’t see it.”
“No.” he sighed with sadness in his voice. “I faced the same problem in my previous relationships. I,” Greg silenced him with a kiss.
“I understand,” Greg rested his forehead against Mycroft’s, cradling his face gently in both hands. “And I love you too.”