Chapter Text
Love Factually
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Whilst there will be some inspirational bits from The namesake movie... this is part two of The "Camera never Lies" and not a crossover. I tried to figure out how to do this as a bonus one shot and it just would not work. We will follow the angst and Crack format of last time and I can promise you a "Mostly" happy ending.. but do not assume that things working perfectly is the only happy ending and there will be a lot of conflict and bickering and down right nastiness on the way... welcome to the crazy train... wooot wooooooo! Buckle up...
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For anyone who may be unfamiliar with the music in this story, I will try to include a link at the beginning of each chapter, in case you would like to listen.
Walking in a Winter Wonder Land
https://youtu.be/lkFP0VwpPRY
In the meadow we can build a snowman
Then pretend that he is Parson Brown
He'll say, Are you married?
We'll say, No man
But you can do the job
When you're in town
Later on, we'll conspire
As we dream by the fire
To face unafraid
The plans that we've made
Walking in a winter wonderland
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The season of lights on Oxford street and Regent Street and fairy lights going up all over London, did not surprise Greg Lestrade this year. Carnaby Street in Soho had their crazy do whilst Duke of York had their classic dignified presentation begging for romantic evening strolls and rosy cheeked flirtation. Christmas was coming, and for the first time in years, Greg was not losing his battle to remain cheerful.
He had been alone for Christmas for years, even when married. Especially whilst married. Three Christmases ago he had found a pretty shirt box wrapped with tinsel and flourish and placed on his desk the afternoon before Christmas Eve. He was working a murder and his wife was furious as always. He had been so surprised and delighted at the gesture, he had grinned like a barmy kid. He had taken a photo of it, because it looked expensive and he could not explain how moved he was that she had gone to the trouble to make his Christmas bright.
Inside were divorce papers and the key to the flat. Linda had picked up on the first ring and said she had just landed in New York for a lovely Christmas across the pond with someone named Kendrick. The next day thirty inches of snow were dropped on the Big Apple.
Linda had gone to the Philippines the year before last, and enjoyed their fine Typhoon season whilst he sat alone and drinking, getting a late night text from John that Sherlock had just murdered a media mogul on the steps of Appledore.
Last year his ex-wife stayed safe in London, and there was a superstorm named Barbara, and Sherlock was nearly murdered by Culverton Smith.
There was no word on her expected location for this years festivities, but he had come to the conclusion that disastrous Holidays were perhaps not his fault after all. One location he was certain would be a Linda-free zone was Saint James Island, Ireland, where there was to be a double wedding on Sherlock's Birthday.
Sherlock had insisted remembering a single date would be conducive of future marital harmony. Mycroft insisted he hated Christmas and always had. John insisted that spending Christmas on the actual Island of Misfit Toys was the most hilarious thing he'd ever heard.
Greg had insisted on no murders and no near death experiences.
From the second they had sorted their feelings, life had come out of the shadows and into the sun for Greg. Mycroft was the most attentive, patient and kind human Greg had ever dated. Every day he found a new way to display his adoration of Greg. The gestures were not too excessive on the surface. He was not the proud new owner of an Aston Martin or anything like that. They did not fly to Paris for brunch or weekend at Royal Thames Yacht Club. Life actually looked about the same on the surface, though Greg obviously dressed better than any DI in the history of NSY.
Mycroft tended to lay out a selection of coordinated garments, or have the butler see to it when he was indisposed with his work. Some people may have found this gesture controlling or somehow annoying but Greg found it a delightful treat each morning to wake up, shower and simply throw on exactly the right tie with a neatly pressed shirt and know he looked like a walking GQ star. He could not tell aubergine from plum and it took a frustration out of his morning, so rather than be petty and resentful that he was told what to wear each day, Greg thanked Mycroft and accepted the gesture exactly as it was meant.
He did want to look nice for his fiancé and he also loved the fact that it meant that Mycroft was thinking of him every morning whether their paths crossed in the morning rush or not.
Greg had moved in, of course. His flat was already let to another DI and it was unbelievable how much money he had tucked away in just three months now that he only had a few bits and bobs as expenses. For the first time in his life he had some breathing room financially and that stress gone had done wonders for his health.
Speaking of health, one of Mycroft's little gestures was a gym membership, having found Mycroft's private gym rather lacking of weights, rowing machines, and refusing to even try the elliptical machine. Another morning he discovered a slow juicer, much like Sherlock had all set up for him in their kitchen. There was a note attached to it explaining they both should consider preventative measures to ensure the longevity of their future. There was a recipe book and therein was an Aphrodisiac section that Mycroft had hi-lighted and one recipe he had hand written suggestive improvements.
Greg had lunch delivered to his office each day, and the offerings were everything from Obento to lovely New England Chowder. Every day brought forth a delicious surprise and he often found a handwritten note in his delivery.
"Though this is technically the vegan option, I think you will find the handmade tofu to be the most delightful temptation in London. I am having the same meal today, myself, and though we cannot dine face to face, it makes me feel as if we are still having lunch together.
I hope you have a productive day, my love. M"
When he was on a crime scene in inclement weather, delicious steaming coffee or tea was delivered for the whole team.
Sally had had a change of heart on the Mycroft Holmes dating her soon to be former boss question. She was a newly minted DI, just waiting for the paperwork to finish processing. Mycroft was kind enough to include her in on the lunch delivery regularly enough that he won her heart. She still thought he was scary, but delicious scary.
There were lots of gestures and none terribly noticeable alone, but Greg felt loved and spoiled most every day. Mycroft was a doting companion. Greg had never felt so cared for and nobody had ever gone out of their way for him. He was being courted even though he had already agreed to be married. Life was brilliant for the first time in his whole life.
With one exception.
Greg and Mycroft had agreed to wait until after the wedding to engage in sexual activity. It sounded very romantic and sweet when he'd agreed, but now Greg was getting nervous. People just did not wait any more and precisely because he was so very happy, trepidation had crept into his mind.
What if Mycroft was into something weird? What if Mycroft was not into anything or only felt the urge once every three years or what if he was hiding some sexual secret that ended up being profoundly disturbing. But, his greatest fear of all was, what if Mycroft found him disappointing?
Sex with Sherlock had been so easy. Once they had made that leap, they simply played. It was fun and silly and effervescent. They bickered and teased and laughed. As much as he wanted Mycroft, he also feared that waiting may be a mistake.
He had been a little surprised when he moved into Mycroft's home. It was enormous and so museum like and empty that it gave Greg the creeps a bit. You could house ten families in this place. The "small" guest room was nearly as big as Greg's whole flat. There was a projection room for films. There was an exercise room that consisted of one treadmill, one electrical recumbent bicycle, an elliptical machine, one poncy chair and a bloody suit of armour! The fridge was five times the size of Greg's fridge and contained one jar of capers and six mummified oranges when he moved in.
Everything was the best money could buy and empty. The entirety of his home was a perfectly preserved life, like a butterfly on Sherlock's mantle.
Greg thought it represented Mycroft very well. He was the finest man Greg had ever met and yet his great heart was mothballed and there was nothing Greg could buy or do for Mycroft to return the gestures. He could certainly not sneak into Mycroft's many office bunkers for lunch or have flowers delivered. They were sleeping in separate places and he could not ever purchase something for Mycroft that he could not buy for himself... and he could not demonstrate it with raging spectacular blowjobs yet.
The only thing he could think of to offer were things that made Mycroft laugh. He bought the ugliest kitschy Excalibur lamp ever created and put it in Mycroft's room one night replacing his tasteful bedside lamp. That was followed by a King Arthur spread on his bed that had Mycroft in hysterics at half-three as he returned one morning. Greg had heard his exhausted groan as he had finally closed the door and divested himself of his "British Government " armaments and headed to the fridge where he expected that Greg had left him a treat. Sure enough he heard a whispered, "bless that man," as Mycroft discovered the gooseberry tart that Greg had picked up in Camden market earlier in the afternoon. The bed covering was unexpected.
"What in the bloody..." Mycroft had flicked the light switch and began chuckling with little control of his ability to stop. Greg loved him for thinking it was hilarious and not being stuffy or angry.
There had been near intimacy that night and Greg had tried really hard not to feel completely rejected when Mycroft had put a spanner in Greg's intention.
Greg filled Mycroft's tub with sixty miniature rubber duckies he bought off EBay one night, waited up for him and drew a ridiculous bubble bath. Mycroft frowned as he was lead in and disrobed. He sighed heavily when he saw the extent of the foam, but he had gone along with it. Most of his exasperation stayed disguised until the bubbles began to disappear, revealing tiny Elvis duck, Red Riding Hood duck, Robin Hood duck, Biker duck, Valentine duck, Construction duck, Pirate duck, Policeman duck, Dinosaur duck, Giraffe duck and all their various companions. Mycroft had laughed.
That was all Greg knew to give him back. He would put laugh lines on this man who never laughed, come hell or high treason!
But no matter how fun, and well loved, the lack of sex, when the object of his desire was right there, was driving him mad. Theoretically Greg adored the idea of making their first time special. In reality, his cock had all the control of a fourteen-year-old porn addict. Yet, they waited.
Each couple had been offered one of the several cottages that dotted the St. James island, offering a small and private wash of beach and lovely views as well as seclusion for honeymoon activities. Greg's future brother-in-law had insisted. Mycroft was not heartily in accord with these plans because he strangely did not trust that his sex life would not be uploaded to YouTube or be broadcast on every channel and mobile phone in the U.K.
So, Greg was stressed. What if they arrived and Mycroft used that fear as another reason to postpone the consummation of their relationship? He had tried talking to Sherlock about it and been thoroughly humiliated with his retching noises and complaining that any knowledge of his brother's sex life would result in the immediate need to burn his mind palace to the ground.
"Think of the cases! All that knowledge will be lost and I will live out my life on benefits thanks to you continuing to place objects of horror in my brain!"
Greg had tried to let it go and be content with how happy he was in every other aspect of his life, but he had had small tastes of Mycroft and though the memories were part of a drunken fog, he could not help but want more.
His pile of gaily wrapped gifts for the Holidays on the island had grown to silly proportions. He would have no ability to shop once they were on the island and so he had tried to remember everyone just in case. He had even purchased a carnival style popping corn machine for the garrison of creatures down in The Village Of The Damned. Mycroft had rolled his eyes and sighed, but had not said a word.
"You don't approve?" Greg had asked the wall of newspaper presenting itself at the breakfast table.
"Mmmph." The newspaper said without a twitch.
"They were all very kind to us when you were away. They have three movie nights a week. They can have popping corn now with this. I would be dead without them. I think a few Christmas trinkets are justified. They pulled your brother and me out of a burning helicopter. And they got us away from the Russian mob sent to kidnap your sister." Greg sipped his green juice as he justified his mound of gifts.
The paper snapped and half of it bent down. "I have not said a word about how you chose to squander your funds upon a made up fantasy of holy gesture meant to boost the profits of retailers a half-quarter from bankruptcy. Do as you wish. I still hate Christmas and all the falsification of sentimental nonsense and droll conditioning of goldfish to the notions of greed as virtue."
"Why do you hate Christmas. You never told me."
"The twinkling lights, the fake smiles and the constant need to wish people some randomly selected good fortune based in their private faith. Good lord, you cannot even attempt that without asking to offend someone these days. 'Guess my religion' and hope you manage to land on the appropriate phrase...and god forbid you use the plural of Happy Holidays... even that offends lesser minds. They have no concept that Holidays is plural signifying more than one, so they seek to chastise anyone who fails to cow-tow to their personal shade of celebratory bosh. They are offended by basic grammar! It is heinous. But, I have made no attempts to dissuade you." Mycroft snapped his paper back in place as he finished speaking.
"I have always been alone at Christmas. I always worked. It is our first one together. I asked off for the first time in nineteen years. I just wanted... never mind. Doesn't matter. I will just cancel my request," Greg mumbled as he cleared his dishes and took them to the kitchen.
He did not hear Mycroft follow him into the kitchen. Greg jumped slightly as Mycroft spoke. "I do not mean to hurt your feelings. Truly, I do not. This time of year is problematic for me. It is not one simple explanation, but multitudes. My work often has rather inconvenient and incidental slip ups at this time of year with terrible consequences of which I, of course cannot share details. But it is not work alone that aggrieved me. There are a string of personal happenings that have shaken me and all I hold dear. The highlights are that Eurus was removed from our care days before Christmas. It did not make for a very happy time. Later on, two of my featured memories involved Sherlock overdosed at Christmas. One in which I was in the eighth percentile against his possible recovery. Whilst he was away, there was a report that he had been captured and killed that crossed my desk his first Christmas away. And our Jolly time at Appledore and recently with Culverton Smith, has simply given me a superstitious aversion to the season. I know that my dread is factually wrong and yet, I cannot begin to compress all the things that can possibly go wrong with our plans this year into a manageable pill to swallow. My casual association with that band of reprobates will bite me in the backside at some point in the future, yet I see no way of stopping it when they did save both your life along with mine as well. Just be aware that leopards never change their spots? In the mean time, I will endeavour to do my best to not allow my distaste for the festivities to sour your enjoyment."
Greg studied Mycroft. He seemed so sincere in his discomfort that Greg felt the urge to take him in his arms and comfort Mycroft. He wrapped his arms around him and guided his head to his shoulder. "Alright, super-spy, I get what you are saying and I will try to not take it personally. But you need to look at it like me, just a bit. Most of mine have been pure misery too and I am not letting the past win and steal my future. This is us now. We make our future brighter than our past. Even if we were sitting in a run down council estate and had nothing to give each other... this would still be my happiest Christmas ever, because spending it with you is the only present I need. Just keep that bit in mind? You are the best gift of my whole life. Okay?"
Mycroft let his ice-man mask slide for just a moment and he looked at Greg with soft affection and wonder. "For a man of your IQ, you are incredibly brilliant. I had not thought of it like that, my dear. You are correct, in that you are the greatest gift I could imagine, as well."
Greg kissed him and his want began to go from sweetness to demanding single focused ravenous craving. Mycroft backed away and gave him one of those disapproving looks. "We agreed to wait."
"Not really. You made that rule. I think it is bollocks. Two grown men playing blushing virginity games like a couple of brides."
"You thought it romantic!" Mycroft accused.
"Mmmmmph. Before I moved in and you were leaving trails of pheromones all about for me to be tortured by every moment. Now, I just want to shag you until we are hospitalised for exhaustion," Greg said low and sexy.
"Charming. I want you as well, but I do feel a break between relations with me and my brother might be appropriate, don't you think? A bit of distance from that error?"
Greg shook his head and stepped back. "If that bothers you so much, you should have said. Sherlock was not a mistake, just to be clear."
"Oh please. Though I am sure it was a novel interlude, you and he would not have lasted."
"Funny that you think that, My," Greg said, his interest in this conversation flagging. "Because I have a suspicion that had he and I not been together, you and I might never have even started?"
Mycroft gathered all his most superior and snobbish facial expressions and rolled through them to settle on a combination that somehow felt like a shot to Greg's heart. "Be careful what you wish for?" He asked as if he already knew the answer.
"If that is how you feel, then let's just forget this whole thing. I love you. Have for donkey years. But if all of that suddenly bothers you, then we either sort it or call it off. I got work. Going to be late. You need to figure out what you want, before you look back and tell me one day that I am some mistake to you." Greg did not allow him another reply as he distributed his keys, wallet, mobile phone and badge into his pockets and fled.
He had not let on to his inner struggles and kept up the appearance that everything was fine. He had a lot of practice with that and he knew how to do it well. He just had not really planned to start a new life with his old patterns and so feeling the need to pretend just felt disheartening.
Mycroft obviously cared for him and he felt guilty for questioning his extraordinary luck. He could not simply feel confident and excited about his dreams coming true because he was letting his doubts get in the way. But, he was existing in terror induced stress that each day would be the day, Mycroft, decisive and brilliant and beautiful would manage to realise how pathetically ordinary his choice was and politely ghost him without a backward glance.
Mycroft had been called away the day before they left. Greg knew what it was like and sincerely understood, but that did not make the trudge out alone any less painful. He selfishly wanted Mycroft here now, no matter what part of the world would blow up in his absence.
John, Sherlock, Rosie, Mrs. Hudson, and Mr. Holmes all flew out to the island. Mrs. Holmes would come with Mycroft on Christmas Eve. They had top secret itinerary and everyone suspected Mycroft had been roped into several shopping excursions judging from his delightful mood.
To be perfectly honest, Greg was having second thoughts and the only possible person he could have spoken with about it was now a trigger for his future spouses jealous passive displays of aloof disapproval. They worked together and that was all fine but only in a chaperoned setting. If John or other yard birds were around, there was never a cross look, but if they so much as rode a lift together unaccompanied, Mycroft had one of his hissy fits. In Mycroft Holmes case, this involved much newspaper rustling, heavy sighs and silence but Greg certainly felt these subtle shifts like earthquakes.
Two days before Christmas Greg flew out to Saint James without his fiancée. Greg understood and yet he felt a strange sense of foreboding that had him reflecting on the whole relationship.
There was a huge blow up Father Christmas waving a sword in the clipping wind, welcoming them to St. James. It had a pirate face and sharp teeth and it wiggled against the wind humorously defiant. It frightened Rosie. "Delightful. " John said in his politely pissed off voice followed by a tense smile.
As they exited the helicopter, Greg leaned to Sherlock. "He seems in a mood?"
Sherlock said in a low voice, "He is terrified this is a mistake."
Greg looked horrified. "The wedding?"
Greg and Sherlock selected the back seats of an executive golf cart. John sat in the front with the driver and Rosie, safe on his lap. Mrs. Hudson sat right behind John so she could make eyes with the baby and Mr. Holmes sat next to her competing for smiles and giggles.
"Bringing Rosie here. Amongst these people. In theory, he was fine with it, then reality set in. Woke up paranoid that Auntie Eurus would whisper in her ear and we will have a demon child that will serial kill everyone on the Island in our sleep. He says this is the perfect set up to a teen slasher movie... whatever that is..." Sherlock grumbled to Greg, as they sat on the back of the golf cart heading up to the main house.
"So realistic couple fears then. " Greg teased.
Sherlock smiled pleasantly as he said, "John is her father, Mary was the mother. I will be her Step Father. She has an Uncle Mycroft and an Uncle Jim. Auntie Eurus will adore her. Define realistic. Mycroft and I have a wager. She will either cure cancer or be the greatest mass murderer of the Era... "
"I see his point. Does John know about this bet?"
"He heard me on the phone with Mycroft and ..." Sherlock waved his hand in the air and rolled his eyes. "Wagering on an outcome does not affect the results. His superstitious fears are creating a small identity crisis. I am forbidden from any form of gambling that involves Rosie. I did bet she would be a Doctor like her father... John was still angry, fearing we would both psychologically influence her toward our expectations to the point we would end up in the middle with a mass murdering physician who would bring about the zombie apocalypse. "
"Jesus. So you are having wedding jitters too? I thought it was just us. You know your brother dear is round the twist? That he is terrified that we are going to cheat on him?" Greg turned his head into the brisk breeze making his eyes and his ears burn in the cold.
"I sort of understand. John cheated on his wife with my sister. I think I either resign myself to his inevitable stress related infidelities or ... or I renew my acquaintance with Morpheus. He gets very walky and chatty when I work a case without him. Possibly that is about his own standards, certainly not mine," Sherlock said with casual disregard, but Greg knew he must be very upset to have just spilled all this so easily.
Greg looked at him and grinned, "Yeah well, they damned well should worry. We were perfect! If we play up on that slightly... maybe they will behave better."
Sherlock looked at Greg, his mouth hanging open. "If I had known how sneaky you were I would have never thrown you over for ..."
Greg smirked, "Yeah you would."
"Yes." Sherlock agreed with a grateful smile at how quickly Lestrade could see his complex fear and take measure to lighten his mood.