Chapter Text
Mycroft can count the number of close personal friends he has on one hand.
In fact, he can count his close personal friends on two fingers.
His relationship with Anthea may have started purely as occupational, but, over time, she has become his right hand. His closest confident. She almost knows him better than he knows himself.
Without Anthea, Mycroft would be lost at sea.
This begs the question, why does one require a second companion? What purpose would they even serve?
Certainly, it’s preferable to have a spare, of sorts. Anthea may have her moments of unavailability. Though she invariably makes endless time for Mycroft, in her own personal life, Anthea is wildly popular.
Therefore, following Anthea’s example, a second friend would appear to be an asset.
Any more would surely be over-indulgent for a man of Mycroft’s position.
Enter Gregory Lestrade.
Mycroft had not necessarily been on the hunt for his second companion when their paths had first crossed. But the idea had been ruminating. Processing. Proving in a warm drawer.
So it had come as quite a shock when Gregory had initiated the thing.
Mycroft certainly doesn’t regard himself as an ‘after work drinks’ sort of person. And yet, he consistently found himself, continues to find himself, in company after hours.
In such hours, he can often be found sharing a very nice whisky, or, increasingly, a very nice meal with…a friend.
Even more surprising, despite Mycroft’s more Holmesian tendencies, Gregory has stayed the course. Seems to actively enjoy his company, if such a thing can be believed.
Before Mycroft had turned off his deductions of Gregory’s mental state - intrusive - he had catalogued a single trait: lonely.
A mutually beneficial arrangement, then.
Now having secured his second friendship, Mycroft has a rather large problem on his hands.
———
The largest and most pressing issue with Gregory is his eyelashes.
No man should have eyelashes that bat so enticingly. Eyelashes that frame deep, brown eyes.
Thoughtful.
The eyes of someone who cares about Mycroft, beyond what his power, money, influence can afford them.
They’re at another after work…appointment.
In the secrecy of his own mind, Mycroft calls these meetings ‘dates’.
His delusions are safe in here, alongside an ever expanding wing of his mind palace.
To his shame, a plush four poster bed sits in the centre.
“Good evening, Gregory.”
Gregory had insisted that Mycroft drop the formal title some two and a half months ago. He is not to be referred to as ‘Detective Inspector’ on these occasions. Mycroft had practically swooned at the request.
“Hey.” Gregory tilts in to brush a kiss on Mycroft’s cheek.
Though he would love to - and has indeed attempted to - imbue meaning into this rather intimate gesture, Gregory merely has French heritage.
Mycroft smiles gently, and ushers Gregory into the restaurant.
“That’s a new tie.”
Gregory notices thing. He’s kind. Observant. Considerate.
“Yes.”
“Nice colour. Brings out the blue in your eyes.”
He notices details like that. That Mycroft has agonised over, selecting the exact shade to this effect.
“Thank you.” Mycroft’s chest warms, and he gestures for Gregory to sit at their regular table.
—-
The second largest issue with Gregory is his voice.
Particularly that tone he uses when he’s smiling. The timbre changes, the joy sinks in, dissolved like icing sugar on honey. The whole thing becomes…sweeter.
Mycroft has an entire catalogue dedicated to the subtle shifts in Gregory’s tone of voice.
The giddy, excitable notes of a case well solved lift Mycroft’s spirits. They make him feel young again, catching and cataloguing insects in the garden with Sherlock.
He replays these often when he is feeling melancholic.
The tones Gregory uses when he appreciates something…the hum over a good wine. The sigh as he sinks into an armchair at the Diogenes, finally resting his feet after a long day. The contented rumble as he digs into anything encased in hot water crust pastry.
Mycroft may or may not replay these noises at…other times.
“Everything ok? Bit quiet tonight.”
Mycroft startles. Internally of course. He does posses some self control.
“A long day, is all.”
He smiles at Gregory, who returns an empathetic expression. And makes an effort to be more present for their meal.
—-
There are many other problems with Gregory, of course.
The hair that begs to be touched, for fingers to be run through. The way he smiles, reaching his eyes more frequently than not.
His compassion, his accent, those thighs.
Mycroft is ashamed that many of his wayward thoughts focus on Gregory’s thighs.
Those shoulders. Or that cleft in his chin, below Gregory’s lips. Those lips. And-
Enough.
The important thing is that Gregory must never know.
Mycroft has gotten quite used to pining in pathetic silence. And no matter how enticing his companion is, no matter how many times Anthea nudges - shoves - him to change the situation, he will stay silent. Stoic.
He must learn to be content with what he has.