Breaking the ice {Mystrade}

Chapter Five - A bridge over the river

The following night, Mycroft curled up in his leather armchair: A Russian novel in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. To his side sat a small, crystal tumbler of Whisky, but he wasn't in the mood anymore to finish it.

In the early hours of that morning, Mycroft had been forcefully awoken by yet another nightmare. Eyes wide, scanning the room; hands shaking uncontrollably; a prickling chill of fear.
They were always the same: Eurus' voice echoing relentlessly in his head, the sinister tick-rocking of Jim Moriarty and the image of his Sherlock turning the gun to himself, which was forever etched in his memory.
The bed was freezing. Always freezing, always too large for its occupant.
He wandered downstairs, as was his usual course of action when awakened in the early hours. On this morning, the fire had not been left overnight, so even the living room carried a deathly chill of winter, not helped by the fact that he'd left a window open. He clicked the heating up a couple of notches, and settled down with a cup of English Breakfast tea and four Rich Tea biscuits.
Placing his hands together, Mycroft rested his chin upon them and tried to fathom what had happened the night before. He was certain - very certain - that Gregory did indeed have some feelings towards him - but to what extent?
He replayed the scene in his head, the moment when he finally saw that their feelings were, in fact, shared. Curious thrills ran over him, as he pictured Greg's face - classically handsome, inviting...
Eyes to die for.
Only time would tell, Mycroft supposed, but impatience had already begun to take over. Gregory had to be at work that day, but perhaps the next (if Mycroft could pull some strings down at the Yard) they could venture down to the Tate. Mycroft had always been an Art enthusiast, despite his father greatly discouraging the activity. In his youth, he had been fairly skilled in the practice himself: in particular, observational pieces such as pond life or sketches of his pet fish, Reginald.
His father scorned his work, calling it "Hardly a pastime for an intellectual." Against which, Mycroft protested greatly. To him, Art was a thing of deep meaning and symbolism, hardly putting paintbrush to canvass and hoping for the best.
For years, it seemed Mycroft's artwork was only adding fuel to a fire which erupted on the day of his coming out. That day, every little thing which had built up in his father's mind came out with furious force, his figure and appearance amongst them. His sexuality had been the ignition for an already waiting bomb.
From that day, he'd taken his own path. His mother thankfully came around a few weeks later and ensured that his savings and allowance were transferred to a new bank account for his use. All of this was done in secret from his father, who had sworn never again to look upon the face of his son again.
Mycroft closed his eyes, and leaned back, sighing. He wanted to see Gregory, to further things somehow...
As the day dawned, Mycroft made his way back upstairs to get ready. He had a plan, and there was nothing to stop him.
Half an hour later, sporting one of his more unobvious suits, Mycroft rushed out of the door, and into a waiting black Range Rover.
"Regents Street, please Lawrence." He requested with a small smile. Taking his notebook out of his pocket, he scanned over his list of things to do, and places to go. Perhaps the Florist's would be a good start - that way, he could get the best ones while they were still fresh from the morning delivery.

It was around 3 o'clock, and Greg was fed up with everyone.
They'd been working on a nastily difficult case for days, one which, to Donovan's disgust, required Sherlock. Naturally, Sherlock found himself unable to complete a single deduction without any kind of comment regarding a member of the team, which usually happened to be Anderson. As a result, Anderson was becoming increasingly agitated, and eventually refused to work on the case at all. Donovan, on the other hand, contented herself by discounting every piece of evidence Sherlock brought up.
Greg had lost the will to live.
He called a much needed tea break, and receded to his office, purely for a few moments of peace. He buried his face in his hands, utterly exhausted. Why did he have to be here? Greg wanted more than anything else in the world to step out of the building, and visit the Tate with Mycroft – was that really too much to ask?
There was a small knock at the door.
"Come in." He muttered.
"Delivery for a D.I. Lestrade?" Suddenly, several men and women poured into his office, carrying a few colourful items - flowers amongst them.
"I wasn't expecting..."
"They're gifts apparently. Don't know who from." A woman holding a box with a cake in it replied.
"Oh. Well, thank you..." They placed the gifts on his desk, and left leaving the door wide open – an unfortunate mistake.
"Greg, it all makes sense now – ooohhh? What's this?" Sherlock burst into his office and strode up to the packages.
"Flowers, cake, coffee, chocolate. An admirer, definitely – seemingly a long-term partner, but judging by your surprised expression, I expect not – so someone who loves you, really loves you, but you're not yet together? The gifts are moderately expensive, but not terribly – they want to give you the best, but not overwhelm you-"
"Sherlock, stop deducing and get out."
"But-"
"Out!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and left, half-slamming the door behind him.
Greg looked in awe at the things before him. There wasn't a shadow of doubt in his mind as to who the sender was. He did however wonder why they'd been sent. He was genuinely touched by the gesture, but had never imagined Mycroft Holmes to be the sort of man to send anonymous gifts...
Greg pulled the chocolate box towards him, and took one out: a pretty little caramel sweet. He went to bite into it, but stopped himself, instead placing it in the centre of his tongue and letting it melt slowly. As he rolled the creamy chocolate around his mouth, thoughts of Mycroft floated through his mind, thoughts of shared kisses, shared laughs, shared precious little moments.
He bit down on his lip, heart beating nineteen to the dozen.
Next, he inspected the coffee. It was an Artisan brand and an interesting selection of four different coffee blends. To his delight, it came with a couple of small bottles of coffee syrup - a rare indulgence of his. How could a man, who'd seen him so little, know him so well? Holmes intuition, probably. With any luck, Sherlock hadn't been able to deduce who'd sent him his presents, although Greg severely doubted this. Greg didn't care though - there was no way he'd let Sherlock Holmes intervene things.
Greg filled up an empty vase from the windowsill, and went to transfer the flowers, when suddenly he noticed a small, white card.
"Tomorrow?" It read. Greg pondered over the note for a minute, then took out a pen and wrote another note beneath the first.
"Solved it, have you, Sherlock?" Greg re-entered the investigation room.
"Yes, it was Graham Phillips, the gardener. He replaced the weed killer spray with cyanide gas, obviously."
"And he's not dead, because?" Donovan asked, clearly displeased.
"He was using an industrial weed killer, therefore he was wearing a gas mask - are you really that stupid, or are you just pretending to entertain us all?"
"Yeah - brilliant as always Sherlock - right, you're all dismissed for the day. I've got to go - something urgent's come up."
"Urgent?" Anderson frowned.
"Yes, urgent. Off you go - go have dinner with Sally or something."
Greg rushed out of the office, and downstairs to the front desk.
"Have this card delivered to Mycroft Holmes, immediately. It's vitally important that he receives this message today." He thrust the card into the hand of the shocked secretary, who took it without question.

Precisely 23 minutes later, Anthea arrived outside Mycroft's home, white card in hand.
"Mr Holmes, awfully sorry to have to intrude upon you during your time off, however I've been told this message is urgent."
Mycroft took the card, and immediately broke into and uncontrollable smile.
"Thank you, ever so much Anthea. I trust all is well at the office?"
"I haven't started any wars, Sir."
"Excellent, excellent. Well, goodbye then." Mycroft dismissed his secretary promptly, and looked over the card again.
"My, my Gregory, you are impatient." Hastily written beneath his "Tomorrow?" Read the word "Tonight."
He took out his phone, and texted:

A kind gesture, Gregory, but you haven't said where? - MH

It wasn't long before Greg typed back:

How does the Millennium bridge sound? - GL

Perfect. I expect you to be there at 7:00 - MH

I'll be prompt - GL

Greg reached the bridge at quarter to seven, in the hopes that he would arrive before Mycroft. In pure Mycroft style, however, he'd been waiting since ten past seven. Greg should've known.
His heart was racing as he approached the auburn, who looked incredible in the February moonlight.
"Good evening, Gregory. Good day at the office?"
"The best... Someone sent me some really exquisite gifts - the sender was anonymous, though..." Greg frowned in mock confusion. The two of them giggled, flashing each other a glance of mutual humour.
It was a pleasantly cool evening, drenched in the soft light of the moon. The city felt alive: dozens of cars, darting back and forth, the occasional red London Bus. For a while, the two men strolled along the length of the bridge, then upon reaching the middle, they came to a halt.
"You don't mind if I smoke?"
"I'll join you."
Mycroft offered Greg his lighter.
"Case solved I presume?"
"With your brother involved, how couldn't it be?"
"Yes... My brother." Mycroft grimaced.
"He doesn't know, does he? About the... Gifts?"
"He... He started to deduct."
"I should've known." Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes. "He always was too inquisitive for his own good - the pursuit of knowledge, of course, I always encouraged. But idle nosiness was an unfortunate trait in a child. Sherlock once told the fishmonger his brother was in an affair with his wife in front of all of the customers. He was nine years old."
"I stopped him before he got too far... At least I think so."
Greg jumped and looked up as Mycroft took his hand gently.
"I promise you, I will not allow my brother any form of involvement." He said, earnestly.
"It's Sherlock Holmes. He'll find a way."
"I'm Mycroft Holmes. I have control over his gas and electricity." He smiled wickedly, making Greg's breathing hitch slightly. Slowly, they leaned in towards each other, nervous, unsure of what was to happen next. Greg moved in even closer, making Mycroft's eyes widen nervously, darting about, trying to decide what move to make.
Except Gregory made the move for him.
He hesitated for less than a second more, before leaning in, and kissing Mycroft, a sweet and curious kiss full of new discovery. Mycroft's eyes grew to the size of dinner plates in shock, but soon he settled into the kiss, closing his eyes and placing a hand around Greg's head. He didn't care that all around, people were watching. All that mattered was that he was kissing Gregory, that he was kissing the man he'd come to love. They broke apart, slightly breathless, each full of wonder at the turn of events.
"Good god, I'm in love with the British Government..." Greg breathed, eyebrows raised sheepishly.
"Oh lord, don't call me that..." Mycroft half-smiled, laying his long fingers on Greg's cheek. "Or Mr Holmes for that matter."
"Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade. Who would've guessed?" Greg chuckled, utterly confused at how something so unexpected could be so right.
They spent the rest of the evening mindlessly wandering the streets of London, talking of meaningless little things. In that moment, it seemed no two people could be more meant for each other than them.
Later that night, Mycroft curled up in his leather armchair: A Russian novel in one hand, and a cigarette in the other. To his side sat a small, crystal tumbler of Whisky, but he wasn't in the mood anymore to finish it.
Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman, had found love.
A/N: My dear readers, hello! My most sincere apologies for the terrible lateness of this Chapter. I just kept writing and deleting and re-writing... Anyway, here we are. Chapter Six will be around sooner. I won't allow myself to be this late again. Hope you enjoyed xx
Edit: Re-published. Didn't like the original ending.