Chapter Text
More than a bit harried around the edges, Greg dashed up the stairs to Bertram’s, and it was only his police-honed reflexes which prevented him from face-planting the top step when he trod on a errant shoelace. Mentally cursing the string of bad luck which had made him late for dinner with Mycroft again, Greg paused for just long enough to steady himself with the banister before presenting himself to Jean-Marie, the maître d'hôtel.
“Mr Holmes is at his usual table,” Jean-Marie said, patently amused, before Greg could speak. It wasn’t the first time this particular man had seen Greg falling up the stairs, after all, so Greg bit back a sigh and mumbled his thanks.
It was a winding course through the restaurant to Mycroft’s preferred table, and it took long enough for Greg to have time to straighten his shirt and flatten his hair. There was nothing he could do about his soggy left sock, but he hoped that he at least looked less of a walking disaster by the time he got to his friend.
"If Sergeant Casbolt can't talk to her own DI, she really ought to take it up with HR rather than persistently rely on keeping you back, particularly when you had such a rushed lunch. Do sit down; I've taken the liberty of ordering." Mycroft regarded him in the calm way that told Greg that Mycroft knew exactly what a disaster his day had been, and Greg felt some of the tension leave him. "The tube is invariably atrocious at this time of day; if you would just allow me to send a car, you wouldn't have been caught out by the puddle either. And you really must start to double-knot your shoelaces when you go out to so many scenes in a day. Wine?"
“Yeah, I think I’d better.” Greg sank into his chair with an odd sound that was half sigh and half laugh. “Go on, how the hell do you know I rushed my lunch?”
"Mayonnaise on your tie,” Mycroft replied, eyes glinting in gentle amusement, and poured Greg a glass of their preferred red.
“Bugger.” Greg lifted the tail of his tie with a sigh and glared at it. “And here was me hoping I only felt like a hot mess.”
Mycroft somehow managed to flinch with his face. “Where do you get these expressions?”
Fighting down a smile, Greg felt his cheeks heat. “You try sitting between Leah and Todesha to binge-watch RuPaul’s Drag Race without picking up the lingo up. Apparently me coming out means they can sit me down in front of anything they think will help equip me for going out into the LGBT community.” He drank gratefully. “I can’t believe my little girl is old enough that she thinks she needs to educate me.”
"I'm surprised that you were able to tolerate it for long enough for the idiom to sink in."
“It’s kinda addictive,” Greg replied, hoping that his face wasn’t as red as it felt. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed by getting into something so very gay, but it was frivolous and silly, and Mycroft was bascially the polar opposite of both. “You should see some of the things the queens can make from bags of crap, never mind the heels they wear; my feet come out in sympathy pain every time we watch it.” Greg sipped his drink again, briefly savouring the strong fruity flavours, and raised his glass. “Here’s to your palate again.”
Mycroft raised his own glass politely and sipped his drink. "Yes. Roy Haylock in particular is an excellent dressmaker."
Surprised that Mycroft knew who any of them were, and amused at the thought of Mr Prim and Proper watching something as camp as Drag Race, Greg grinned. “Are you a secret fan?”
"Of Mr Haylock? Most certainly."
“You mean Bianca Del Rio.” Greg nudged Mycroft’s left foot teasingly. “She’s almost as scary as you are.”
"She is a delight. I had the pleasure of seeing her perform a number of years ago."
“You’ll have to take me with you next time,” Greg replied, almost giddy at the thought that he could just go off with his friend to see anything he wanted to now that he was divorced. Despite it having been finalised seven months earlier, the sense of freedom from his serial adulterer ex-wife had not lost its shine. He spotted the waiter heading in their direction and bit back the news he had been about to share, and his excitement built over the course of the minute that the young man was with them. “Speaking of gay things,” he said when they were alone, “I’ve got someting to tell you.”
“Mm?” Mycroft hummed, conveying pleased amusement without saying a thing.
Knowing that Mycroft almost certainly knew what Greg was going to say and was happy for him shifted Greg’s excitement up a gear. “Gary and Joel were round for a few drinks at the weekend and they talked me into joining one of those dating sites. I’ve had loads of contacts, and some of ‘em don’t even sound like weirdos.”
“Please tell me that I won’t find you on Grindr,” Mycroft replied in a tone of voice that was part sigh and part smile.
“That would be telling,” Greg laughed with a playful wink. “Hang on, am I going to find you on Grindr?”
"I could not possibly comment."
Greg, recognising Mycroft’s playful streak for what it was, laughed happily. A comfortable silence passed, with each man dedicating himself to his food for a few minutes. He waited for Mycroft to finish his starter, which was some sort of fish with a fancy drizzle, before continuing. “I thought about it. Signing up for hook-ups, I mean, but I’ve never been cut out for just sex, not even when I was a teenager. I’m not saying I want to jump feet first into another relationship, not after the mess with Jo, but I don’t want my first time with a man to be some hook-up in a filthy pub toilet.” He pointed at the last of his starter with his fork - he wasn’t entirely sure what it actually was, but Mycroft hadn’t ordered him a bad meal in the decade that they’d been meeting for dinner. “This is very good.”
"I shall have your compliments passed to the chef. How do you feel about re-entering the world of dating?"
“Nervous but excited. I won’t be rushing into anything, but I’m ready for this.” Greg’s lips curled into a smile without conscious input from his mind. “I’ve been wanting to be with a man since I was thirteen so this…you know, being out and hopefully meeting men is just…yeah.”
Mycroft’s warm smile felt like a reward for Greg’s honesty. "I am sure you will do splendidly. You are a good man, and it is very evident: you will not find yourself short of potential suitors.”
“Thanks,” Greg replied, feeling a warm glow at Mycroft’s words. “Any tips for a beginner?”
"Do no harm, but take no shit? Oh, no: that one is for witches. Let me see..." The glint in Mycroft’s eye said that he was teasing, a sign that even Greg would have missed until fairly recently. "Ah, I have it: know your worth and do not accept any man who does not value you as he should. Be kind, but not to your own detriment. Be honest, but do not lay yourself bare until you are certain of your partner. Above all else, enjoy it, and when it ceases to please, move on."
“I’m telling Chloë you’ve been reading her witches’ manual again.” Greg smiled warmly and nudged Mycroft’s foot. “You’re very good at people, to say you claim to not give a shit about most of us. In fact, you’re one of the best friends I’ve had.”
“‘Friendship' is not my natural milieu, but one does one's best," Mycroft replied, simultaneously aloof and affectionate in the way that Greg had come to recognise as unique to Mycroft.
Putting on his best plummy accent, Greg replied, “One does very well,” and grinned when Mycroft actually laughed.
The waiter returned to clear their table, his quick, competent movements demonstrating an expertise that Greg had never acquired in his time waiting tables in his teens. As the young man was disappearing back towards the kitchen, Greg glanced back at Mycroft and decided that a change of topic was required. “So, tell me what you’ve been up to this week. Other than browsing Grindr, of course,” he smiled, relaxing back into his chair to enjoy what would undoubtedly be an account of a week which had been much more interesting than his own.