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"Shall I drive around the other entrance, sir?"
Mycroft Holmes looked up, his eyes meeting his driver's in the rear view mirror and silently narrowed his gaze. The driver, Mycroft had already deleted his name from his memory, squirmed uneasily.
"It would be less of a walk for you, sir," the driver added nervously, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "It should only take a minute."
Mycroft sniffed and glanced out the limousine window. He could see the distant glow of his front door through a haze of snowy fog. It had been snowing consistently all day and showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. If he ordered to be driver around to the other side of the house it would only take an extra twenty minutes, but it was late and he was tired. So very tired.
"No," he finally answered in a monosyllabic sigh, adjusting the collar of his coat in preparation against the snow."You should get yourself home before this storm gets any worse."
The driver’s eyes widened in surprise. "I don't mind, sir-"
"Goodnight," Mycroft cut him off sharply, pushing open the door and stepping out into the freezing night. Holding his umbrella like a shield, the politician trotted with precious little dignity up the small path towards his house. The icy gale whipped his thick coat around his ankles and bit at every inch of exposed flesh that it could reach.
Climbing up the front steps was, Mycroft assumed, similar to climbing Mount Everest. A burst of blistering cold wind studded with sharp pellets of snow nearly sent him toppling straight back down again, but he refused to be moved. He pressed his thumb to the identification pad by the door and looked into the retinal scanner, hearing the lock obligingly click open and he pushed the door open.
Once inside Mycroft more or less sleep walked through the motions of putting his coat away and toeing off his shoes until he found himself in the sitting room helping himself to the bar, just as he had been last night. And the night before. And the endless number of nights before that.
Glass of brandy in one hand and the half empty bottle in the other, he collapsed into his favourite winged armchair next to the fire and sighed. His bones creaked like the panels of an old ship as he propped his slippered feet up on the stool in front of him. "Here's to another day," he muttered and raised his glass to the unoccupied sofa opposite him.
Looking at that empty sofa made his stomach churn. It looked wrong. It was wrong.
Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed again. "If you keep thinking about it, you'll never get used to it," he reminded himself sensibly, sipping at his brandy, "and if you never get used to it you'll never forget."
Talking to yourself, eh? an oddly familiar voice in the back of his mind teased. First sign of madness, they say. Mycroft rolled his eyes.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed midnight. "Too late," he murmured, finishing his drink and helping himself to more. "Far too late."
And then the doorbell rang.
He groaned irritably. His assistant had gone home for the night hours ago, as did most of the other staff and he was not particularly keen to get out of his chair. So, taking all variables into account, he decided to ignore it. He also made the executive decision to drink more brandy.
The person on the outside the door, however, seemed particularly keen to get in. They held down the buzzer so the bell rang in one continuous unwavering note. To Mycroft, it was like a dog whistle piercing his eardrums. He stuffed his fingers in his ears to try and blot out the sound, but it was no good.
Still the doorbell rang until finally Mycroft lost his patience. "Fine," he sighed, downing the last of the brandy and getting to his feet. He was determined to appear composed so he straightened his tie. "Fine."
Marching through the sitting room into the entrance hall, muttering the word 'fine' over and over again under his breath, he paused before the front door to make sure he was within sight of the security camera. He nodded to the small dome on the ceiling and opened the door…
Only to come face to face with a snow-capped DI Greg Lestrade.
I really can't stay (But baby it's cold outside)
I've got to go away (But baby it's cold outside)
This evening has been ( Been hoping that you'd drop in)
So very nice (I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice)
"Gregory," he said in surprise and his face flushed with embarrassment. "Inspector," he corrected himself.
"Mr Holmes," the detective replied stiffly, shivering under his large coat.
The formality was like a punch in the stomach, but Mycroft tried not to let it show. He cleared his throat. "How can I help you?"
"Car broke down up the road," he explained through chattering teeth. "Can I use your phone?"
"Where's your mobile?"
"Flat battery."
"How inconvenient for you."
"Are you going to let me in or not?"
Mycroft glared at the shivering policeman on his doorstep. "I suppose," he sighed, as if it was the dullest chore anyone could have asked of him while his heart temporarily relocated to his throat, stepping aside and ushering Lestrade in. "Come in."
"Thank you."
Lestrade wiped his feet on the doormat before shuffling inside. He looked exactly as Mycroft remembered and he drank in the inspector's appearance. His hair was still silver as starlight and his eyes were still so brown they were almost black, crinkled in the corners from years of laughter. Lestrade slipped off his coat and flung it carelessly over the hat stand as if he'd never been gone.
The policeman's once black now charcoal grey suit had not been ironed properly so the creases fell unevenly and he was wearing white socks with black shoes. As he unwound his plaid scarf, Mycroft also saw he wasn't wearing a tie and noted the dusting of stubble on his chin. The first two buttons of his white shirt fell open and Mycroft tried not to stare. His imagination began to run away with him as he recalled what was beneath that rumbled suit…
He took a deep breath and ordered himself not to be so silly. Gre- Lestrade just needed the phone. That was all.
"I didn't think I'd see you again so soon," he commented. “A bit out of your way, isn’t it?”
"Me neither," Lestrade replied grimly, brushing a dusting of snow from his shoulders. “I was on a bust not too far from here. Made the mistake of taking the scenic route home.”
Mycroft arched an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. "You look well."
"Thanks."
"How's the-"
"Do we really need to do the chit-chat thing?" Greg interrupted, looking around the room uncomfortably. "I'll just use the phone and get out of your hair and we'll pretend like this never happened. I remember where the phone is-"
"Well done, give the boy a gold star," Mycroft yawned waspishly. "Unfortunately, the information is irrelevant."
"What?"
"The storm's taken down the landline," he explained, gesturing towards the frosty window. "You may have noticed the snow?"
"What? Is someone coming to fix it?"
"The snow? I believe that’s beyond even my jurisdiction..."
"Don't do that. You know I meant the phone."
"Yes, a repairman is coming in the morning to tend to it."
"The morning?" Lestrade cried, his eyes widening in horror. "What if there's a… a big political emergency or something? How're people going to get in contact with you?"
Mycroft raised his eyebrow and whipped his Blackberry out of his pocket. "Unlike you, I charge my mobile regularly," he said and raised his eyebrows patronisingly. "You really need to get out of the dark ages. Here," he offered it to Lestrade, "make your call."
Lestrade glanced at the phone warily. "You never let anyone use your mobile."
"I'm feeling generous," Mycroft smirked and handed the phone over.
Lestrade smiled briefly and accepted.
Their fingers brushed against each other and Mycroft gasped.
"Gregory, you're freezing!" Mycroft exclaimed, grabbing his icy hands worriedly. He looked blue around the knuckles and the skin of his wrist was covered in goose bumps.
My mother will start to worry (Beautiful, what's your hurry?)
My father will be pacing the floor (Listen to the fireplace roar)
So really I'd better scurry (Beautiful, please don't hurry)
Well maybe just a half a drink more (Put some records on while I pour)
"How long were you out there?"
"Not that long," Greg huffed, snatching his hands back and burying them in his pockets moodily. "I walked from the gate-"
"The gate?" Mycroft cried. "It's a miracle you're still alive!"
"Don't be melodramatic, it's not that far," the policeman shrugged. "If you're going to make a fuss I'll just go, keep your stupid phone-"
"You are not going back out there," Mycroft said firmly, grabbing Lestrade’s sleeve as he tried to get past. "I won't hear of it."
"What are you, my mother?"
"Do I have to be to not want you to freeze to death?"
The two men glared at each other for a long moment.
"Fine," Lestrade snapped finally, wrenching his arm out of Mycroft's grip and straightening his jacket, carefully avoiding Mycroft’s gaze. "Five minutes. That's all. Then I'm going."
"Fine," Mycroft replied in an equally prickly tone, turning on his heel and heading back into the sitting room.
He heard Greg huff and follow after him.
"Let me fix you a drink," Mycroft offered, crossing the room towards the bar in the corner. "I was about to make myself another."
"I really shouldn't," Lestrade replied, glancing at the bar longingly. "I've got to get back."
"You've got time for one drink."
"I can't-"
"Please?" Mycroft picked up an empty glass. "Just one drink. For old time's sake."
Lestrade rolled his eyes but couldn't stop the smile that crept across his face. "Go on then," he sighed in an almost fond tone. "I'll have a-"
"Scotch neat with a twist," Mycroft finished for him, appearing at his side with two glasses in his hand, one filled with scotch the other with brandy. He offered the one with a garnish of lemon to Lestrade and kept the brandy for himself. "I remember your favourite drink, Gregory."
Lestrade smiled his thanks and Mycroft fell into his armchair. "Have a seat."
The policeman perched on the sofa and Mycroft wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, yet he somehow managed to remain composed. Perhaps it had something to do with the brandy, he mused, rolling the glass in his hand and watching the amber liquid shine in the firelight. They sat there in silence, sipping their drinks and listening to the crackle of the fire.
"So," Mycroft said at last, unable to stand the gnawing quiet any longer. "How are you?"
"Yeah, good," Lestrade replied, sounding as relieved as Mycroft felt that they no longer had to sit in silence. "Been keeping myself busy. Work's been mental. Double homicide today, a husband and wife in Cardiff," he added with a serene familiarity. He dealt with such things too often for too long to notice how horrific they actually were any more.
Mycroft nodded in reply and they fell silent once more. He wondered vaguely why things were so uncomfortable. It was, most likely, due to the fact he and Lestrade had not seen each other for exactly five months, six days, nine hours and forty-seven minutes and the last time they had seen each other they had vowed it would actually be much longer. Preferably, Mycroft vividly recalled Lestrade saying, not until they were both in hell.
"What about you?" Lestrade asked quietly. "How have you been?"
"Fine," Mycroft lied. "Perfectly content, thank you."
"Good," he mumbled, staring vacantly at the bottom of his glass, chewing his bottom lip awkwardly. "That’s good."
The conversation lulled, but Lestrade seemed determine to soldier on.
"How's Sherlock?" he asked awkwardly.
Mycroft smirked. "He's coping. Readjusting to life after three years of playing dead isn’t easy.”
“No. No, ‘course not...”
Despite Lestrade’s valiant efforts, the silence consumed them once more for another thirteen seconds. To Mycroft it felt like thirteen years and Lestrade wasn’t able to stand it either. He fidgeted nervously in his chair the entire time before finally getting to his feet and checking his watch.
"Blimey, is that the time?" he exclaimed with a sugary false tone of surprise. "I really better be going."
"Are you sure?" Mycroft asked quickly, leaping to his feet. Panic temporarily relocated his heart to his throat and he scrambled for something, anything, to make him stay. "You don't have to go," he blurted out.
"No, I really do. They need me back at the Yard."
"It's the middle of the night!"
"Well, you know, crime never sleeps," he chuckled nervously, making for the door as fast as he could without breaking into a run and forgetting all about the empty glass in his hand, "as they say."
Mycroft chased after him. "Your car," he reminded the fleeing detective.
"What about it?"
"It's broken down, remember?" Mycroft frowned. They'd reached the entrance hall and Lestrade made a beeline towards the exit. "Gregory, the weather…"
Lestrade paused and glanced outside. "Yeah," he murmured, more to himself than the Mycroft, running his hand over his jaw. "It is pretty shocking…"
Mycroft saw a window of opportunity and pounced on it. "It is, it really is," he agreed, sliding in front of Lestrade so he was blocking the doorway. "I’m afraid I must insist you stay, Gregory, just until the storm dies down."
Lestrade sighed and looked up at Mycroft. He bit his lip and glanced at the door, then back to Mycroft then back to the door, weighing up the two options. He could remain where his was and face the frosty silence building between them, or he could take his chances with the blizzard. If he was being perfectly honest, Mycroft wouldn’t blame him for choosing the blizzard.
As if reading his mind, a hint of a smile tugged the corner of Lestrade’s mouth and he rolled his eyes. "Fine," he groaned, throwing his hands up in defeat. "Fine, I'll stay. Just until the snow eases up."
"Absolutely," Mycroft chirped, hating how relieved he sounded. He nodded to the empty scotch glass in Lestrade’s hand. “Can I get you another?”
Lestrade’s eyes widened in surprise at the glass.
"Oh…"
"Come sit down."
For once, Lestrade didn't argue. He allowed Mycroft to guide him back into the sitting room and he dropped back into his place on the sofa, staring around the room in a mildly stunned way, like a fish who finds himself on the deck of a fishing boat.
On his way over to the bar, Mycroft nudged the old record player. A soft melody of an old Frank Sinatra song filled the room and shook Greg from his reverie. The policeman’s eyes snapped towards the record player and he grinned. "You remembered my favourite song too."
"I remember everything about you," Mycroft murmured.
Greg didn't hear appear to hear him. "Just half a one more," he said firmly, glancing out the window. "Then I really have to go."
I simply must go (But baby, it's cold outside)
The answer is no (But baby, it's cold outside)
This welcome has been (How lucky that you dropped in)
So nice and warm (Look out the window at that storm)
After three more glasses, the awkwardness between the two men had faded completely and Mycroft and Greg were reminiscing and laughing a lot more than they should have been.
"… and then he said," Greg choked through his laughter, nearly spilling his scotch all over the couch. "He said-"
"-but you haven't seen the horse yet!" they said together and collapsed into fresh floods of laughter.
"I haven't laughed like this in so long," chuckled Mycroft, wiping tears from his eyes.
"Me neither. Not since… well, since-"
"Not since you left."
Lestrade breathed a puff of laughter, setting down his glass with a little more force than necessary before twisting his hands in his lap. "I was wondering how long it would take for you to bring that up."
"I did nothing of the sort."
"Oh, bullshit."
"I didn't and I resent that accusation," Mycroft said, sounding hurt. "If anything, you brought it up. I was merely articulating what you were thinking."
"Well, your mind reading must be getting rusty because I wasn't going to say anything about it," Lestrade snapped. "I was going to say 'I haven't laughed like that since… last week… when… Anderson started growing that stupid little beard back'."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
Lestrade glared at him.
Silence. Again.
Just when things seemed to be going so well.
"Do you remember our last fight?" he asked suddenly, looking up at Mycroft with a mixture of resentment and curiosity playing on his face.
Mycroft flinched. Of course he remembered. The screaming, the swearing, the threats. His brain whirled as he saw the whole thing again, Lestrade packing his bag and walking out of Mycroft's life, and and his stomach heaved as the door slammed behind him. Of course he remembered that fight, their last fight. He had nightmares about that fight.
"Myc?"
The politician nodded silently and raised the glass to his lips.
"Do you remember what it was about?"
Mycroft paused with the glass halfway to his mouth. He scanned his memory of that night, still as painfully fresh as it had been five months ago. He remembered everything in detail, every move they had made, every gesture, every look, with painfully clear accuracy.
But as he dug deeper he realised that their mouths were moving but no words were coming out. They were just screaming in one horrible continuous screech that threatened to rip Mycroft's heart right out of his chest.
He took a deep breath.
"No idea," he said into his brandy.
Lestrade laughed. "Me neither," he chuckled, sipping his drink with amusement. "I was hoping you'd know, it's been driving me mad for months."
"I can recall everything else," Mycroft told him, somewhat defensively. "Just not… not the words."
Why couldn't he remember? He remembered every detail, right down to the pattern on the tie he was wearing. He sighed and closed his eyes. It was over something stupid, it was always something stupid and small and avoidable. Mycroft worked too much, Lestrade drank too much. Mycroft was too tidy, Lestrade was a slob. Mycroft always colour coordinated the bathroom towels, Lestrade never put the cap back on the toothpaste. Something pathetic and ridiculous that made Mycroft want to throw himself out the window just thinking about it.
"Whatever it was," Mycroft mumbled, drinking his brandy at last, "it was enough to make you leave."
Lestrade slammed his glass down on the coffee table so hard the entire room shook and Mycroft jumped. "For fuck's sake, Mycroft."
"I was only saying-"
"I left for a reason," he barked. He stood up and Mycroft followed suit, the coffee table acting as a barrier between them.
"You don't even remember what that reason was!"
"Yes, I do!" he shouted hotly, jabbing Mycroft hard in the chest with his finger as if to punctuate each word. "I left because you are a pretentious, know-it-all arse who found fault with everything I did!"
"I may be pretentious," Mycroft shot back, matching Lestrade's stance and glaring down at the shorter man furiously. "But at least I'm not an egotistical, sensitive pipsqueak who is unable to accept constructive criticism!"
"What's constructive about calling me a pipsqueak?"
"That wasn't constructive," Mycroft smirked. "That was just criticism."
Lestrade opened his mouth to retort, but he couldn't seem to make a sound. Mycroft sneered. It was a small and immature victory, but a victory nonetheless. He revelled in his childish triumph, brushing an invisible specks of dust from his suit smugly. He watched Lestrade fold his arms moodily across his chest, his shoulders slumping as he stared at the carpet as if he wanted nothing more than to set it on fire. Guilt began to bubble uncomfortably in his stomach and suddenly he felt as though he'd gone back in time five months, six days, nine hours and forty-seven minutes.
"I'm so sick of this," Lestrade muttered to the carpet, turning on his heel and heading for the door once again. "I'm done."
"Where are you going?"
"Home.”
"Not in this weather, you're not," Mycroft chased after him once again, sounding nearly as panicked as he felt. He grabbed Lestrade’s wrist, holding him back before he could quit the room. "I apologise, I didn't mean to-"
"It's just a bit of snow, Mycroft," Lestrade argued, ignoring the apology as he tried to pull away.
"That is not 'just a bit of snow'," Mycroft snapped, spinning the policeman around so he was looking out the window. "That is a blizzard, Gregory, and over my dead body are you going back out there to sleep in your car. Stay in here where it's warm."
I've got to get home (But, baby, you'll freeze out there)
Say, lend me your coat (It's up to your knees out there)
You've really been grand (I thrill when you touch my hand)
But don't you see (How can you do this thing to me?)
"I'm not going to stay here," Lestrade tried to pull away from Mycroft, but the politician held firm. “No way in hell.”
"With your car not working, I don’t think you have an alternative, Detective Inspector."
"Lend me your car."
"You? Drive the Jag? In this weather?" Mycroft scoffed. "You must be joking."
"Fine, lend me your driver."
"I sent him home."
"I'll get a cab."
"At this time of night?”
"I'll walk," Lestrade snapped through gritted teeth.
"You'll catch your death!"
"I’m willing to risk it.”
"I'm not," Mycroft narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip around the policeman's arm.
Lestrade frowned at him, his brown eyes flashing a mixture of anger and sadness. "Just let me go," he begged. "Please. I'll be fine, really."
"Gregory, I'm not going to let you go out in this weather just to sleep in your car. It's not safe."
"I won't sleep in my car-"
"It's broken, what else will you do?"
"The car's fine!" Lestrade roared so furiously Mycroft took a step backwards.
They both stood in a shocked silence for a moment.
"I beg your pardon?"
Colour rushed to his cheeks. "There was no drugs bust," he repeated in a whisper that rang like a bell through the silent hall. "And my car is in perfect working order," he added softly, focusing on Mycroft's lapel instead of his face.
Mycroft frowned, studying the policeman's face and said nothing.
"I just wanted to see you, alright?" he answered the unasked question. "I wanted to see and make sure you were alright. I worry about you, pottering around this mansion all alone, working yourself to death. I just…" he sighed and ran his hands through his silver hair, dropping his gaze to look at his shoes to avoid Mycroft's eyes. "I miss you, Myc," he murmured. "I really miss you."
An uncomfortable lump formed in Mycroft's throat, pressing against his Adam's apple and making it difficult for him to breath. "I miss you more."
Greg chuckled darkly. "Don’t think that's possible."
"I assure you it is," Mycroft reached out and touched Greg's hand. Their fingers automatically intertwined and Mycroft felt as though he'd regrown an amputated limb. With his heart slamming so hard against his ribs he feared it would burst right out of his chest, he hesitantly touched Greg's cheek with his free hand. His skin was like sandpaper, all stubble and weather worn, but Mycroft didn't care.
"Come back," he whispered, running his fingers alone Greg's jaw.
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because it hurts," he said simply, letting go of Mycroft's hand and turning away. He hugged his arms around himself and stared determinedly at the fire. He would look anywhere but at Mycroft which, ironically enough, was the only place he wanted to look. "It just hurts too much and I'm tired. I'm so tired…"
He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and sighed. He did look tired. So much more so than Mycroft had ever seen him. He looked almost as tired as Mycroft felt.
"We're wrong, Myc," Greg said softly. "Everything about us is wrong."
Mycroft's arm was still suspended in the air where Greg's face had been and it took him a moment to realise he'd moved away. The policeman was standing beside the fire, the flickering light casting shadows across his haggard face.
The politician moved to stand beside him and rested a hand on Greg's shoulder. Despite their close proximity to the fire, the detective shivered.
"What do you mean?" Mycroft asked gently, even though he knew exactly what he meant.
"If I come back we'll just end up right back where we were," Greg murmured, still staring at the flames. "It'll be great for a couple of weeks, maybe a month if we're lucky, but then we'll just start driving each other crazy again and again until we have another fight we can't remember and one of us walks out."
"That's not going to happen."
"It will though," Greg insisted, finally turning to look at him. "Our entire relationship is built on the fact we can't stand each other. It's inevitable, of course it will happen and when it does… Christ, Mycroft, I know for a fact I couldn't stand that kind of pain twice in one lifetime and if you think-"
Before he could finish, Mycroft gave in: he grabbed the back of Greg's neck and kissed him. He let the kiss wash over him, trying to memorise every tiny detail, the feel of Greg, the taste of his tongue, the smell of him. He tasted of black coffee and smelt like tobacco even though he hadn't smoked in years. That scent would be forever engrained on Mycroft's memory just as it was on Greg's skin.
And to his surprise he realised Greg was kissing him back.
"How do you do that?" the Detective Inspector asked grudgingly when they finally broke apart, gasping for breath.
"Do what?"
"Make me go from hating you to loving you so damn fast."
"Practice," Mycroft mumbled and pressed their lips together once more.
There's bound to be talk tomorrow (Think of my life long sorrow)
At least there will be plenty implied (If you caught pneumonia and died)
I really can't stay (Get over that hold out)
Ohhh, baby it's cold outside
They kissed for what felt like years until Greg swayed in his arms.
"I never wanted you to go," Mycroft assured him in between kisses.
"I know, I'm sorry," Greg replied in a muffled voice, pulling Mycroft closer. "I'm sorry I'm an idiot."
Mycroft steadied him and looked into his face. Greg looked up at him, a slightly dazed expression on his face.
"You're not an idiot, I'm the idiot," Mycroft insisted. "I'm the one who forgot."
"Forgot what?"
"How much I need you."
"Come off it-"
"Honestly, Gregory," Mycroft murmured, cradling the back of Greg's head in his hand and softened the kiss. He pulled back and sighed, wrapping his arms tightly around the other man's waist and pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I need you," he whispered. "You keep me… real."
Greg didn't say anything. His fingers toyed with the hairs at the nape of Mycroft's neck and the politician could feel his lips against his temple.
"Without you, I may as well not exist. Without you I just… disappear. You know what I was before I met you?"
Greg shook his head.
"I was a ghost. I didn't exist. I was just a voice behind a phone telling important people what to say. I used all my power and resources just to make sure no-one found out who I was. I was alone. I was nothing. I was no-one. I was a ghost. And then I met you."
"What was so special about me?"
Mycroft pulled back and frowned at him. Greg frowned back. Mycroft laughed in disbelief.
"You can't see it?"
"No, so tell me," Greg raised his eyebrows at Mycroft. "That's your trouble, Mycroft. You see everything and you know everything, but won't ever, ever tell me, even if it hurts you, so I can never, ever help you!"
"I only just remembered," Mycroft told him earnestly, cupping the sides of Greg's face in his hands and kissing his eyelids softly. "I forgot. I'm so, so sorry, I forgot."
"You. Don't you see? Everything. Everything about you," he wanted him to see, wanted him to understand. He pressed his lips to Greg's cheek and whispered into his sandpaper skin. "You pulled me back down to earth, you kept me grounded. I was happy with you, Gregory, I was safe and real and everything made sense. When you left it all stopped. I stopped. The entire world stopped and it didn't start again until you walked back through that door two hours ago and if you think even for a minute that I am going to let you get away again you, sir, are kidding yourself."
Greg smiled. "Is that a promise?" he asked quietly, his fingers tracing down Mycroft's neck.
Mycroft laughed softly and kissed him. "It's a guarantee."
"What if you forget again?"
"I won't," he replied sternly. "I swear to you. I will never again, not ever."
"What if I forget?"
"I'll remind you."
"Myc-"
"Please, Gregory," he begged, taking the inspector's hands in his and looking in his eyes. "I know I got lost, I know I forgot, but please. Please. Come back to me."
Greg bit his lip. "Well," he said quietly, straightening Mycroft's tie. "I suppose I could stay for now. At least until it stops snowing."
Mycroft smirked. "Yes, I think that would be very wise."
"I think it's time for bed, don't you?" the policeman asked, glancing at the security camera in the corner, "Unless you want some pretty nasty rumours flying around the office tomorrow?"
"I don't think any of the guest bedrooms are made up for you," Mycroft whispered, his lips brushing against Greg's lightly. "I do apologise, I wasn't expecting company."
"Oh dear," Greg sighed, tracing patterns on the front of Mycroft's blazer with his fingertips.
"Perhaps, given the circumstances, I'd be permitted to share your room?"
"At least I wouldn't be alone again."
"Oh, Myc," he chuckled, taking the government official's hand and leading him out of the room, "My lonely ghost. You won't be alone ever again. I promise."
As they made their way upstairs to their bedroom, Greg looped his arm around Mycroft's skinny waist and rested his head on his shoulder. "Sharing a room in this weather would be for the best," he commented as they walked down the familiar hallway as if they'd never been apart. "It'll cut down on your heating costs."
"Yes, I should think so," Mycroft smirked in reply. "It is awfully cold outside."