Though I Walk Through the Valley (29/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (29/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Author's Notes: Welcome back. Sorry about the longer than usual break between the chapters. This one brings us to what I like to think of as the end of Part 2 in my mental 3 part partition of this story.
To those who instantly wondered how far and fast Mycroft was going to run, this one is for you.
Warnings: None in Particular
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 20 - Chapter 22 - Chapter 23 - Chapter 24 - Chapter 25 - Chapter 26 - Chapter 27 - Chapter 28 - Chapter 29 - Chapter 30
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Greg woke up alone, stuck to the bed sheet where last night’s mess had dried on his stomach. He wasn’t particularly surprised by this, though it would have been nice to wake up covered in Mycroft rather than just the semen they’d passed out in rather than cleaning up the night before. If his sleep clogged mind had managed a coherent thought other than ‘pants’ or ‘coffee’ before he made it to the kitchen, he probably would have expected Mycroft in his most ostentatious ‘I’m only a minor civil servant’ suit, briefly looking thoroughly alarmed by the fact Greg had woken up before he’d manage to sneak away to hide in his office, before good breeding and years of training wiped away the display.
“Ah, Gregory, you’re awake.” Mycroft patted his mouth with the corner of a napkin and stood. “I’m afraid I have to go into the office. There have been complications with my departure that require sorting.”
“I’m sure.” Greg muttered under his breath, leaning his forehead on the cupboard while the kettle did its magic.
“Yes, well…” Mycroft seemed unsure what to say, and after a beat, just left the room all together.
Greg moaned sleepily, a sound caught between a yawn and a sigh. The kettle clicked off and he stared at his tea cup as his brain caught up to the fact there was no coffee, only peppermint tea. He left it there, ambling back to the stairs. Peppermint tea was NOT coffee.
Mycroft passed him at the door, flexing his fingers in leather gloves as he settled them in place.
“When will you be back?” Greg asked, leaning against the banister, lazily scratching his exposed chest.
“That remains to be determined, I’m afraid.” Mycroft selected an umbrella, not looking in Greg’s direction. “There is a possibility certain aspects will need to be dealt with in person and necessitate my departure ahead of schedule.”
“Do your best. Let me know what you want for dinner. My turn to co-ok.” Greg yawned.
Mycroft nodded sharply and left, black car arriving at the kerb as his shoes touched the step. The door swung shut behind him and Greg weighed the advantages of going back to bed, more sleep and a glorious lack of thought for an hour or two, against a shower and trip to the coffee shop for a decadently large cup of the forbidden bean.
The coffee won, but only because Greg face planted on the bed and found no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t get back to sleep.
In the bathroom he stared into the mirror at the as the water warmed. His neck and shoulders were covered in a line of bright red blooms, a small cluster on his right with the distinctive imprint of teeth. A similar bite crested his left pec and a smattering of smaller love bites danced across his chest. Fingernails had raised welts from his lower back around to his sternum that stung as he stepped into the shower, thin bright red lines on his skin.
The size of Mycroft’s hand could be calculated from the bruises on his arms, each finger individually defined where he’d held onto Greg so tightly.
Not that last night had been about the pain. It didn’t always have to be about the sharp sting or cracking welt, pain to pleasure, pleasure to pain. Greg’s relationships had all involved the pain-pleasure edge because, as Mycroft had pointed out so long ago, he wasn’t strong enough to fake the Dominant pull without it.
Mycroft didn’t need the edge, didn’t need to fake the barely contained danger, but nonetheless their sessions had generally involved dancing along its ridge, some element of pain, some use of whip or restraint to send Greg all the way down beyond the surface rather than Mycroft’s sheer presence. With Mycroft the edge was a barrier between them, a shield from the overwhelming intimacy they’d be shrouded in without it.
Last night they’d almost broken through that flimsy wall, possessive passion doing what choreographed precision couldn’t as they took their pleasure in each other without Greg ever drifting below the surface into Sub-space, the kind of sex, the kind of submission, that was only ever part of a relationship, not a casual pairing. Mycroft hadn’t said it himself, but the demands he’d made of Greg were one bare step away from a claim.
Greg sighed and leant his forehead against the slick tiles, feeling the water drum down on tight shoulder muscles. He honestly didn’t know whether this made things better or worse in the long term. It helped him to know Mycroft felt so deeply about him, that Mycroft resented the thought of anyone so much as peaking Greg’s interest, that Mycroft cared and wanted him, especially after the bleak and depressing thought’s that had driven Greg to 221B the night before, but all those things would, had, sent Mycroft running scared and any discussion now would be starting with Greg on the back foot, trying to coax a fleeing wild animal to stand still long enough to allow him to identify the wound, let alone begin to try and heal years of accumulated infection.
He turned the water off and got out rather than stew in his own thoughts. Despite that, they followed him: to his bedroom to dress; to Mycroft’s room to change the sheets and make the bed; to the kitchen to grab an apple; out onto the pavement; down to the road. Mostly it was hope, the warm glow lodged in his chest that simultaneously melted and hardened the knot lodged next to it. If Mycroft reacted like that to a look, if he couldn’t bear to let him go, did that mean he would be willing to work things out, to try?
Once Greg coaxed him back, that was.
“Detective Inspector.” Tamara smiled up at him through her lashes. “Usual?”
“Uh, yeah, thanks.” Greg patted his pockets absently, suddenly unsure whether he’d remembered his wallet.
“-because of course, that’s the way it is, innit Inspector? An I wasn’t gonna put up with tha, so-”
Greg nodded automatically, fingers finally locating his wallet in his coat pocket.
“Ana told him, but no-”
Greg smiled politely, not quite sure who all the players were in this drama of hers, but not willing to be rude to such an excellent barista.
“Here you are.” Tamara chirped, handing him the large takeaway cup.
Greg smiled, and wondered over to the door, not quite sure what to do next, not having thought beyond getting the cup now in his hand. The weather was average, neither spectacularly good nor awfully bad, but Greg didn’t feel like walking circles around the park. Nor did he feel like going home, sitting and waiting for Mycroft to return like he didn’t have anything better to do, the stereotypical lost Sub, weak-willed and desperate.
There was the possibility of sitting here and staring out the window, maybe reading the newspapers the shop got in every morning, but Tamara was still glancing at him out of the corner of her eye while she wiped down the bench and there was no need to encourage her. So he headed for the Yard and buried himself in work, decidedly not checking his phone to see if Mycroft had texted.
Anthea texted at six to say Mycroft had embroiled himself in a very important political discussion and unfortunately could not be extricated, but she would make him eat.
Greg ordered takeaway and returned to puzzling over a detail in one of the crime scene photos that just didn’t seem to fit. When he finally stretched and looked at the clock it was pushing 10.
Mycroft’s room was dark when he arrived home and the door shut. Greg didn’t open it to see whether Mycroft had come home or was sleeping at the office.
He saw both Mycroft and Anthea after work Monday night: Mycroft on his way upstairs while Anthea texted rapidly in the entry way, her fingers clicking with impatience the way he could see her feet wanted to.
“Dinner meeting with the Ambassador. We’ll be leaving in ten.” She didn’t look up from her phone.
“Guess there really were some complications.” Greg hung up his jacket almost missing her “not until he made them” muttered under her breath.
“Are you going to need to leave early?” Greg asked neutrally, politely ignoring the comment he was not meant to have heard.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” She finally looked up from her phone and met his eyes.
Greg nodded, but Mycroft emerged in a suit that to Greg looked identical to the old one before he could say anything.
“Good luck.” He smiled as genuinely as he could.
Mycroft gave him a stiff nod and hurried out the door. Anthea waved and followed him.
Greg watched TV, beer in hand, trying to work out what to do.
He was shuffling papers on his desk, trying to find the requisition forms he knew he’d signed the day before, when his office line rang. Continuing to search one handed he fumbled for the handset with the other.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”
“Inspector, it’s Susan Graylyn from St Mary’s Hospital.”
Greg felt his chest reflexively clench, the way it did every time, an automatic response to the knowledge his nearest and dearest ended up in hospitals in various states of almost dead on a fairly regular basis.
“You asked to be notified if Peter Carson woke up.” The nurse on the other end of the phone cheerfully continued.
“Yes, yes.” Greg grabbed a pen, heart shuddering in his chest. “Has he woken up? Does he remember anything?”
“We’re not certain as of yet. He’s been showing signs of stirring for a week or so now, and he opened his eyes earlier, but he went straight back to sleep.”
“Any idea when he’ll be able to talk?” Greg hoped it was soon. Something else to think about.
“Depending on his progress tomorrow, it could be as soon as early next week. He may not wake again so soon,” she cautioned, “but if he does, he should continue to improve.”
“Thank you. If you’d keep me updated on his progress…?”
“Of course, Inspector.”
Greg said good bye and hung up the phone with a sigh. He gave in to the urge to flip over his mobile and look at its face. Still blank, still no texts.
He resisted the urge to hang his head in his hands. In his office or not, his office was a fishbowl and everyone and their dog could see in to his personal problems. Instead he forced himself to go back to trying to find the form. There was no point trying to second guess himself. He might not be doing the right thing, but it was the only way Mycroft might deign to talk to him before fleeing the country, so shit as it felt, it was the best way.
Or it would be, if Mycroft would at least talk to him before he left.
He was honestly surprised to find Mycroft at home when he arrived there. The Dom was in the kitchen, sitting at the table as something that smelt amazing cooked in the oven, flipping through files.
“Uh, hi?” Greg didn’t bother to hide the shock.
Mycroft shut the file and returned it to the briefcase next to him, the top secret stamp briefly flashing before Greg’s eyes before it was out of sight.
“Good evening.” Mycroft stood and checked the casserole.
“I wasn’t expecting you home.” Greg stayed where he was, uncertainly watching Mycroft move around the kitchen.
“Things are as sorted as they can be without interacting in person.” The sentence rolled off Mycroft’s tongue in such a smooth manner, Greg suspected it had been delivered to Mycroft by Anthea and he was merely repeating what he’d been told.
Greg sat at the table and let Mycroft fuss with plates and cutlery.
“So when are you leaving?” He asked quietly.
“Tomorrow afternoon.” Mycroft replied. “I’ll go straight from the office.”
Greg nodded, in acknowledgement not acceptance. This would be it then, the last night he had with Mycroft for months. Quite possibly the last night he would spend in Mycroft’s bed, given he hadn’t brought up the topic with Mycroft and they hadn’t sorted what would be happening after his return.
He wished he’d checked whether Mycroft had been home, so he could curl up in his presence, even if he was already asleep.
They didn’t say anything until Mycroft sat down, placing Greg’s dinner in front of him. Even then the silence lingered until they’d both reached the point of pushing food around their plates rather than eating.
“How do I contact you while you’re away?” Greg put his fork down, knowing he wouldn’t be able to eat any more no matter how long he poked at it. “Still have your phone?”
“To a limited extent at first, yes.” Mycroft took a bite. It took him a long time to chew and swallow.
“And after that?”
Mycroft looked up, eyes skimming over Greg’s solemn face. “I can have Anthea arrange a secure email address for you.”
“Thank you.” Greg met and held his gaze.
Mycroft looked away first, long fingers fiddling with the knife and fork in his hands. He looked uncertain, as though he didn’t know what to do or say. On someone as confident as Mycroft Holmes, it was not a good look.
Last night.
“Are you finished with that?” Greg’s voice was firm.
“I suspect so.” Mycroft sighed, pushing his plate to the side.
He started to stand, but Greg got there first, hand planted firmly on Mycroft’s chest keeping him in his seat.
“Gregor-” Mycroft’s voice cut off with a strangled gasp as Greg straddled his lap. “What are you-?”
“You’re leaving tomorrow. We won’t see each other for months.” Greg daringly ran his hands up the sleeves of Mycroft’s shirt, cupping his face in his hands. “We can spend the night not talking because you’re in a snit, we can spend it talking, which I think we both know isn’t going to happen, or we can spend it in bed memorising each other’s bodies with every breath. Up to you.”
He leant over, lips hovering just above Mycroft’s.
“Well, in that case.” Mycroft pulled Greg down and met him for a surprisingly gently kiss. “Bed.”
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Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (29/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Author's Notes: Welcome back. Sorry about the longer than usual break between the chapters. This one brings us to what I like to think of as the end of Part 2 in my mental 3 part partition of this story.
To those who instantly wondered how far and fast Mycroft was going to run, this one is for you.
Warnings: None in Particular
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 20 - Chapter 22 - Chapter 23 - Chapter 24 - Chapter 25 - Chapter 26 - Chapter 27 - Chapter 28 - Chapter 29 - Chapter 30
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Greg woke up alone, stuck to the bed sheet where last night’s mess had dried on his stomach. He wasn’t particularly surprised by this, though it would have been nice to wake up covered in Mycroft rather than just the semen they’d passed out in rather than cleaning up the night before. If his sleep clogged mind had managed a coherent thought other than ‘pants’ or ‘coffee’ before he made it to the kitchen, he probably would have expected Mycroft in his most ostentatious ‘I’m only a minor civil servant’ suit, briefly looking thoroughly alarmed by the fact Greg had woken up before he’d manage to sneak away to hide in his office, before good breeding and years of training wiped away the display.
“Ah, Gregory, you’re awake.” Mycroft patted his mouth with the corner of a napkin and stood. “I’m afraid I have to go into the office. There have been complications with my departure that require sorting.”
“I’m sure.” Greg muttered under his breath, leaning his forehead on the cupboard while the kettle did its magic.
“Yes, well…” Mycroft seemed unsure what to say, and after a beat, just left the room all together.
Greg moaned sleepily, a sound caught between a yawn and a sigh. The kettle clicked off and he stared at his tea cup as his brain caught up to the fact there was no coffee, only peppermint tea. He left it there, ambling back to the stairs. Peppermint tea was NOT coffee.
Mycroft passed him at the door, flexing his fingers in leather gloves as he settled them in place.
“When will you be back?” Greg asked, leaning against the banister, lazily scratching his exposed chest.
“That remains to be determined, I’m afraid.” Mycroft selected an umbrella, not looking in Greg’s direction. “There is a possibility certain aspects will need to be dealt with in person and necessitate my departure ahead of schedule.”
“Do your best. Let me know what you want for dinner. My turn to co-ok.” Greg yawned.
Mycroft nodded sharply and left, black car arriving at the kerb as his shoes touched the step. The door swung shut behind him and Greg weighed the advantages of going back to bed, more sleep and a glorious lack of thought for an hour or two, against a shower and trip to the coffee shop for a decadently large cup of the forbidden bean.
The coffee won, but only because Greg face planted on the bed and found no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t get back to sleep.
In the bathroom he stared into the mirror at the as the water warmed. His neck and shoulders were covered in a line of bright red blooms, a small cluster on his right with the distinctive imprint of teeth. A similar bite crested his left pec and a smattering of smaller love bites danced across his chest. Fingernails had raised welts from his lower back around to his sternum that stung as he stepped into the shower, thin bright red lines on his skin.
The size of Mycroft’s hand could be calculated from the bruises on his arms, each finger individually defined where he’d held onto Greg so tightly.
Not that last night had been about the pain. It didn’t always have to be about the sharp sting or cracking welt, pain to pleasure, pleasure to pain. Greg’s relationships had all involved the pain-pleasure edge because, as Mycroft had pointed out so long ago, he wasn’t strong enough to fake the Dominant pull without it.
Mycroft didn’t need the edge, didn’t need to fake the barely contained danger, but nonetheless their sessions had generally involved dancing along its ridge, some element of pain, some use of whip or restraint to send Greg all the way down beyond the surface rather than Mycroft’s sheer presence. With Mycroft the edge was a barrier between them, a shield from the overwhelming intimacy they’d be shrouded in without it.
Last night they’d almost broken through that flimsy wall, possessive passion doing what choreographed precision couldn’t as they took their pleasure in each other without Greg ever drifting below the surface into Sub-space, the kind of sex, the kind of submission, that was only ever part of a relationship, not a casual pairing. Mycroft hadn’t said it himself, but the demands he’d made of Greg were one bare step away from a claim.
Greg sighed and leant his forehead against the slick tiles, feeling the water drum down on tight shoulder muscles. He honestly didn’t know whether this made things better or worse in the long term. It helped him to know Mycroft felt so deeply about him, that Mycroft resented the thought of anyone so much as peaking Greg’s interest, that Mycroft cared and wanted him, especially after the bleak and depressing thought’s that had driven Greg to 221B the night before, but all those things would, had, sent Mycroft running scared and any discussion now would be starting with Greg on the back foot, trying to coax a fleeing wild animal to stand still long enough to allow him to identify the wound, let alone begin to try and heal years of accumulated infection.
He turned the water off and got out rather than stew in his own thoughts. Despite that, they followed him: to his bedroom to dress; to Mycroft’s room to change the sheets and make the bed; to the kitchen to grab an apple; out onto the pavement; down to the road. Mostly it was hope, the warm glow lodged in his chest that simultaneously melted and hardened the knot lodged next to it. If Mycroft reacted like that to a look, if he couldn’t bear to let him go, did that mean he would be willing to work things out, to try?
Once Greg coaxed him back, that was.
“Detective Inspector.” Tamara smiled up at him through her lashes. “Usual?”
“Uh, yeah, thanks.” Greg patted his pockets absently, suddenly unsure whether he’d remembered his wallet.
“-because of course, that’s the way it is, innit Inspector? An I wasn’t gonna put up with tha, so-”
Greg nodded automatically, fingers finally locating his wallet in his coat pocket.
“Ana told him, but no-”
Greg smiled politely, not quite sure who all the players were in this drama of hers, but not willing to be rude to such an excellent barista.
“Here you are.” Tamara chirped, handing him the large takeaway cup.
Greg smiled, and wondered over to the door, not quite sure what to do next, not having thought beyond getting the cup now in his hand. The weather was average, neither spectacularly good nor awfully bad, but Greg didn’t feel like walking circles around the park. Nor did he feel like going home, sitting and waiting for Mycroft to return like he didn’t have anything better to do, the stereotypical lost Sub, weak-willed and desperate.
There was the possibility of sitting here and staring out the window, maybe reading the newspapers the shop got in every morning, but Tamara was still glancing at him out of the corner of her eye while she wiped down the bench and there was no need to encourage her. So he headed for the Yard and buried himself in work, decidedly not checking his phone to see if Mycroft had texted.
Anthea texted at six to say Mycroft had embroiled himself in a very important political discussion and unfortunately could not be extricated, but she would make him eat.
Greg ordered takeaway and returned to puzzling over a detail in one of the crime scene photos that just didn’t seem to fit. When he finally stretched and looked at the clock it was pushing 10.
Mycroft’s room was dark when he arrived home and the door shut. Greg didn’t open it to see whether Mycroft had come home or was sleeping at the office.
He saw both Mycroft and Anthea after work Monday night: Mycroft on his way upstairs while Anthea texted rapidly in the entry way, her fingers clicking with impatience the way he could see her feet wanted to.
“Dinner meeting with the Ambassador. We’ll be leaving in ten.” She didn’t look up from her phone.
“Guess there really were some complications.” Greg hung up his jacket almost missing her “not until he made them” muttered under her breath.
“Are you going to need to leave early?” Greg asked neutrally, politely ignoring the comment he was not meant to have heard.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” She finally looked up from her phone and met his eyes.
Greg nodded, but Mycroft emerged in a suit that to Greg looked identical to the old one before he could say anything.
“Good luck.” He smiled as genuinely as he could.
Mycroft gave him a stiff nod and hurried out the door. Anthea waved and followed him.
Greg watched TV, beer in hand, trying to work out what to do.
He was shuffling papers on his desk, trying to find the requisition forms he knew he’d signed the day before, when his office line rang. Continuing to search one handed he fumbled for the handset with the other.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”
“Inspector, it’s Susan Graylyn from St Mary’s Hospital.”
Greg felt his chest reflexively clench, the way it did every time, an automatic response to the knowledge his nearest and dearest ended up in hospitals in various states of almost dead on a fairly regular basis.
“You asked to be notified if Peter Carson woke up.” The nurse on the other end of the phone cheerfully continued.
“Yes, yes.” Greg grabbed a pen, heart shuddering in his chest. “Has he woken up? Does he remember anything?”
“We’re not certain as of yet. He’s been showing signs of stirring for a week or so now, and he opened his eyes earlier, but he went straight back to sleep.”
“Any idea when he’ll be able to talk?” Greg hoped it was soon. Something else to think about.
“Depending on his progress tomorrow, it could be as soon as early next week. He may not wake again so soon,” she cautioned, “but if he does, he should continue to improve.”
“Thank you. If you’d keep me updated on his progress…?”
“Of course, Inspector.”
Greg said good bye and hung up the phone with a sigh. He gave in to the urge to flip over his mobile and look at its face. Still blank, still no texts.
He resisted the urge to hang his head in his hands. In his office or not, his office was a fishbowl and everyone and their dog could see in to his personal problems. Instead he forced himself to go back to trying to find the form. There was no point trying to second guess himself. He might not be doing the right thing, but it was the only way Mycroft might deign to talk to him before fleeing the country, so shit as it felt, it was the best way.
Or it would be, if Mycroft would at least talk to him before he left.
He was honestly surprised to find Mycroft at home when he arrived there. The Dom was in the kitchen, sitting at the table as something that smelt amazing cooked in the oven, flipping through files.
“Uh, hi?” Greg didn’t bother to hide the shock.
Mycroft shut the file and returned it to the briefcase next to him, the top secret stamp briefly flashing before Greg’s eyes before it was out of sight.
“Good evening.” Mycroft stood and checked the casserole.
“I wasn’t expecting you home.” Greg stayed where he was, uncertainly watching Mycroft move around the kitchen.
“Things are as sorted as they can be without interacting in person.” The sentence rolled off Mycroft’s tongue in such a smooth manner, Greg suspected it had been delivered to Mycroft by Anthea and he was merely repeating what he’d been told.
Greg sat at the table and let Mycroft fuss with plates and cutlery.
“So when are you leaving?” He asked quietly.
“Tomorrow afternoon.” Mycroft replied. “I’ll go straight from the office.”
Greg nodded, in acknowledgement not acceptance. This would be it then, the last night he had with Mycroft for months. Quite possibly the last night he would spend in Mycroft’s bed, given he hadn’t brought up the topic with Mycroft and they hadn’t sorted what would be happening after his return.
He wished he’d checked whether Mycroft had been home, so he could curl up in his presence, even if he was already asleep.
They didn’t say anything until Mycroft sat down, placing Greg’s dinner in front of him. Even then the silence lingered until they’d both reached the point of pushing food around their plates rather than eating.
“How do I contact you while you’re away?” Greg put his fork down, knowing he wouldn’t be able to eat any more no matter how long he poked at it. “Still have your phone?”
“To a limited extent at first, yes.” Mycroft took a bite. It took him a long time to chew and swallow.
“And after that?”
Mycroft looked up, eyes skimming over Greg’s solemn face. “I can have Anthea arrange a secure email address for you.”
“Thank you.” Greg met and held his gaze.
Mycroft looked away first, long fingers fiddling with the knife and fork in his hands. He looked uncertain, as though he didn’t know what to do or say. On someone as confident as Mycroft Holmes, it was not a good look.
Last night.
“Are you finished with that?” Greg’s voice was firm.
“I suspect so.” Mycroft sighed, pushing his plate to the side.
He started to stand, but Greg got there first, hand planted firmly on Mycroft’s chest keeping him in his seat.
“Gregor-” Mycroft’s voice cut off with a strangled gasp as Greg straddled his lap. “What are you-?”
“You’re leaving tomorrow. We won’t see each other for months.” Greg daringly ran his hands up the sleeves of Mycroft’s shirt, cupping his face in his hands. “We can spend the night not talking because you’re in a snit, we can spend it talking, which I think we both know isn’t going to happen, or we can spend it in bed memorising each other’s bodies with every breath. Up to you.”
He leant over, lips hovering just above Mycroft’s.
“Well, in that case.” Mycroft pulled Greg down and met him for a surprisingly gently kiss. “Bed.”
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