Chapter Text
The problem with Sherlock. Well, there are many problems with bloody Sherlock.
But beside the obnoxiousness, and the midnight all-caps texts for cases. Beside the fact he still can’t get Greg’s name right and his utter refusal to get along with any of his team…
Beside these facts and many more…is that before he met Sherlock, Greg thought he was straight.
It’s not the man himself. Obviously.
There’s only so many times one’s intelligence can be compared to a packet of crisps before one starts to resent the cocking arrogant twat.
And yet Sherlock is the direct cause of Greg’s discovery.
It’s been an absolute write-off of a night. Seven hours with sodding Sherlock trawling back alleys, dumpster diving, and interviewing neighbours only to find the key evidence stashed in the pocket of one arsehole’s Bellstaff.
I wanted to see how long you’d keep going.
Greg had been stopped mid-bollocking by the appearance of a black vehicle with tinted windows, and unceremoniously dumped in the back seat.
That is to say, Greg had not been in the mood for any kind of revelation, except the number of minutes until he could be home, warm and Sherlock-free.
But here he stands, soaked through from the rain, in an empty warehouse at 2am.
Questioning.
Is that man pretty, or is it just me?
“What do you want with my brother, Detective Inspector?” The man repeats.
He’s…definitely pretty?
All posh sharp lines, stood straight to attention, focused on Greg. Long fingers wrapped around the handle of a - oh an umbrella, how quaint - leaning on it like some kind of fancy cane. His eyes pierce into Greg’s, highlighted by the single spotlight above their heads. Blue.
Greg swallows. And tries to organise his head.
“Err. I want rid, ideally. Can you make that happen?” He quips.
Is he flirting? Is that what’s just happened??
The man is unmoved.
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Greg refocuses. “Actually…he’s a royal pain in my arse, but- wait. Did you say brother?”
—-
Two weeks later, Greg has catalogued everyone he’s come across. He feels like Sherlock, a bit, tracing his eyes up and down, deducing.
Of course, he’s deducing whether he wants to fuck them or not, rather than the last time they were in Spain, or their favourite brand of toothpaste. But the point still stands.
Two weeks later, and Greg has catalogued 12 women that have taken his fancy. One non-binary suspect had been a bit interesting until they’d opened their mouth - what a tosser. And absolutely no men.
It might not help that he’s surrounded by his mates in the force; he’d rather be tased in the balls than see them in a sexual context.
Still, it’s enough data to make a conclusion: It must have been some sort of fluke. Probably borne of sleep deprivation. Or relief at any features that didn’t resemble the smug grin of his own bloody consulting detective.
That must be it. A fluke. Like always.
Greg nods, sighs a little in relief, and gets on with his paperwork.
—-
“Good afternoon, Inspector.”
Bloody bollocking fuck.
“Sherlock’s brother.” Greg nods, heat rising up his neck.
The man is unfairly attractive.
In daylight, his hair is this deep red, lightly curling from the drizzle outside, and how is that fair?
He’s probably got freckles. Greg has a ridiculous urge to roll the man’s expensive-looking sleeves up to check.
The man narrows his eyes, and pulls his blazer sleeves down further over his wrists.
Oops.
“I come to apologise, almost certainly not for the last time, for-”
“Can I take you to dinner?” Greg blurts.
Well then.
That’s- a thing that Greg just asked.
“Pardon?”
The man looks completely taken aback. Greg’s feeling about the same.
Straight people don’t ask other men out, do they? So. Greg is probably not straight?
The man’s cheeks have coloured slightly, his expression perplexed. Cute.
Most probably not straight. Definitely…maybe.
“Err. Sorry, that just sort of came out.” Greg scritches the hair at the back of his neck. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Mycroft.”
Of course it’s something posh like Mycroft, for fuck’s sake.
“Do people call you Myc for short?”
“Absolutely not.”
Greg grins.
And Mycroft - Myc - starts fidgeting, twisting his hands together as he appraises whatever expression Greg’s making.
He’s kind of adorable.
“You wish to take me to dinner. As…?”
“A date.” Greg says evenly, in for a penny and all. The deduction thing doesn’t run in the family, then.
Mycroft narrows his eyes one last time. Greg wonders if he can see the terror hiding underneath his bravado. The urge to take it all back, call it a joke. Ignore this feeling again.
“My assistant will be in touch.” Mycroft nods. And then turns to leave, apparently forgetting whatever he’d come in here to apologise for.
Elation rushes through his veins as Greg watches the man shuffling through his doorway. The man he’s going on a date with, apparently.
“Bye Mykie!” He calls, the relief making him perhaps a tad overconfident.
The man turns briefly to glower at him, Greg grinning back, before closing the door softly behind him.
As Mycroft rounds the corner from his office, Greg exhales, leaning back in his chair.
What the fuck just happened??