Chapter Text
Mycroft doesn't know what Gregory sees in him.
He doesn't ask either, but it torments him. He sees little good about himself; a ginger haired, gawky (he never grew out of that, as Mommy had said, he's always been more than a little awkward) man, in his forties, working too hard, working too long. There was nothing about him that was conventionally attractive, traits or looks wise.
He tries hard. That's what Mycroft does; he tries. He is constantly on his best behavior, and when Gregory moves in after a year, it turns into a 24 hour obsession, fretting about what to do for Gregory, how to make it even better.
Mycroft tries, and Sherlock doesn't. Sherlock is effortless, and sometimes even effort less (leaving things everywhere for John to pick up, various body parts hidden in different corners, the stench of decomposition that never really goes away).
But two years of just trying grows harder and harder by the day, and the mask slowly crumbles. Mycroft can't keep up with day to day matters, and slowly he slips up, the perfection of a clean and tidy home, a meal waiting and a bath drawn up for his Gregory (Gregory who only deserves the best, and nothing but the best) aren't always accomplished, and the house gets messier and messier (Mycroft had servants, until he was sent away to school; he is not naturally neat, it was just more efficient to be neat), the food isn't always warm, and the bath is seldom drawn.
Mycroft is tired of the trying, and one day he just doesn't give a fuck. He reaches home 10 minutes before Gregory is due, and he collapses on the sofa, closing his eyes. It's been three days since he slept, soothing tensions between countries means no rest for Mycroft.
And yet, when he wakes up, the house is neat again, and Gregory has his sleeves rolled up, cooking up something warm and fragrant and delicious in the kitchen. Mycroft sits up with a start, and tries to help, because that's what he does, try.
He walks his face straight into Gregory's hand. "Go and rest, I won't have you trying to prettify my lasagna." The detective inspector is laughing at the drowsy politician, and stirring at a pot of seasoned mince.
When Mycroft stops trying, Gregory picks up the slack.
And it's all fine. It's fine.