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“Here, let— let me get that,” Greg offers as Mycroft fumbles with his keys for the third time, struggling to open the door to his flat. The words feel too big in his mouth, misshapen and wonky, spoken through cotton.
Christ. How long has it been since he’s slept?
“Thirty-one hours,” Mycroft mumbles, finally getting the door unlocked. He shoves it open, pushing himself off the doorframe and stumbling through the door.
Greg blinks, unsure if he’s imagined it or if Mycroft’s casually reading his mind right now. He decides he doesn’t particularly care, following Mycroft into the darkened flat.
Mycroft slaps his hand against the wall once or twice, but gives up before he finds the light switch. There’s enough pre-dawn light filtering through the sheer curtains that they can see each other, but only just. They both stand there, the door swinging quietly shut behind Greg.
“Fuck, I’m tired,” says Greg, at the same time as Mycroft sighs “Sherlock will be the death of me.”
They laugh, a little startled. The sound tumbling from Mycroft’s lips warms Greg. An exhausted Mycroft is a gentler Mycroft, it seems. One that’s a bit more honest. Quicker to laugh. He likes this Mycroft, he decides. He likes all of Mycroft, but this soft tiredness is new. Intriguing. Sweet, somehow. It is almost adorable to see Mycroft yawn, that ever-frozen facade broken as Mycroft is forced to remember that he is, in fact, still a mere mortal.
“Right,” Greg sighs. He tries to put his hands in his pockets, but ends up just sliding them along his jeans a few times before giving up. “ ‘M gonna—” He jerks a thumb toward the door, bracing himself to stumble down the flight of stairs back to the street.
“Stay here,” Mycroft says, stifling another yawn behind his hand. “It’s not worth going all the way to your flat. There is—” he waves his hand all-encompassingly— “room. For you. Of course. Always.”
He seems to forcibly shut himself up then, turning away to look through the window.
Greg is rather warmed by his words. And rather relieved that he no longer has to face all those bloody stairs. “Thanks,” he murmurs. “Really. Appreciate it. You. I appreciate you.” He can’t see Mycroft in the dark, but he hopes he’s blushing.
Greg looks past Mycroft, though, suddenly noticing that their quiet conversation is punctuated by an unnatural noise. A soft, rhythmic beep, beep, beep sounds from somewhere deeper in the flat. Has that been going off the whole time? Just as he raises a finger, about to ask Mycroft if he hears it too, Mycroft heaves a long-suffering sigh.
“Damn,” Mycroft mutters, taking a few steps toward the dark opening of the hallway. “It’s the alarm system again. Power must’ve flickered while we were gone.”
“Cherry on top, innit?” Greg says, though the humour behind his words fails beneath the incessant noise. “Spend the whole day saving your tosser of a brother and come home to an annoying alarm. Unfair.”
Mycroft hums in agreement, seeming to give up as he sags against the wall. “I shall have Anthea deal with it in the morning. It will have to be reset.”
“Hate to say it, darlin’,” Greg says, grinning, “but I think it is morning.”
Mycroft’s sigh is punctuated with laughter as he looks up at Greg. He blinks—he’s grown more visible as time passes and the light brightens, Greg realises—and then laughs again. “What are you doing?” he asks, smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes.
Greg smiles in response, continuing the shift from side to side that he’s picked up, following the rhythmic beep of the alarm system. “Dancing,” he answers simply, smiling broader at Mycroft’s confused laugh in response.
Greg gets an excellent idea. “C’mon,” he says, holding out a hand. “Dance with me.”
Mycroft laughs, folding his arms where he leans against the wall.
“Aw, c’mon,” Greg whines, waggling his eyebrows at Mycroft. “You know you want to.”
He’s just joking. He doesn’t think Mycroft will do it. He rather firmly believes that Mycroft is going to stay there, resolutely against the wall, refusing to participate in Greg’s antics. And he’s alright with that. Fooling around, dancing to the annoying beep of an alarm at four or five in the morning… that’s Greg’s job. He’s happy to make Mycroft laugh, even if Mycroft decides to stay out of it.
But, to Greg’s surprise, he finds himself with a rather sudden armful of Mycroft Holmes.
Mycroft settles against him, one hand resting on Greg’s shoulder, the other lifting Greg’s hand into a prim dancing posture. Greg slings his arm around Mycroft’s waist, immediately softening their pose into something more relaxed, more intimate. More suited for the wee pre-dawn hours.
Mycroft sniffs haughtily at Greg’s bastardisation of their dance frame, but allows himself to be tugged slightly closer, their bodies warm together in the darkness. He sways in time with Greg, subtly taking control to shift them a little closer to the rhythm of the alarm. Slowly, they rotate, shifting around the darkened kitchen. Greg can’t stop smiling.
As they sway, Greg can’t resist. “Band’s great tonight, innit?” he jokes.
Mycroft laughs. “They’re playing all my favourite songs,” he agrees, playing along.
As they giggle, Greg’s heart swells. He likes Mycroft like this. So tired he’s grown soft, that ice-cold mask chipping away. Mycroft’s funny. He’s sweet. He’s warm in Greg’s arms, swaying side-to-side with him in a dark flat, both of them utterly knackered but choosing to stay awake for these precious moments. For these precious moments with each other.
Fuck, Greg thinks, his heart threatening to burst. Fuck, I’m a bit in love with you, aren’t I?
He doesn’t say it. It’s a bit early for that. They’ve gone on just a few dates. Great as those’ve been, it’s still a bit early to be announcing that Greg’s fallen head-over-heels.
But he has a feeling that, when it is time to say big things like that, he won’t be met with disappointment. He can only hope that he’ll be met with a smile like tonight’s, with Mycroft’s easy, exhausted laughter, with warm fingers laced between his as they sway together.
And hopefully without the beep of that bloody alarm.
Greg can’t help it. He sings, voice roughened by years of too many cigarettes and too much shouting. He tries to keep to the beat of that distant, neverending beep, beep, beep, though he’s fairly certain he’s failing spectacularly.
“Someday,” Greg croons, “when I’m awfully low…”
Mycroft collapses against him, his burst of laughter loud in the dark flat.
Greg continues, his smile so wide it hurts, swaying them both from side to side. “I will feel— fuck, I don’t know the words, er—something-something of you… and the way you look tonight.”
Mycroft snorts—actually snorts— and buries his face in Greg’s shoulder, shaking with uncontrollable laughter.
Greg stops singing, though they still sway. “What?” he says, mock-offended. “Got a problem with my singing?”
Mycroft laughs even harder. “You are a certifiably awful singer,” he manages to get out, nearly breathless. “Please, Greg, spare us both.”
Greg, of course, takes that as a challenge. He returns to his song at a greatly increased volume—and pitch, maybe, though he can’t really tell—and sways them together a little faster. Laughter punctuates his words, making the syllables a little harder to form, the notes a little shakier, but he perseveres. He won’t do anything to end this. This gentle moment, together as Greg rasps a rendition that would have Sinatra himself covering his ears and Mycroft giggling against his chest. Their fingers are still tightly laced together, the incessant beeping buried beneath Greg’s off-key wailing and Mycroft’s snorting laughter.
It’s beautiful, here, somehow. Here in the dark flat, both of them so tired they can barely stand. Shuffling more than dancing, just swaying side to side. Just together. Mycroft’s head rests against Greg’s shoulder, Greg’s arm encircling his waist. They support each other, intertwined fingers holding each other up through the dark morning.
Greg quiets just slightly when he hears it.
He immediately swears to himself that he’ll never, never mention it. He’ll never speak of it. Cross his heart, and all that. He knows Mycroft would never admit it. Not in a thousand years.
But as they sway, Greg feels the rumble of Mycroft’s chest. He’s humming along, joining Greg’s rasping love song. And he sounds just as god-awful as Greg.
There is nothing for me but to love you. And the way you look tonight.
Greg knows immediately that he’ll remember this. He’ll remember it forever, this moment returning to him every so often when he finds time to be quiet and still. He’ll remember the darkness, the quiet comfort of the familiar space barely lit by the very beginnings of a soft pink sunrise. He’ll remember that awful alarm, the constant annoyance that they turn into a giggling dance. He’ll remember the feeling of Mycroft swaying against him, the curves of his fingers laced with Greg’s. He’ll remember the song, the way Mycroft laughed, the way they sound together. He’ll remember all of this. And he’ll remember the way he feels.
Greg smiles. He’s barely able to make out Mycroft’s features in the dim light, but he sees him smile, too. He’s more than a bit in love with Mycroft, he knows. And he hopes—no, he knows— that Mycroft might just feel the same.
Together, they sway and sing, both horribly off-key, terribly out-of-tune, and desperately in love.