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Greg learned far too young that you should never make homes out of people.
He learned it from his parents, who were empty shells too haunted to ever let anyone else reside there. And from Abby, who left him, wondering how, and why, and where he went wrong. Everyone else in his life had been temporary accommodation - kicked Greg out when he got too much, too messy.
And he’d tried. God, had he tried. To shrink in size and take up less space, to be a little less loud, a little less Greg. But every time it felt like carving out pieces of himself and leaving them behind - felt like tearing himself apart for someone who’d end up leaving anyway.
So he’s lived alone for most of his life - and even when he wasn’t, he still felt so lonely he may as well have been. By now, Greg just figures it comes with the territory. When you have as much baggage as he does - boxes upon boxes of carefully wrapped trauma with fragile stickers taped to the sides - no one ever wants to help you unpack.
The day Mycroft gets shot is one of the worst days of Greg’s life.
Even now, the echo of gunshots ricochet in his head when he thinks about it. He can still smell the rusty scent of his best friends blood as it pooled beneath him, and he can see the whites of Mycroft’s eyes as the life slowly drained from him. The call had come in the dead of night, pulling Greg from his fitful sleep and into a nightmare he couldn’t have anticipated. The sights, sounds, and smells - all of it is so ingrained in his memory that he relives it every time he closes his eyes.
He wasn’t sure what compelled him to volunteer to take care of Mycroft once the man was discharged from the hospital. Mycroft certainly had enough resources to hire a full medical team if he wanted. But Greg had insisted, and to his surprise, Mycroft hadn’t argued.
He spends three weeks sleeping on Mycroft’s couch.
He stays and takes care of him - cooks and cleans, and makes sure Mycroft takes his medication and doesn’t try to do too much.
He thinks that he’s doing too much, that he’s running himself ragged by working full-time and taking caring of Mycroft. But the thing is, none of it ever feels like work. Because Mycroft , he is - well. Not his home - he’s not foolish enough to ever let him become that for him. But his favorite person in the whole world.
He couldn’t protect him when it mattered, not Mycroft from the sniper. He couldn’t do a single damn thing to keep him safe. So the absolute least he can do is take care of him while Mycroft can’t do it himself.
And god, he loves him - so much that his bones ache with the fierceness of it.
But it was becoming harder to ignore. Especially when he caught Mycroft watching him with an unreadable expression, or when their hands brushed as Greg handed over a cup of tea, sending a jolt of electricity through Greg’s entire body.
Mycroft, who’s tough, and gentle, and brave and kind, and all of the things that Greg doesn’t deserve but still gets to witness anyway. Mycroft - who trusts Greg so thoroughly that he knew all he needed to do was reach for him, and Greg would pull him to safety.
Sharing his space and his home completes Greg in a way he’d never dared to dream of. He’d always known that so much of him was missing, that so many parts had been cracked open and hollowed out, and he’d just come to accept that.
But then he’s woken from a nightmare by Mycroft gently shaking his shoulder and brushing his curls out of his face. And Greg is breathing too hard and his mind is racing too fast, and the haunted look in Mycroft’s eyes tells him all he needs to know. It just becomes habit after that. When one of them has a nightmare and sleep is out of reach, they reach for each other instead. They sit side by side with the tv on mute, and wait until they feel safe again.
Greg gets to know how it feels to fold laundry, and grocery shop, and cook for two people instead of one. He gets used to having two toothbrushes in the pot by the sink, and two different orders when they get takeaways on Saturdays.
Greg learns how it feels to live in a home, not just a house.
It hurts a little too, sometimes, because Greg knows this isn’t forever. Because Mycroft is almost ready to go back to work by now, and he doesn’t really need Greg’s help anymore - doesn’t need him cluttering up his space.
He tries not to dwell on that. Greg has a habit of focusing too much on the future instead of living in the moment, and he doesn’t want to miss a single second of this. But he knows how much it’s going to hurt when the time finally comes, because now he’s had a taste of this, he has no idea how he’s supposed to give it up.
It was fine before, when he had no idea how it felt to belong to someone - to belong to Mycroft. But now he does - now Greg knows what it would look like to really be with him. And he’s always known that it was never a really a possibility, that Mycroft could never love Greg the way he craves, but sometimes.
Sometimes Mycroft looks at him like there’s something he needs to say but he doesn’t know how to. Sometimes, when they’re still shaking from their nightmares, Mycroft sits so close that his whole body is pressed against the side of Greg’s, as if the contact is the only thing keeping him grounded. And sometimes Mycroft opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but then he shakes his head and keeps quiet.
But Greg buries his hope with the rest of his feelings that are too big and too scary, and too unrealistic. Because he knows Mycroft, and he knows himself, and he knows it could never happen for a million different reasons that all start and end with Greg.
So he enjoys it while he can. He enjoys the laughter, and the movie marathons, and the feeling of home that he’s never had before.
And when the time comes to leave, he tries to make it as easy as possible.
He waits until Mycroft lefts for work, before hauling his own bags out of the house and into his car, and he tries to ignore the pain in his chest as he locks up the house and drives away.
It’s all a little dramatic, maybe, seeing as Greg is over at the Mycroft house all the time anyway. It’s just - it’s not the same. And he knows with complete certainty that he’ll never again feel the way he did while staying with Mycroft. He’ll be fine, he will. It just sucks, is all.
And when he opens the door to his apartment for the first time in weeks, an emptiness washes over Greg that’s so consuming it leaves him breathless.
Greg has never been more aware than in this moment, that this place has never felt like his home - has never felt like somewhere he belongs. It’s just a place to stay, a roof over his head. It feels temporary, like he’s just there until he finds somewhere more permanent. Except the only place he wants to be, the only person he wants to be with, don’t belong to him.
His skin feels too small and this apartment feels too big, too hollow. And it’s so tidy, like a show house rather than an actual home that someone lives in.
Greg suddenly feels like that lonely Eighteen year old boy again - the one he thought he’d left behind.
Greg can’t sleep.
He misses the couch in Mycroft’s living room with its soft and plump covering, and the velvety blanket that smells like washing powder and Mycroft. He thought he’d be glad to have his own bed back, but it’s too big and too rough, and it doesn’t smell right anymore.
He’s too scared to even close his eyes, because this time when the nightmares come he’ll have to face them alone. It’s Mycroft being just out of reach. And he just - he can’t. He can’t face that in this empty bed, in an empty apartment, when he feels so, so lonely.
So he gets up, like maybe if he has a glass of water and does a lap of the place then somehow all of those problems will be fixed. And he knows they won’t, but it’s just wishful thinking, or pure desperation at this point. Either way, it’s worth a shot.
He’s just finished gulping down a glass of water when there’s a knock at the door.
The time on his phone says 2:36, and there’s suddenly a bitter taste in Greg’s mouth and a sinking feeling in his stomach. No one would be here so late unless there was an emergency.
His heart sinks to his feet when he pulls open the door and Mycroft is standing there.
Before Greg can even open his mouth, Mycroft says, “Sherlock is fine.”
He lets out a sigh of relief as he holds the door open so Mycroft can slip inside. Once it’s closed behind them, Greg turns to face him and takes in his appearance. Mycroft is wearing one of Greg’s old jumper, sweatpants, and mismatched shoes. Greg snorts out a laugh.
“Nice shoes,” he remarks.
Mycroft looks down and flushes when he realizes. He shrugs slightly, but doesn’t meet Greg’s gaze.
“Everything okay?” Greg asks, some of his initial worry beginning to creep back in.
“Yes,” Mycroft says, then scrunches his nose up and shakes his head. “No.”
He laughs but there’s no humor in it, and when he cards a hand through his hair Greg can see that he’s shaking. He itches to reach for Mycroft, but slips his hands into his pockets instead.
“What’s wrong?”
And the thing is, they’ve actually gotten better at this. Talking, that is. Lack of communication had almost ruined their friendship once before, and with all of the burdens that both of them have to carry, they learned how to be honest with each other when they needed to be. It doesn’t always come easy, but they do always try.
So Greg moves into the kitchen to put a pot of coffee on. By the time it’s done Mycroft is leaning against the kitchen counter across from Greg and he’s ready to talk.
“I had a nightmare, and I came into the living room, and you weren’t there.”
“Mycroft-“
“I don’t think I said thank you,” Mycroft interrupts. “For everything. All of it.”
Greg shakes his head. “You don’t have to thank me for anything.”
Mycroft laughs. “You saved my life. And then you took care of me. You never complained. Even when I was being whiny, you just did it. And I didn’t say thank you.”
Honestly, Greg hadn’t even realized. It’s not like any of the stuff he did, he did for a thank you. It’s never about that for him, and especially not when it concerns Mycroft.
He does it because he loves him. It’s just that simple.
“You don’t need to,” Greg says with a shrug of his shoulders.
Mycroft smiles, but he’s shaking his head.
“God, you probably mean that too,” he says, more to himself than to Greg.
They look at each other then. The apartment is silent, and neither of them are moving, but something feels alive - like it’s crackling between them. Greg can feel his heart beating in his chest.
“Thank you, Gregory,” Mycroft says.
His voice is loud in the quiet that has fallen between them, and he sounds so sincere that Greg can feel it - can see it in his eyes that are still locked on Greg’s.
“Of course, you know I’ve always got your back,” Greg tells him.
The words are so familiar that it brings a smile to both of their faces, and the air in the room suddenly feels a little lighter.
“I know you do.”
Greg doesn’t know how to respond to that. So he just smiles and nods, and then takes a sip of his coffee.
Silence falls upon them again, and Greg can’t quite make himself look at Mycroft. It’s just - there’s nothing to hide behind here, so late at night with nothing to act as a buffer. He’s afraid that if Mycroft looks in his eyes he’ll see all the things Greg is too afraid to say.
He stares at Mycroft’s mismatched shoes instead - one black and white, the other one blue. Greg has no idea how he got all the way here without noticing, Mycroft cares more about his appearance than even Greg does.
He’s about to make another comment about them when -
“You love me, don’t you?”
Greg immediately looks up, and as the words leave Mycroft’s mouth, they freeze like ice in Greg’s veins. He can’t look away now, but he can’t catch his breath either. He feels the panic building inside of him as he processes what Mycroft just said, and he can feel a million different excuses dancing on the tip of his tongue but none of them know how to be spoken.
“Mycroft, I don’t - I’m,” Greg falters over his words, stumbling to find the right ones but failing.
Greg is terrified down to his very core that this is something they can’t come back from.
“I’m sorry,” is what he settles on.
Mycroft laughs then, shaking his head in disbelief as he pushes away from the counter and takes a step closer to Greg.
“Sorry? Gregory, You love me like I deserve it.” He takes another step closer. “Why would you ever apologize for that?”
“You don’t - I mean, you don’t,” Greg stutters.
He hopes to god Mycroft knows what he’s saying, because he doesn’t think he could find the words to explain right now. He doesn’t think he has the strength.
But then Mycroft is stepping forward again, until he’s so close that Greg can feel his warmth. And there’s nothing he wants more than to sink into it, to wrap himself up in Mycroft and never leave again, but Greg is too afraid to even move.
So Mycroft does it for him.
He crowds in close - rests his hands on Greg’s chest, then pushes them over his shoulders and up his neck, until he’s cupping Greg’s face between his hands. The weight of his whole body is pressing against Greg’s, and he is certain Mycroft can feel the way he’s trembling.
“I do,” Mycroft whispers against Greg’s lips.
And then they’re kissing.
Slow, and tender, and reverent, like this is all either of them have ever wanted. Like maybe they’ll die if they stop. And that’s how it feels as Greg fists his hands in the fabric of Mycroft’s jumper and tugs, pulling to keep him close like Mycroft might disappear if he lets go.
It’s everything.
Greg’s eyes are closed tightly when they eventually pull apart, but he’s crying softly. He lets out a breathless sigh as Mycroft kisses the tears from his cheeks, then brushes the curls from his face.
“Let me see those pretty brown eyes,” Mycroft whispers.
Greg could never deny him anything, especially not when he’s talking so sweetly. So he opens his eyes, and the smile on Mycroft’s face would have been enough to send Greg to his knees if Mycroft wasn’t holding him up.
“There you are,” Mycroft says.
He doesn’t break eye contact once as he brushes his thumb along Greg’s lower lip - he just smiles like he can’t believe his luck. It sets fire to something inside of Greg, and he can’t stop himself from surging forward and capturing Mycroft’s mouth in another kiss.
“Mycroft-“
“I love you,” Mycroft promises, his lips brushing over Greg’s. “I do. I always have.”'
It’s everything Greg has ever wanted to hear, and he can’t help but press closer. He buries his face against Mycroft’s neck, and Mycroft just winds his arms around Greg and holds him tight, pressing kisses to his hair.
“I love you so much,” Greg murmurs against Mycroft’s pulse point.
Greg doesn’t know how long they stay like that for, just enjoying being wrapped up in each other’s embrace. It could have been an instant or a lifetime, but Greg knows that it could never be long enough - that no amount of time with Mycroft could ever be long enough. But if forever is on offer, he’d kind of like to start with that.
“Gregory,” Mycroft says quietly. “Will you come home? Please?”
And he asks so softly, and he’s holding him so gently, that Greg thinks maybe people can be homes, after all.
“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go home.”