Mostly Mark & Rupert

Mycroft follows his gaze with his own. "Have one. See if it's as good as your own." They look at each other and they remember the evening Penny wasn't home when Mycroft called in for a visit. Greg was dividing the cream hollowed-out lemon halves when Mycroft had arrived. By the time he had left, the dessert had been ready and eaten.  Mycroft hands him a cup of coffee, his thumb touching Greg's wrist accidentally for one moment. One moment too long. 

Mycroft twiddles his thumbs and thinks.  The weather is pleasantly warm, he is out of his three piece suit, and has taken Gregory with him for holidays in the villa he owns in Southern France for a fortnight of... well, not romance per se. Something rather more physical. The time for romance has passed by now, hasn’t it? What’s the savoir vivre in these cases?  Does he still need to woo and court Greg?

Do you remember when I said no more wips?

He got dressed and prepared to work from home, a cup of tea by his side, until he would go to his office.  The phone call came just right after 19:00.   Anthea knocked on the door and instead of waiting for him to reply, he entered the room, clutching the mobile in her hand. She gave it to him. "For you." He took it from her with his left hand, and after looking down at it disdainfully, he answered. "Mycroft Holmes."

Artists needs encouragement.

Eyes that held the intensity of an evening storm - and who knew evening storms could be so appealing?- were fixed on his face, on his stubbly cheeks, the circles he was certain were under his eyes, the faint bruise on his temple, a parting gift of the last perpetrator Greg arrested, and the familiar lips followed the grey gaze on the aching skin. "Mycroft..."  "Yes, darling?" Mycroft lost his balance when Greg pulled him down forcefully at hearing the endearment. Mycroft was generous with his endearments, but his darling never failed to bring shivers down Greg's spine.