They'd been dancing around each other for years, somehow never the right time to push past the boundaries of the friendship they both knew leaned towards something more.
Greg met Mycroft in a hospital room. A startlingly honest conversation was spoken in only hushed voices, and a mutual understanding passed between them that formed the foundation of years of dinners and late night phone calls. At first, it was easy to slip into professionalism and concern for Sherlock's well-being. A year in, Greg finally admitted to himself that it wasn't about that anymore.
He was a faithful husband to the end, valiantly attempting to hold a marriage together that had never been a two way street to start with. When the papers were finally signed, he was more relieved than anything else. He had long since mourned the death of anything resembling love between them. The second he returned to his lonely apartment after what he hoped was the last time he'd ever see her, he had called Mycroft without a second thought. He'd given up on overthinking it.
Five months later, Greg got the call. He was caught up in rushed explanations on Eurus and everything that had happened. He didn't ask the thousands of questions on his mind. If he owed Mycroft anything, it was to hear all this from the man himself. He did, over far too much whiskey while sleeping more nights in Mycroft's guest room than his own bed.
The three months Mycroft was out of the country were awful. He couldn't answer phone calls most of the time and texted about once a week. Greg could tell he was exhausted, which reflected how he felt pretty well. He admitted to himself that he had feelings beyond friendship towards Mycroft during the time away. He was determined to say something the next time they saw each other.
The hospital room was somehow too loud and too quiet at the same time. Greg held Mycroft's hand, and Mycroft didn't pull away from him. It was the closest he could get to a confession while Mycroft recovered from the car crash.
Nearly a year later, he finally pulled Mycroft in for a kiss. The next dinner they had was laden with everything that had gone unsaid for years.
Gentle music played in the background as Greg pulled himself towards Mycroft's chest until his head was resting against his collarbone, "Is it too soon?"
"Hmm?" He could feel the vibration of the questioning hum more than hear it from this close.
"To tell you I love you? That I probably have for years?"
He felt the hitch in Mycroft's breath against his hair. There was a few seconds of silence as Mycroft calculated his reply, a quirk Greg had quickly gotten used to. "Not at all. I think it's long past due."
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