For The Love Of Talent

Finally, Harold felt John sit up on the edge of the bed with a deep sigh.

He sat up and asked softly, "John? Can’t you sleep?"

"It's mostly because I can't find a comfortable position." John sighed and continued, reluctantly, "Because of the pain."

Harold knew how difficult it must have been for John to admit that he was in pain, and that it must really be intense.

Even now, when they were closer than ever, it was a real struggle to get John to open up about his sufferings. His lover was so used to relying only on himself and being strong that he took on everything alone. But Harold was there now.

He asked gently, "May I take a look?" 

During their last case, John had been hit by a metal pipe while chasing the culprit. Despite his exceptional pain tolerance, he still felt the impact afterward.

John lowered his head and said sharply, "What?" What do you want to see? That I’m not as strong as I claim to be? That I can’t take a hit without feeling pain?"

But Harold wasn’t at all unsettled by John’s defiant tone. He knew it was easier for John to attack than to show his weaknesses, better than feeling like a burden to others. Because that was what John feared most. Harold kept his composure and said in a calm, firm voice, "Show me, John, please."

They stood like that for a few moments. Harold remained impassive in the face of the dark glances John shot him, staring back until John gave in with a sigh of defeat.

He reluctantly lifted his T-shirt, and Harold gasped at the extent of the bruise. No wonder John had trouble sleeping. It stretched from the top of his shoulder down to his ribs and curved back, a mix of blue and purple.

If John wasn’t going to take care of himself, Harold would do it for him.

He turned on his bedside lamp, got up, walked around the bed, stood in front of John, leaned down, and kissed him gently on the forehead. Still in that same gentle tone that brooked no argument, he said, "Stay like that. I’ll be right back."

He went into John’s bathroom. John heard him rummage through the drawers until he returned with a tube of cream that John recognized as a pain reliever.

"I didn’t know I had that here."

Harold chuckled softly. "It’s part of the starter pack in all my safe houses since I've known you, so it had to be in your apartment too."

John shook his head and laughed, but he immediately winced in pain.

Harold quickly examined the bruise, trying to figure out how to relieve John’s pain, and then said, "Lie on your stomach. I’ll put some cream on it."

John sighed and said, "Harold, there's no need. It'll go away. Don’t worry."

"I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. I care about you so much, more than I can say. You can’t ask me not to worry about you. Just deal with it."

He placed both hands on his lover’s shoulders, gently urging him to lie down. "Let me take care of you," he said kindly. "I know it’s not easy. I know you don’t like feeling vulnerable. But here with me, you don’t have to be strong. There are no expectations. It's just you and your lover taking care of you after a difficult mission. So try to let go, and I’ll take care of the rest, okay?"

"Okay."

John complied. He could never resist Harold, especially when he used that tone and handled him so gently. John’s bravado was his last line of defense against letting go, and they both knew it.

Once John was lying on his stomach, Harold sat down beside him. He opened the tube of cream, squeezed out a small amount, warmed it between his hands, and began applying it to John’s skin.

John flinched slightly.

Harold stopped immediately and asked, "Am I hurting you?"

"No, on the contrary," John murmured, his voice choked up. He placed his arms at his sides, his shoulders completely relaxed.

Reassured, Harold continued applying the cream, massaging John’s back and loosening his tense muscles while keeping his touch light so as not to cause more pain.

Suddenly, John said in a slightly hoarse voice, "Harold, actually, it wasn't just the pain keeping me awake."

"Hm? What else?"

Harold had expected this, so he simply listened.

"I'm trained. I'm not afraid to fight when I have to, but sometimes I..."

John paused, as if he didn’t dare finish his sentence or was struggling to express his feelings.

Harold hummed to himself, continued the massage, and waited.

"Sometimes I’m afraid of becoming that monster the CIA turned me into again. In the heat of the moment, I was so caught up in the fight and the adrenaline that, despite the impact, I kept running as if the pain didn’t exist, like a machine. I don’t want to go back to being who I was."

Harold lay down next to John, turned him toward him, and embraced him carefully, being careful not to press on his bruise.

He began whispering into John's hair, "No, John, you won't go back to being that person. Because I know you never really were. If Kara called you a 'boyscout,' it's because deep down, that's who you are. You’re a good guy, John. You have a heart that will ultimately guide your decisions. You’re clearheaded, sometimes even too much so. You see yourself in a much darker light than you really are. Would you let yourself get carried away to the point of forgetting your humanity? No, John. I’m certain of that. You chose not to kill someone even though it was an ordered, not just once, but several times, because your heart and instinct told you it wasn’t right, even though you were fully aware of the consequences those decisions would have on you. That was you, and that’s still you. You’re human, John. That’s why I chose you."

Harold gave John some time to process what he’d said, hoping he would accept it. 

After a moment, sensing him relax against him, he kissed him tenderly on the lips, then whispered softly, "So now, you’re going to get some sleep. We’ll enjoy the rest of the night, and I promise you that you’ll see things differently tomorrow."

John snuggled closer to Harold’s chest and said softly, "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"We'll never know because I have no intention of leaving."

As Harold wrapped his arms around John and pressed a long kiss into his hair, John’s fears and doubts gradually faded, and he fell into a restful sleep.

Harold didn't let himself drift off to sleep until he sensed John’s breathing become steady and deep.

Tomorrow would be different.

Tomorrow, they would prepare together for a new day and perhaps one or more new cases.

Tomorrow, at the end of the day, it might be Harold who would need John.

Tomorrow and forever, one truth would remain unchanged. 

They were each other’s safe place.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

They worked in comfortable silence. Harold was finishing up by cross-checking the information from their latest case to close the file, while John was bent over a Glock 19 at a work table, disassembling it with surgical precision to clean it. He loved this ritual and the satisfaction of knowing that no matter how urgent the situation, he would be ready.

"The firing pin shows slight signs of wear," John said without looking up, his deep voice breaking the silence. "Nothing serious, but it's better to prevent it from getting stuck."

He knew Harold wasn’t interested in any of this, but he took a mischievous pleasure in providing this kind of detail just to get a little dig in from his boss and now lover. It was a little game between them, just like John’s habit of asking trivial questions to learn more about Harold's life.

However, tonight, he received no response.

No "You can't do that anywhere else," or "How is that going to help me with what I'm doing?" 

Nothing.

Just silence.

John looked up and gasped in surprise.

He often arrived at the library to find Harold asleep at his desk, but this time, Harold had fallen asleep while John was there and was sleeping soundly.

He was slumped over his desk with his head resting on his crossed arms and was surrounded by files, his deep, steady breathing indicating how soundly he was sleeping.

John gently placed the parts of his gun on the cloth, taking care not to make any sudden movements.

To say that John was astonished would be an understatement. For a man like Harold Finch, whose life was so secretive and who was so distrustful of the outside world, to fall asleep in such a vulnerable state while John was there was a sign of unfathomable trust.

John suddenly realized that he had never experienced anything like this. The feeling of being a place where someone could finally close their eyes without worry.

He got up as quietly as possible and went to fetch the woolen blanket he had seen in the corner of the library. He returned to Harold’s side and gently draped the blanket over his shoulders. Harold let out a soft sigh and continued to sleep peacefully.

John returned to his work table, finished assembling his weapon, and stowed it in the safe. Then he came back and sat in the same spot. He pushed his chair back, rested his feet on the table, crossed his arms, and leaned back in his chair. 

He continued to watch Harold, basking in the calm of the moment, which was so rare in their lives. Gradually, weariness overcame him, and he eventually tilted his head back and sank into sleep, his eyelids closing on the sight of the one he had sworn to protect. 

He was jolted awake by a strange sensation, like a gentle caress on his cheek. 

He opened his eyes and saw Harold standing before him. Like John, he looked a little disoriented; his hair was tousled, and there was a mark from the fold of his shirt on his cheek. He had probably just woken up. 

John sat up with a grimace, his neck protesting the awkward position in which he had slept.

"Did I sleep for a long time?" he asked, his voice slurred from sleep.

Harold replied, "I couldn't say. I just woke up myself."

John glanced at his watch.

"What? I slept for half an hour!"

Harold raised his hand and ran his fingers through John’s hair, brushing it back. Still not quite awake, John could almost have purred at the gentleness of the touch.

"Well, Mr. Reese," Harold murmured, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, "you clearly don't see me as much of a threat if you can sleep like that with me in the room."

John laughed softly.

"I could say the same thing to you, Harold. After all, I’m technically the threat. And yet, you fell asleep like a child in my presence."

Harold’s hand paused in John’s hair, and their eyes locked. He gently tugged at John’s hair teasingly.

"Nonsense," he murmured, a small smile playing on his lips. "I know you'd never hurt me. I trust you completely."

John gasped in surprise. Realizing it was one thing, but hearing it said out loud was another. It wasn't so much the words as it was the absolute conviction with which they'd been spoken. 

Seeing John’s trouble, Harold didn’t look away. He slid his hand along John’s face and gently cupped his chin.

"Did you doubt it?" he asked, his voice turning serious. "I see. You really did doubt it. Oh, John, I know I’m secretive and keep my life under lock and key. It’s a habit I’ve developed to protect myself, but not from you anymore. With you, it’s different. I have absolute trust in you. I’d put my life in your hands without hesitating for a second."

With his thumb, he traced the curve of John’s lips, which had remained slightly parted in surprise.

"And if you don't believe me," Harold added with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, "I'll be forced to use much more coercive measures."

Before John could reply, Harold leaned forward and captured his lips in a deep kiss, as if he wanted to pour every ounce of love and trust he felt into it.

John stood motionless for a moment, his eyes wide with surprise, before letting go and surrendering to the kiss. His hands instinctively reached for Harold’s shoulders and pulled him close. The kiss went on and on until they had to pull apart to catch their breath. Harold whispered, "Was that convincing enough?"

John let out a small, stifled laugh before wrapping his arms around Harold’s waist, burying his face in his lover’s stomach as Harold ran his fingers through his lover's hair.

They stayed like that for a while, enjoying the moment. 

John was relishing the feeling of being cherished by someone who trusted him completely and whom he trusted completely in return.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

"Cannon, eight to six."

John moved Han’s piece, then his own, saying aloud, "Horse, two to three."

Han chuckled and asked, "Are you sure?"

John, amused, replied, "You tell me, Han."

"As I recall, John, you don't make any move you're not sure of. Aren’t you working today?"

John leaned in and said in a lower voice, "My boss gave me the day off. It’s my birthday."

The old man said to him with a big smile, "Sheng ri kuai le."

"Thank you."

Han chuckled again and asked, "Did you get any gifts?"

John took the small package Harold had given him out of his coat and replied, "One."

He finally opened it and, to his great surprise, pulled out a key. He placed it in Han’s hand.

The old man felt it before saying, puzzled, "A key? To what?"

"Good question."

Han asked, "Who gave it to you?"

"My boss."

"Your boss?" The one who gave you the day off?" He's giving you a gift on top of that. He seems nice."

John smiled fondly as he thought of Harold before replying, "He is. He’s also my friend. Probably my best friend."

Han tilted his head and asked with an amused little smile, "So, why aren't you celebrating your birthday with him?"

"He told me to do what I usually do when I’m not working."

John wasn’t going to lie to himself. Even though he enjoyed playing Xiangqi with Han, he would have loved to spend his birthday with Harold for once. However, even though their relationship had evolved, John didn’t feel he had the right to be demanding or make requests. 

While Harold had told him he had the right to hope for more, there was a chasm between words and actions that John didn’t feel capable of bridging. Besides, what did that really mean?

Something about his conversation with Harold bothered him, though. His friend had seemed almost annoyed that John had arrived early. 

He didn’t doubt Harold’s intentions regarding his birthday, but something was nagging at him. His instinct told him that Harold hadn’t told him everything. There was no number and no case. On his birthday? Everything seemed too smooth.

He had been right. It had all been too easy.

Harold had lied to him. In the end, John took matters into his own hands and went wild anyway. Now that everything was settled, John was walking toward the bench where Harold was sitting. He didn’t know if he was angry, disappointed, or just incredibly tired of it all.  

There was the initial anger and disappointment of realizing Harold had lied to him, as well as the exhaustion from Sarah's case, which forced John to relive the darkest moments of his life. 

But he knew he couldn’t end the day without talking to his friend, no matter how much resentment still gnawed at him.

He sat down next to Harold on the bench and stared straight ahead.

He felt his friend’s gaze on him as Harold said, "I was beginning to wonder when I was going to hear from you again."

John replied matter-of-factly, not quite sure what else to say: "I had some business to take care of out of town."

Harold replied, clearly on the defensive, "I trust you now fully appreciate why I couldn't tell you about Sarah's case."

John replied slowly but immediately, "I hope you now understand why you should have."

He felt his employer’s gaze on him and let a few moments of silence pass before asking, "Did you know? Was she one of those numbers that came up again and again?"

Without looking at him, Harold replied, "What I know, Mr. Reese, is that New Rochelle happened before we started working together. And because of that, there was nothing either of us could have done."

Unable to reply, John looked at Harold for a few moments and saw the weight this had placed on him. However, it did nothing to ease John's disappointment at having been lied to.

Harold handed him a business card.

"Forgot to include that in your birthday present. Must have slipped my mind."

Then, as John stared at the card and turned it over, Harold stood up and left. By the time he turned the card over and read the address on the back, Harold was gone.

After sitting on the bench for a long time, deep in thought, John finally decided to go to the address Harold had given him. Half an hour later, he stood in front of a door in a building. He inserted the key into the lock and opened the door, unsure of what he would find inside. 

The first things that struck him once he had taken a few steps inside were the light, the space, and the sobriety. He slowly walked toward the large windows spanning two walls of the loft. When he reached them, he scanned the surroundings. Suddenly, his gaze fell on a spot downstairs, a little further away.

It was the place where he used to play xiangqi with Han. He saw Han playing with someone else and couldn’t help but smile. He realized just how thoughtful John had been and understood that John’s desire to keep him out of the case stemmed from that. 

This was something he could accept.

He sighed, feeling ungrateful.

How was he going to move forward from here? How was he going to make things right?

His eyes still fixed on Han, he watched his playing partner walk away.

At that moment, John thought that Han, always so wise, might be able to help him see things more clearly.

A few moments later, John sat down across from Han.

"John?"

"Good morning, Han."

Han began placing the pieces on the game board and asked, "Want to play a game?"

John stopped his hand and said, "I won't be a good opponent today."

"I haven’t seen you since your birthday. What was the key for?"

John looked behind him at the windows of his apartment.

"It was for an apartment. Right above us, on the street behind me."

Han chuckled.

"Well. A friend, you said? I may be blind, but to me, someone who gives you an apartment must see you as more than a friend."

John lowered his head and sighed.

"It's...complicated."

Han reached for John’s hand, found it on the table, and squeezed it gently. "Is it really that complicated, my friend? The most important question is how you feel about him, this friend of yours."

John replied immediately, "Of that, I'm sure."

Han chuckled again.

"So, should I repeat my question? Is it really that complicated, John?"

When John remained silent, Han continued, "I think you have the answer, my friend. In that case, I have one last question."

"What is it?"

"What are you still doing here?"

Was it really that easy? 

If he looked deep inside himself, of course it was.

"I..."

"Come on, go on..."

Han made a dismissive gesture, and John stood up. 

Before leaving, he told his friend, "Thanks," and headed toward his apartment.

He touched his earpiece.

"Harold, are you there?"

"Always, John. Is there a special reason you're calling?"

Without giving it much thought, John blurted out, "Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, and John held his breath until Harold answered, "Sure. Where should we meet?"

"At my place."

"Oh... um... you mean..."

"810 Baxter Street."

"Oh, well, all right."

First hurdle cleared, John thought to himself.

"Great."

"Do you want me to bring anything?"

"Um...maybe some wine? You know, I’m not really a connoisseur, so..."

"What kind? What are we having for dinner?"

"I don't know yet. That's too much to ask of me. Just something that goes with everything."

"All right."

"See you tonight, then, unless the machine gives us a number."

"See you tonight, John."

A few moments later, Harold walked through the door John had left ajar. John had just finished setting the table. As soon as he heard Harold, he turned around and walked toward his friend.

Harold stepped forward, holding out a bottle, and said softly, "Good evening."

John reached out to take the bottle. "Welcome," he said. Then he paused, the words almost choking in his throat.

"John?"

John composed himself, took the bottle, and said, "Sorry, I realize this is the first time I’ve said something like that in a long time. I mean, not just pretending to be a host, but actually welcoming someone home. Come in." In a lighter tone, he continued, "I guess I don't need to give you a tour of the place."

"Do you like it here?" Harold asked, following him to the kitchen counter. John rummaged through the cabinets and pulled out two glasses.

"Yes, I love it, Harold. Sorry for being ungrateful at first. Thank you so much for this place. Although..." He began rummaging through the drawers until he triumphantly held up a corkscrew. "I’m having a little trouble finding some things."

They shared a chuckle as John uncorked the bottle and filled both glasses.

Then, picking up the glasses, he nodded toward the couch. "How about we drink this over there?"

Harold nodded, and a few moments later, they were sitting side by side with their glasses in hand.

Harold raised his glass. "Happy birthday, John."

"Thanks," John replied softly, clinking his glass against Harold’s. After taking a sip, John set his glass down on the table. In a slightly hesitant tone, he said quietly, "I wish I could clear the air between us somehow...about everything that's happened these past few days."

Harold set his glass down as well, nodding.

They turned toward each other in silent agreement. John continued softly, "I'm not going to lie to you, the fact that you didn't tell me the truth did hurt me."

Seeing the sad look on Harold’s face, John raised his hand. "Wait, let me finish, please. It did hurt me. Past tense. You told me you’d never lie to me. Finding out you’d hidden that from me was a punch in the gut at first. But since I came back, I’ve had time to put things into perspective. Most of all, a friend has helped me see things clearly," he said, his gaze drifting toward where Han was playing chess.

He took a sip of wine before continuing, "I realized it came from a place of care. You didn’t want me to get hurt even more. You knew my story, and you knew how much it could hurt me. I realized you did that because you care about me."

Harold nodded eagerly. John continued, a slight tremble in his voice, "And I reacted badly because I care too. A lot, actually."

Harold turned a little closer to John and slowly raised his hand. As he brought his fingers closer to his friend’s face, he asked softly, "May I?"

John nodded.

Harold placed his hand on John’s cheek and gently caressed his cheekbone with his thumb. 

"I'm sorry I lied to you," Harold whispered, his voice vibrating with raw sincerity. "I think I could have handled it differently. But you’re right. I didn’t do it because I was afraid of your reaction, I did it because I was afraid of how it would make you feel. I should have talked it over with you. I’m afraid I’m not good at this."

There was an honesty in that confession that disarmed John. 

He laughed softly.  "I'm no better at it than you are, you know."

Harold offered an encouraging smile. 

"But we can learn together, can't we?"

John nodded and leaned his cheek into Harold's palm. 

In a voice slightly hoarse with emotion, he said softly, "When you find that one person who connects you to the world... You become someone different. Someone better." John swallowed, then continued, his eyes slightly watery. "For a long time, when I thought of those words, I thought of Jessica. But now, Harold, when I think of those words, I think of you. You’ve helped me reconnect with the world and given me the chance to be a better person."

John turned his head into Harold’s hand and kissed the palm for a long moment, a gesture of pure adoration. They gazed at each other in silence for a few moments, sharing a mutual understanding. Then, Harold’s hand slowly slid from John’s cheek to the nape of his neck. With a gentle press, Harold drew John closer, narrowing the gap between them. John closed the remaining distance, pressing his lips against Harold’s in a tender, hesitant kiss.

He pulled back slightly, breathless, his eyes feverishly seeking approval. "Is that okay?"

Harold shook his head and his expression turned playful. A mischievous twinkle appeared in his eyes. "Oh no, Mr. Reese. That’s far from okay. It’s not enough, actually."

Without a second thought, John’s arms immediately closed around Harold’s back, his hands gripping him firmly to pull him close while remaining gentle, acutely aware of his lover’s physical condition. 

John murmured against Harold’s lips, which were beginning to stretch into a smile, "Let me make it up to you, then."

John captured Harold’s lips once more, and their breaths mingled in the passionate dance of their lips and tongues. At first hesitant, Harold’s hands grew bolder. He gripped John’s waist, his fingers entangling in the fabric of his shirt. In response, John’s hands traveled up Harold’s back to cradle his face, his thumbs brushing Harold’s cheekbones with almost sacred tenderness.

The kiss lingered and grew deeper. They pulled apart just enough to catch their breath, their foreheads brushing, then lost themselves in each other once more with the eagerness unique to those who have waited too long. 

Gradually, the urgency gave way to infinite tenderness. Their movements softened into slow, comforting caresses. 

They settled more comfortably onto the couch, shifting so that their bodies were entwined. John snuggled up against Harold, wrapping his arms around his waist as he rested his head on his lover’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Harold slipped a protective arm around John’s shoulders and brushed his lips against his hair. 

They remained like that for a long time, savoring the peaceful silence and serenity that, for the first time, did not seem like the calm before the storm.

Later, when their stomachs began to rumble, they shared the meal John had prepared in an atmosphere of newfound lightheartedness. The conversation flowed naturally, punctuated by smiles, knowing glances, and casual touches, as if their bodies were learning a language all their own.  

When dinner drew to a close, they finished the bottle of wine as the evening lingered on.  

A little later, Harold decided it was time to leave, though his expression betrayed his desire to stay. However, they both knew they needed time to process this new step in their relationship. 

John walked him to the door. In the shadows of the entryway, they shared one last kiss, promising the next day and the days to come.

After Harold left, John stood motionless for a moment. Then he hurried over to the the window overlooking the dark street. He saw Harold’s familiar silhouette receding under the streetlights. At one point, Harold stopped and turned around. He must have seen John silhouetted against the lit window because he raised his hand and waved. It was a simple gesture, and John could only wave back with a sincere smile, even though Harold probably couldn’t see it from there.

Under normal circumstances, he would have stayed in the shadows, watching his partner leave. But with Harold, he realized he didn’t need to. 

With Harold, he didn’t need to hide.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

When Greg finally appeared in the living room, he stood motionless. His face, usually so warm and expressive, now seemed drained of life, marked by an unusual pallor.

"Greg?"

Seeing that the detective wasn’t moving, Mycroft put down his book, stood up and went to meet him.

"You look like you just saw a ghost." Mycroft said gently once he reached Greg.

Greg flinched slightly and finally met Mycroft’s gaze. He swallowed hard and began to unbutton his coat, his hands trembling imperceptibly.

'"You could say that," Greg replied, his voice hoarse, lacking its usual liveliness.

Mycroft didn’t ask for details right away. He knew better than to overwhelm someone in Greg’s state with questions. Instead, he simply helped Greg take off his coat, his hands brushing the detective’s shoulders with infinite gentleness. 

After draping the coat over the back of a chair, he returned to stand in front of Greg and gently took his hands in his.

"Come," he said simply, guiding him tactfully towards the large leather sofa. He sat down and pulled Greg close, offering him a place to seek comfort if he needed it. Greg took him up on the offer, snuggling up against him as he wrapped his arms around him. 

"I was walking near Scotland Yard," Greg began after a few minutes, his voice monotonous. "There was this man. He was wearing an old overcoat. He... he turned his head; he straightened his shoulders in that particular arrogant, cold way."

Greg paused, then continued in a trembling voice, "It hit me like a slap in the face. For a second, I thought it was him. My father."

Mycroft stiffened imperceptibly and instantly tightened his arms around Greg. He knew the story, and the invisible scars that man had left on Greg’s soul. 

"He’s been dead for twenty years," Greg continued, clearly trying to convince himself. "Twenty years, Mycroft. I know that. And yet, that posture… the way he stood… My heart stopped. I saw the kitchen again as it was back then, the sound of breaking glass, my mother’s silence so as not to upset him further. It’s ridiculous. I’m a grown man. I lead a team. I face crime every day. And yet..."

"It’s not ridiculous, love," Mycroft interrupted, his voice firm yet tinged with tenderness. He brushed a strand of hair from Greg's forehead and pressed a lingering kiss there.

 "Trauma isn’t bound by time. He may be gone, but the impact he had on you hasn’t disappeared. Seeing someone who reminded you of your traumatic past was bound to trigger a reaction, and in my view, you reacted perfectly normally." 

Greg closed his eyes, a single tear escaping. 

"For a moment, I felt so small. As if I were still fifteen and just wanted to disappear."

Mycroft gently pushed Greg back so that he could see his face better. With his thumb, he softly wiped the tear from Greg's cheek.

"You’re not that child anymore, Greg," he said tenderly. "You’re here with me. You’re safe. That man has no power over you anymore. His only hold lies in those memories, and we’re going to chase them away one by one until they become nothing more than background noise." 

He leaned in and pressed his lips to Greg’s, first gently, then more passionately as Greg responded. 

Greg sighed against his lips and buried his hands in Mycroft’s hair.

Mycroft didn’t stop. Enveloping Greg in his whole being, he cradled him and planted kisses on his neck and jaw. Forcing him to focus on the physical sensations, he made him feel the warmth of his breath on his skin and the touch of his hands.

As soon as he sensed his lover’s mind wandering, he whispered against his skin, "Look at me, love. Feel me. Just me."

Greg obeyed, searching for Mycroft’s face with his eyes. In Mycroft’s eyes, he saw no judgement or pity, only raw adoration and unshakable certainty.

"There’s no room for him here," Mycroft continued, gently stroking Greg’s back, soothing his frayed nerves. "There’s only us. There’s only you and me. Only you, so lovable, so perfect. My Greg."

Gradually, Greg’s breathing became more even. The images from the past faded and dissolved in the face of Mycroft’s physical presence. He let himself sink into the arms of the man he loved, acutely aware that the past could not reach him there.

Burying his face in the crook of Mycroft’s shoulder, Greg whispered, "Thank you."

"Never thank me for that, Greg," Mycroft replied, holding him even tighter and pressing a long kiss to his hair.

Greg snuggled closer to his lover, letting the ghosts of the past fade away and feeling safe in his comforting embrace.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Mystrade masterlist here

Mystrade one shots here

John said, turning to Harold as they stepped out of the Lyric Diner. A few weeks had passed since the new arrangement had changed the dynamic between them. It hadn’t happened suddenly, but gradually as they discovered more about each other.

John now knew trivial details about Harold, such as his favorite color, rarest edition, oldest bottle of wine, and favorite dessert. In return, Harold knew that John often lost at xiangqi to Mr. Han, that he listened to jazz, and that nothing calmed him more than emptying and reorganizing his drawers. These were ordinary things, but they made sense amid the chaos of their lives.

They had truly created their own space at the Lyric Diner. They would often sit opposite each other in comfortable silence, neither feeling the need to say anything. Tonight, however, the conversation had felt forced, as if John were trying to fill the silence despite having nothing to say. 

Harold had noticed this, which was why he turned fully towards John, his scrutinizing eyes studying John’s face. 

"I thought I noticed you weren't in the best mood today," Harold said softly.

John looked down and shoved his hands into his coat pockets as he tried to compose himself. "Sorry," he murmured.

"Don’t be. Let’s go for a walk. I think you could use it," Harold replied.

They walked for a while with no particular destination in mind. The city around them was nothing more than a blurry backdrop filled with the distant hum of sirens and taxis. They walked so close together that their arms often brushed against each other, but neither moved to avoid it.

When they reached the promenade alongside the East River, John noticed that Harold’s pace had slowed slightly. He guided his friend toward a bench facing the river. The bench was wide, but they sat side by side, leaving just enough space for a hand to slip between their hips.

John stared at the sun glinting off the water, lost in thought.

"I dreamed about Kohl last night," he said after a long pause. "Ever since I woke up, I've been thinking about a lot of things he told me. You know, he... he was just like me. A former spy who had been betrayed by his government. He lived under a false identity and sought revenge for the death of a loved one. He didn’t like killing, but he clearly excelled at it. That made me think back to my early days at the CIA's Special Activities Division. And...

John clenched his hand around the cold edge of the wooden bench, his knuckles turning white from the tension triggered by his memories. 

Suddenly, a warm hand gently rested on his. It was a simple gesture, almost imperceptible, but the touch sent a jolt through him. Under Harold’s touch, John’s hand relaxed, and his breathing steadied.

"I knew, Harold, I..." he continued in a hoarser voice. "I knew it wasn’t right. But I was constantly told, ‘It’s necessary.’ My own partner kept repeating, ‘Your country needs you.’ And that was all I was good for."

"That's what they wanted you to believe," Harold said firmly. His voice didn’t waver as he gently took John’s hand in his.

"But that's who I am. It's the only thing I'm good at," John insisted, a veil of pain in his eyes.

Harold gently countered, "I disagree, John."

"That's why you hired me in the first place."

Harold shook his head, a sad smile playing on his lips. "Do you remember Daniel Casey?"

John was startled and let out a short gasp before nodding.

"I was there, John," Harold continued. "Casey was a number that the machine had given. I arrived on the scene in the middle of your meeting with him. From a distance, I saw you lying to your partner to protect him. I heard you tell Casey that he wasn’t a traitor and didn’t deserve to die. You made such an impression on me. I’d never seen anyone do that before like you did. That was the day I started thinking of you as a potential partner." 

Harold felt John’s hand tremble beneath his and tightened his grip around it. 

John swallowed several times before replying, "The day Kara killed those two men right in front of me without batting an eye or asking a question and told me we didn't have to question it and to clean it up, I thought I’d lost my soul."

Harold slid his thumb beneath John’s hand and caressed his palm in a circular motion. In a soothing tone, he said, "You haven’t lost it. What I saw that day should tell you that. I know better than anyone that government agencies are capable of anything in the name of the so-called ‘good of the nation’ or ‘the greater good.’ They don’t hesitate to sacrifice men like you, who are willing to do anything to save the world. But the fact that you’re working with me to save real people, not abstract ideals, shows me that they haven’t succeeded. You’re not a monster, a weapon, or an empty shell, John. Otherwise, you wouldn't have deliberately missed your target with Casey that day. " John turned his hand beneath Harold’s, palm to palm, their fingers intertwining naturally, and in that moment, it was as if that were the only thing anchoring him to reality.

"You know, Darren called me a ronin—a samurai without a master," John said in a low voice after a few moments. "Technically, I should have taken my own life. If only he knew how true that was back then..."

"Jo-" Harold began.

"It was true back then, before you came and recruited me," John cut in. "Thanks to you, I feel like I’m helping people more than I did in all those years working for the CIA. I don’t think you realize what you’ve done for me." 

"I hope, though, that you know you could have said no. You can still say no at any time."

"That's exactly it. You gave me a choice. You’re giving me a choice."

John turned toward Harold so he could see him better. Harold turned toward him, their hands still intertwined.

"By choosing this job, I finally had both a boss and a partner I could trust, who I knew would really have my back." He paused, searching for the right words, before adding almost hesitantly, "And now, a friend."

Then, he saw a shadow pass over Harold’s face. His lips tightened and his expression darkened for a moment before he regained his composure. 

"Did I say something wrong?" John asked, suddenly worried.

Harold shook his head, a faint, uncertain smile playing on his lips. John replayed the scene in his mind, searching for where he’d gone wrong. He lowered his eyes to their clasped hands. 

"Friends," he murmured, his throat tightening. "That's already far more than I could ever have hoped for, given who I am."

"John, look at me."

John lifted his head, and the moment his gaze met Harold’s, he had to swallow. The cautious distance of the calculating man was gone, replaced by a raw emotion he had never seen there before.

"You can hope for much more than that, John," Harold said in a clear, almost pleading voice. "I want you to hope for more. Much more."

Harold shifted his gaze from John’s eyes to their intertwined hands resting on the wooden bench, then back to John. There was an invitation in that gesture, a door left ajar to something far vaster than mere friendship.

John felt the hope he had buried deep within himself finally begin to sprout again. He had thought he was no longer entitled to it. With a lump in his throat, he nodded slowly, drinking in the infinite gentleness he saw in Harold’s gaze. 

Then, he turned his gaze toward the horizon. Closing his eyes, he turned his face toward the sunlight and finally allowed himself to feel its warmth.

Suddenly, he felt Harold shift slightly on the bench, closing the distance between them further as Harold placed their intertwined hands on his lap. 

"Let's extend the neutral ground of the Lyric Diner a little bit to here," Harold said softly. "Let's not think about Kohl, the past, or the CIA anymore. Let’s enjoy this afternoon a little longer before we get back to work."

John nodded, a sigh of contentment escaping his lips. 

I want you to hope for more. Much more. 

More. That was the possibility, at last, of allowing himself to grow close to someone who understood the darkness he carried and chose to stay with him despite it all.

A silence settled in, the comfort of a mutual understanding that went beyond their professional partnership. They were two men broken by systems that pushed them into the shadows, who found in each other a place where they could finally exist. 

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Asa asked him for the third time, "Why didn't you let me call an ambulance?"

Anthony snapped, "I don't need an ambulance. You can get me to the ER faster in Gabriel's car."

Asa scanned the rows of cars. There were only BMWs, Audis, and Mercedes. He had no idea which one belonged to Gabriel.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" Anthony growled impatiently.

Asa used the key fob to unlock the car, and the lights of a car just a few steps away from where they were standing began to flash. Asa silently thanked his lucky stars. Finally, something easy. 

He opened the passenger door to help Anthony get settled. He felt a little guilty again because it was his fault. Once Anthony was settled and buckled in, Asa got behind the wheel and glanced around briefly. Everything in the vehicle exuded comfort and luxury.

"Let's go! What are you waiting for?"

Asa turned the ignition and said, "It won't start."

Anthony sighed in exasperation. "What are you talking about? The engine’s running!"

"Wow, I hadn't even noticed," Asa replied, impressed.

He slowly pulled out of his parking spot and headed toward the garage exit. Gripping the steering wheel with both hands, Asa cautiously pulled out onto the avenue. Cars zoomed past at full speed. It had been so long since he’d driven a car, and on top of that, it wasn’t even his.

Anthony lifted one of the compresses and said mockingly, "If you drive any slower, we're going to get a ticket for illegal parking."

"It's not my car," Asa replied.

Anthony shrugged. "All the more reason. Gabriel can afford to pay a small fine."

He put the compresses back over his eyes.

"What were you doing in his apartment anyway?"

Asa swallowed. "I have a key. I almost forgot to feed Mr. Cat." 

Anthony continued his questioning. "How long have you known Gabriel?"

"Not long. Three months. It all happened very fast."

As they stopped at a red light, Anthony looked at him skeptically and asked in a commanding tone, "Let me feel your hand."

Asa frowned.

"Why?"

Anthony replied sarcastically, "I’m a palm reader."

Asa sighed and reluctantly held out his hand, sensing that his passenger wasn't going to let the matter drop. Anthony gently traced the lines on Asa’s palm with his fingers, and Asa fought to keep from shivering. He let go of his hand and said, "Now the other hand." Asa held out his left hand and Anthony ran his fingers over it. Asa couldn’t help but blush slightly.

"Where’s your ring?" Anthony asked him.

"What ring?"

"You’re engaged to my brother, aren’t you? You should have a ring." 

Asa pulled his hand away and replied, "I work on the Underground."

"So what?"

"It’s against the rules to wear jewellery at my job."

Anthony challenged him, "Show me a picture, then."

"Of what?" Asa asked.

"Of you and my brother."

"I’m not photogenic," Asa replied in a neutral tone.

Exasperated, Anthony exclaimed, "Listen, I just want proof that you’re engaged to my brother."

"And how do I know you’re his brother?" Asa retorted.

"What?"

"Admit it, you don’t look anything like him." 

In fact, Asa had to admit that Anthony was much prettier than Mr Handsome. "You could very well have been a thief," he continued.

Furious, Anthony rummaged through his wallet, pulled out his driving licence and shoved it under Asa’s nose.

Asa chuckled. "That’s not the same name."

"Of course not! I was adopted!"

Asa looked at him, raising an eyebrow sardonically. "So, how does it feel to be interrogated?"

Anthony snatched the licence out of his hands. Asa parked the car at the far end of the hospital car park.

"Why are you parking here?"

"I don’t want to risk anyone scratching the car."

They both got out of the car and, with Asa guiding him, Anthony made his way towards the emergency ward, still holding the compresses over his eyes.

Once they reached the reception area, Asa tried to pull away from Anthony, who held him back by grabbing his arm. "Listen to me carefully. I don’t know what kind of scam you’re pulling, but…" 

Asa abruptly pulled his arm away and snapped, "A scam? You idiot! I saved your brother’s life!"

He turned on his heel and headed towards the first nurse he saw.

"Wait a minute..." Anthony called out.

Asa kept walking, not looking back.

********

After making sure that Anthony was being taken care of, Asa decided to wait for him by Gabriel’s bedside.

Suddenly, fifteen minutes later, he heard a commotion behind him and turned around to see Gabriel’s family arriving. They greeted Asa cheerfully and gathered around the bed, their eyes fixed on Gabriel.

Maud stroked her son’s face and said softly, "I think he looks better than he did yesterday."

Everyone nodded.

Lesley glanced at the television hanging on the wall and remarked sarcastically, "Why on earth does he have a TV? He’s in a coma."

Maud protested, "Lesley, he can hear you. 

Lesley retorted in a whisper, "Well, they should give him a radio then."

Muriel murmured, "Maybe he’d like us to sing him a song."

Josh rolled his eyes and whispered, "Muriel, we’re in a hospital, not a karaoke bar."

"Maybe Asa knows his favorite song."

Everyone turned to Anthony, who had just spoken those words. Gabriel’s brother, who was wearing an eye patch, sat down on the other side of the bed and waited, raising a questioning eyebrow towards Asa.

Asa cleared his throat. 

"I’m not sure. Anthony smiled slightly and the family seemed a little uncomfortable.

Maud exclaimed, "Anthony, what happened to your eyes?"

He didn’t answer, though, but kept staring at Asa and asked, "Who’s his favourite Beatle?"

Asa glared at him and replied, "John."

"John!" Anthony exclaimed. Ha!"

Everyone looked at Anthony as if he were crazy.

"He’s everyone’s favourite."

"I prefer Paul," Derek replied.

"Anthony, what’s got into you?!" Maud asked reproachfully.

Anthony shrugged nonchalantly. "I’m just asking Asa a few questions."

"Don’t tell me you have a list?" Derek exclaimed. 

Anthony pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and looked triumphant. "Actually, I have one."

"Anthony…" Maud growled.

"Favourite ice cream?"

Maud spoke up again. "Asa doesn’t have to answer the questions."

Derek muttered, loudly enough for everyone to hear. " You’re just jealous."

"Of what?" Anthony turned abruptly towards the older man.

"Of Asa and Gabriel."

Muriel chimed in. "That’s probably why you killed his goldfish."

"I didn’t kill it!"

"It didn't just jump out of its bowl by itself."

Anthony looked at them all and asked, "Why are you all picking on me?" 

He looked at Asa before continuing. "He’s the one with a secret life and a boyfriend." 

He pointed at Asa.

Looking genuinely incredulous, Asa exclaimed, "I have a boyfriend?"

"Brown Jr.!"

"Brown Jr!"

Anthony nodded: "He said he was dating you.

Asa shook his head. "He also claims to look like Clark Gable. He's completely delusional."

Maud interjected: "Gabriel is the only man in Asa’s life."

Lesley put his hand to his heart. Seeing this, Derek asked him anxiously, "Are you OK?" 

Lesley nodded and sat down. Maud turned to Anthony and said reproachfully, "See what you’ve done?"

"What have I done?" Anthony feigned innocence.

"I’m sure that if Asa could prove he’s Gabriel’s fiancé, he would," Maud continued. Everyone looked at Asa, waiting. Derek held his breath. Asa clenched his teeth, took a deep breath, and then, hating himself for what he was about to say, blurted out, "He’s only got one testicle left."

There was silence; everyone stared at Asa, then at Gabriel.

"That’s not possible," Anthony muttered.

They looked back at Asa, who continued: "He had an accident earlier this year. He was playing pool with Beatrix and some colleagues, got too close to the guy about to take a shot, and got hit by the pool cue..."

All the men present winced.

Anthony replied stubbornly, "I don’t believe it."

Everyone looked at Gabriel again, then Derek said firmly, "I take Asa’s word for it."

Asa gave him a grateful look.

However, everyone else still looked doubtful and remained where they were until Maud finally stepped forward.

"If anyone has to check, it’ll be me. I’m his mother."

Embarrassed, Asa looked away, cursing the man lying there and everything he was putting him through.

Maud stepped forward, gently lifted the sheet covering Gabriel and bent down to lift his hospital gown.

After a few moments, she looked up and said contritely, "Asa is right."

******** 

Shortly afterwards, everyone got into the lift except Asa, who was talking to Justine, the nurse.

The silence was heavy with unspoken words. Derek spoke up to lighten the mood. "Let's look on the bright side. He’s more comfortable in his trousers." Asa had heard everything and let out a little chuckle as the lift doors closed. Then, regaining a serious expression, he turned to Justine.

"I can’t take it anymore, Justine. I’m going to have to tell them." 

He had grown closer to the nurse during his visits with Gabriel.

The nurse nodded, "I know."

Asa looked at Gabriel in his bed through the glass and sighed: "He’ll probably never want to talk to me again."

"Asa…"

He turned to Justine, who said gently, "He’s never spoken to you first." 

"I’m not talking about Gabriel,'"Asa murmured.

Ignoring his new friend's puzzled look, Asa thought about his fiancée's brother, wondering how things might have turned out under different circumstances.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

"Hello, Harold."

"Hello, Mr. Reese."

They had closed the Kohl case the day before and parted ways at the former agent’s grave. The case had left a bitter taste in John’s mouth, reminding him of his early days with the CIA’s SAD and the moment he lost his soul. John had seen far too many similarities between himself and Kohl.

The fact that Harold was contacting him so quickly put John on high alert and, above all, made him eager at the idea of a new case to focus on.

However, this eagerness wasn’t just about the next case, but also about the person calling him. It was a matter he’d gotten into the habit of immediately dismissing because he knew it was futile and hopeless. After all, Harold was only contacting him for work, and he had made it clear that he didn't want the boundaries crossed.

John was Harold's employee. Harold was his employer, and that was all John needed to remember. The rest was just a distraction. At least, that’s what he was trying to convince himself.

He asked softly, "Do you need me?"

"Can you meet me at the Lyric Diner at my usual table?" Harold replied.

John frowned. "Did the machine give out a new number?"

He was surprised not just by the answer, but by how quickly it came. 

"No."

The strangeness of the situation made John wary.

"Then why do you want me to come?"

He heard Harold take a deep breath. Then, after a pause, Harold replied, "To have lunch with me...please, John."

John’s world seemed to tilt on its axis. 

This was new. 

Everything about that sentence was new. 

The invitation, which wasn't urgent or related to their work. 

The "please." 

And, above all, his first name. Harold only called him "John" in moments of extreme tension, but the tone here was different.

He swallowed. 

A light, almost electric buzz of excitement spread beneath his skin. The good kind. It was the kind of excitement you feel before taking a leap into the void when, for once, you trust that the ground below is solid. 

"I'd love to, Harold. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. See you soon."

"See you soon, Mister...John."

The insistence on using his first name, the quick correction, and the shift from "Mr. Reese" to something more intimate were all very disconcerting. When John hung up, he couldn’t ignore the irregular rhythm at which his heart had begun to beat. 

Twenty minutes later, he pushed open the door to the Lyric Diner, hoping they would leave together this time.

He looked around for Harold and found him engrossed in a book at the same table where they’d sat together twice before. John couldn’t help but smile. There was Harold, in his impeccable suit, existing in the world while trying to remove himself from it.

A waiter approached Harold, whispered something to him, and his employer suddenly looked up and scanned the room. His eyes immediately locked with John’s. John’s smile widened, and he stepped forward with a little more confidence in his stride, never taking his gaze off Harold until he sat down across from him.

The waiter returned to take his order. Without even glancing at the menu, John pointed to Harold’s dish. "The same as the gentleman. I hear the eggs Benedict are good." He added a discreet wink, a little provocation that Harold met by rolling his eyes, though the corners of his lips betrayed the beginnings of a smile.

Once they were alone, after the waiter had set down John’s order, John leaned forward and asked softly, "So, what's the reason for this summons?"

"Invitation, Mr. Reese. Invitation. Not a summons."

Harold paused, cutting his egg with clinical precision, then continued, "The reason is because I would like some company."

John laughed softly, a playful sparkle in his eyes. "Does that mean any company will do?"

Harold stared at him, a glint of amused defiance in his eyes. "Are you looking for compliments, John?"

"Sometimes it's nice to know you're appreciated for who you are and not just for what you bring to the table or what you can fix," John replied.

He said it in a joking tone, but Harold immediately sensed that John truly meant it beneath the playful facade. It hit Harold with painful clarity that this was probably the first time John had ever voiced that need. All his life, John had been viewed merely as a sophisticated weapon. Why would it be any different with Harold Finch, the genius IT specialist working behind the scenes?

Harold set down his cutlery, his hands coming together on the tablecloth, motionless. He replied seriously, his gaze fixed directly on John’s, determined to leave no doubt in his companion’s mind.

"John, even though I hired you for your skills and how you do things, I appreciate you for who you are. I want to get to know you, John. Really. I want to know more than what I know about you from reports or the Machine. Not the facts, not the missions. I want to get to know the man behind the suit. I want you to get to know me beyond my secrets and paranoia."

John could hardly believe what he was hearing. Thrown off by Harold’s openness, he murmured, "It’s Christmas come early."

Harold blinked, puzzled, and tilted his head slightly. John apologized and regained his seriousness. He reached across the table and placed his hand over Harold’s without hesitation.

"I know this isn't easy for you, Harold. I know the burden you carry. So I promise you one thing: I will never betray that trust. Above all, I’m not asking for more than you feel you can give."

Harold didn’t pull his hand away. On the contrary, he turned his hand slightly to squeeze John’s in a silent gesture of agreement. "Thank you, John."

They stood there, holding hands, for longer than was considered appropriate. It wasn’t until a somewhat brusque customer bumped into John as he stood up that they broke their touch. 

John withdrew his hand and took a bite of egg.

After swallowing, he said with another wink, "Mmm, you’re right. They’re really good."

As Harold shook his head at his friend's antics, John added, "So, what do you want to know that isn’t in my files, Harold?"

Harold took a deep breath as if he were about to ask the most complex question of his life. "What do you do between two numbers?"

John laughed, a deep, rich sound. "I bake."

Harold snorted and raised his eyebrows, looking more than a little skeptical. "Really? Aren’t we supposed to be honest with each other?"

"Absolutely," John assured him. "And I am. When I find somewhere else to live besides my old apartment, Harold, I’ll prove it to you."

Without thinking, Harold replied, "Just come over to my place and prove it to me."

John stopped, a fork halfway to his mouth. "You have a kitchen in the library?"

"I have an apartment," Harold corrected, feeling a little embarrassed, as if he had given away the machine's passcode.

John blinked, a look of pure surprise flashing across his face. He was completely and genuinely astonished. "I didn't know. Honestly."

"Really...?" Harold asked with a mocking smile. "You didn't find that out when you sent Lionel to investigate me?"

"Not my best move, I know. But the day I realized you were actually keeping your personal life private, I stopped looking. I understood that what you weren’t telling me was the price I had to pay to keep working with you. So I decided I didn’t want to cross that line."

Silence fell, heavy with mutual understanding. Then Harold repeated his invitation. John shook his head, an indulgent smile on his lips.

"We have time, Harold. I know the step you took today. That’s already a huge deal."

He leaned in again, locking gazes with his friend. 

"Why don't we start by making these lunches a habit? Three times a week, depending on what the numbers tell us, of course. The Lyric Diner becomes our neutral zone. Here, there’s no Mr. Reese or Finch. Just Harold and John. No work, no Machine. What do you say?"

Harold gave John’s proposal serious thought. 

With his eyes locked on the other man’s, he felt an unusual sensation: the feeling of being connected to someone in a way he hadn’t felt in years, if not decades.

He said softly, "That sounds like a perfectly acceptable protocol."

John smiled warmly and raised his glass of orange juice toward Harold.

They sealed their pact by clinking their glasses, both knowing that something was changing, that nothing would ever be the same again. 

Something new, something deeply human, had just awakened, and for once, John didn’t feel like a pawn on a chessboard, but like the designer of his own happiness, sitting across from the man who, without knowing it, had become his foundation.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

He’d only been gone for three days, but they had felt like ten.

His absence should have lasted longer, yet he managed to finalize the agreements fourteen hours ahead of schedule and, thanks to Anthea’s diligence, had been able to catch the first available flight. 

When he entered the apartment, the hallway was quiet, but he immediately saw light coming from the kitchen. He had told Greg he’d be back early and, knowing Greg, he was probably preparing dinner to welcome him home. The thought alone made Mycroft feel warm inside.

He set down his umbrella, overcoat, and briefcase, then kicked off his shoes in a haphazard manner that spoke volumes about his state of mind. When he reached the living room in silence, as if shedding his armor, he took off his jacket and blazer, draping them over the back of a chair. His tie soon met the same fate. 

Guided by the enticing aroma wafting from the kitchen, he unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows.

As a master of discretion, a trait that made him a formidable predator in his line of work, he silently reached the kitchen doorway and paused to take in the sight before him.

He sighed with relief upon seeing the familiar figure bustling about at the counter with his back turned to him.

His Greg. 

His lover was humming an unrecognizable pop tune and singing off-key with an enthusiasm that brought an immediate smile to Mycroft’s face. 

Seeing Greg like this, in the safe privacy of their home and far from police reports and crime scenes, instantly soothed the turmoil in Mycroft's mind and the tension of the past few days. Watching this deeply authentic human being was ultimately what made Mycroft feel at home.  

He realized with Greg that being at home is ultimately defined not by the place, but by the person you're with.

That was when he realized that merely looking at his beloved was no longer enough. The physical distance forced upon them by the three days they had been apart was no longer bearable now that Greg was within reach.

Mycroft took another step forward, slipped his arms around Greg’s waist without a sound, and rested his chin on his shoulder.

Greg jumped so violently that he nearly dropped the wooden spoon he was holding. He let out a loud curse and set the spoon down on the countertop with a trembling hand.

“Damn it, Mycroft!” he growled, turning his head, still out of breath from the surprise. "You know, for such a brilliant guy, you could learn that startling a detective is the best way to get a reflexive punch in the ribs." 

Mycroft gave a soft smile, the rare kind he reserved only for his lover, and whispered in Greg's ear, "I can defend myself, Detective. However, please accept my sincerest apologies for this undiplomatic assault.”

He buried his face in Greg’s neck and took a deep breath, the unique scent of his lover mingled with his cedar-scented aftershave, acting as a soothing balm. Mycroft closed his eyes and felt the throb of Greg’s pulse against his lips. He whispered against his lover's skin, his voice slightly choked with emotion: “No one knows how much I miss you.” 

Greg froze, his reproaches instantly dying on his lips. He turned fully into Mycroft’s arms, resting his hands naturally on the back of Mycroft’s neck and tangling his fingers in the short hair at the nape of his neck.

He whispered in turn, "And no one knows how much I miss you when you’re away from me."

He drew Mycroft’s face toward his own and captured his lips in a long, slow kiss, filled with all the frustration of the days they’d spent apart. There was no urgency, only the need to reconnect and erase the loneliness caused by Mycroft's absence. 

When they pulled apart, out of breath, Greg gently traced Mycroft’s cheek with his thumb. His eyes intently studied the other’s face.

"It's hard," Greg admitted, his voice trembling slightly. "It's hard when we're apart. But if we miss each other this much, it must mean that what we have is real and strong, right?”

Mycroft immediately sensed the underlying uncertainty in the question. The need for reassurance that they were both equally committed to this relationship.

Mycroft’s heart tightened at the vulnerability his lover was showing. He took Greg’s hand, which was resting on his cheek, turned it over, and pressed a long kiss into the palm. Then he placed Greg’s hand on his own chest, right where his heart was.

"It is, Greg. It’s real, my love. Never, ever doubt it,” Mycroft whispered, his gaze fixed directly into his lover’s eyes. "You've made a home there in my heart. You’ve put down roots. When I’m away from you, the void you leave there is almost unbearable.”

Greg chuckled softly, his eyes shining with emotion he didn’t hide. Mycroft cupped Greg’s face with reverence and pressed his lips against his lover’s.

It was no longer just a kiss of reunion. It was a vow, a silent confession that spoke to the depth of their love more than any eloquent words ever could. 

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Mystrade masterlist here

Mystrade one shots here

Asa leaned against the balcony railing, enjoying the mild summer evening.

"Quoting your classics, my angel?"

He turned to Anthony, who had just joined him.

"Not really one of my classics, but fitting since I'm standing on a balcony."

Anthony leaned against the railing next to Asa and replied, "I enjoy Shakespeare, but I only like his comedies."

Asa chuckled softly. "That doesn't surprise me."

With a teasing smile, Anthony replied, “I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.”

Much Ado About Nothing, I see. I liked the movie, too—I mean, Kenneth Branagh... hmm.”

Anthony grumbled, "I should have known."

Asa chuckled, kissed him on the cheek, and said in a coaxing tone, "Don't be jealous. Othello met a bad end because of that."

Anthony harrumphed.

Asa placed his hand on top of Anthony’s on the railing, intertwining their fingers. He added gently, "Besides, you have no reason to be jealous, my love. You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love you."

"Another one of your classics?"

Asa nodded. "Much closer to me than Shakespeare. Much closer to how I feel.”

Anthony turned toward Asa, wrapped his arms around his waist, and pulled him closer. Their faces were so close that Asa could feel Anthony's breath on his face.

With a playful smile, Anthony whispered, "I could die right now. I'm just happy." "I've never felt this way before. I'm exactly where I want to be." 

He kissed Asa on the forehead and continued, "To me, you are perfect."

He gave Asa another kiss, this time on the nose. "I wish I had done everything on earth with you."

Brushing his lips against his lover’s cheek, he added, "You want the moon? Just say the word, and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down."

Anthony kissed Asa on the other cheek and said, "I could quote you plenty more sappy lines from romantic movies, but it all boils down to three words."

He brought his lips closer to Asa’s and whispered, "I love you."

Asa laughed softly, his breath brushing Anthony’s lips. Then he murmured, "Then let me quote one last movie: Kiss me. Kiss me as if it were the last time.”

Anthony closed the tiny gap between their mouths and captured his lover’s lips in a long, tender kiss.

Sometimes there was nothing better than the classics.

“I love you.”

“Kiss me.”

It’s jus a few words, but they speak volumes.

_________

Still not beta'd (because I want it so)

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable fan fictions Masterpost : here