The Silver Stud

bigblueboxat221b:

(or, when an author procrastinates, this happens).

“Detective Inspector.”

“Mycroft? Christ, what are you doing here?”
Greg stretched. Paperwork was a bitch, and his back was not a fan of so many hours hunched over his desk.

“I apologise, I am aware it is quite late.”

“Late?” Greg checked his watch. “It’s past
midnight on a Wednesday, Mycroft.”

“Of course. I apologise, I’ll leave you in
peace.”

“What are you talking about? Come in.”

Mycroft sat on the guest seat in Greg’s
office.

“What can I do for you?” Greg prompted,
when he didn’t look like speaking.

Mycroft opened his mouth to begin speaking,
then closed it again. He looked a little helplessly at Greg.

“Ah.” Greg nodded, sitting back. “This is
about last week.”

“It is.”

“I thought it was you. You saw me coming
out of the Silver Stud.”

“I did.”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “Were you planning
on having a drink?”

Mycroft pursed his lips. “I had been…considering
it.”

“Socially?” Greg asked.

“It would be extremely unlikely I would see
anyone I know in such a venue.” Mycroft replied. “They do have private function
rooms, and an associate of mine had offered a small group the opportunity to experience
the venue.”

“Right.” Greg replied, not entirely sue
what Mycroft was saying.

“I have been making an effort to, as my
dear mother puts it, ‘meet someone’ for a while,” Mycroft admitted. “I found a
discrete group of men in my age range and social situation. We meet semi
regularly to talk. Some pursue other members, some are there for support.”

“And you?” Greg asked, wondering where the
hell this conversation was going.

“I have not met anyone in that group I
would be prepared to date,” Mycroft admitted.

Greg thought about that statement. He
thought about the fact that Mycroft was coming to see him here and now, after
realising Greg had been visiting the most overtly gay bar in London. A
possibility coalesced in his mind.

“No-one in that group,” Greg repeated. “What
about outside of that group?”

The flush was answer enough. Mycroft
cleared his throat, but did not answer.

“Well not only am I flattered,” Greg said,
leaning forward and grinning, “but I’m interested if you are.”

Mycroft looked up, surprise written all
over his face. “Sincerely?” he asked.

“Yep,” Greg replied. He checked his watch. “Bit
late for a drink now, but how about Friday night?”

Mycroft nodded without speaking.

“Great. Text me. We can meet wherever you
like. Well, maybe not the Silver Stud.” Greg grimaced. “Beer’s overpriced and
the tables are sticky.”

They both shuddered before sharing a grin.

“I will be in touch,” Mycroft murmured, the
high spots in his cheeks the only indication of his emotional state.

“See you later,” Greg said, watching him
leave.

Picking up a pen, he scrawled MH, drinks on his weekly planner.

Excellent.