Breaking the ice {Mystrade}

Chapter Six - A most pleasant trip to London

"Fascinating."
"Mm?" Greg sidled over to Mycroft, who was intently studying a black marble sculpture.
"Step back for a moment. What can you see?"
"Umm. A man's face, I s'pose."
"Indeed, Gregory. But what does the artist want you to see?"
"Well. The... Um... Nose is a bit weird..."
"Eyes."
Greg shuffled forward and squinted at the artwork. It had been years since he'd been to any kind of exhibition, what with work and his old married life. He was the sort of person to admire art, but from a distance - of the Arts, he much preferred Dramatics. Perhaps he'd suggest going to the Theatre at some point.
As he moved in closer, Greg noticed that the pupils of the eyes were tiny, open circles.
"Look inside."
Greg peered into the dark rounds, and gasped. Inside the eye sockets, where the brain would be, a minute sculpture of a woman lay sprawled across a floor: her limbs bent backwards.
"Good lord! That's... Grim."
"Maybe. But don't you see the message? You cannot define a person by their exterior, or what they choose to show you. It is their experiences, what is hidden within that 'maketh the man'."
Greg stepped back. He hadn't noticed before, but there was something pained about the expression on the man's face. A small plaque beneath it read:
"The roads we walk have demons beneath them."
It was astonishing how Mycroft had, with such ease, understood the piece - although, he reflected, Mycroft certainly had his own Demons of the past.
"I know the quote well. Although my memory fails me as to where I first found it." Mycroft murmured. "I hardly expected to find it here, of all places... Our world does indeed work in mysterious ways."
They moved on from the sculpture. It was a surprisingly large collection of artwork, yet each piece managed to bring something different and no less interesting than the previous. Every so often, Mycroft would point out his favourite structures and explain them to Greg, who was starting to better understand the artist.
As impressive as they were, Greg was far more captivated by the other man than the sculptures - it was so strange to see Mycroft Holmes talk and discuss something other than the running of the country. His enthusiasm for the collection was infectious. The joy it gave him seemed to run through his entire body - Mycroft seemed far more relaxed, and had even removed his suit jacket to wander around in his shirt and waistcoat. Greg wondered if he ever wore anything other than a suit. He chuckled at the thought of Mycroft sleeping still fully dressed, still with pocket-watch and tie pin attached.
"Everything alright?" Mycroft smiled at Greg, who coughed theatrically and composed himself. Mycroft had been studying a metal sculpture - again of a face, a woman's this time. Everything appeared normal except for her mouth. It bulged a little - very subtly, as if something was trying to escape.
"Something to do with freedom of speech?"
"My thoughts exactly, Gregory. There's clearly something she wants to say, but can't..." He looked down to read the plaque, but there wasn't one to read. "Funny. The rest of them have plaques."
"Her message is still trapped. That's why she doesn't have one."
Mycroft looked to Greg surprisedly.
"Of course! I hadn't realised..."
At one o'clock, they left the museum to find a café for lunch. Unfortunately rain had moved in whilst they were inside, and it was practically bucketing it down. They huddled under Mycroft's umbrella, although it barely covered them both: Mycroft had to let his elbow get damp for Greg to be fully covered. Soon the wind picked up, and a huge gust nearly blew the umbrella out of the auburn's hands.
"Did you have anything in mind as to lunch?" Mycroft raised his voice above the hammering rain.
"Anywhere as long as it's dry."
"Olivia's Kitchen, on our right. Sounds pleasant enough." They crossed the road (with difficulty) and speed-walked into the inviting little café. It was mostly empty, expect for a young man with headphones and a laptop. Comfortable chairs sat around circular tables, and a small fireplace meant a much welcome change from the cold outside.
"Good afternoon, sirs. Can I offer you a table?" A young-ish woman with strong features and a thick Italian accent greeted them.
She seated them near the fireplace, and offered to take their coats.
"I shall hang them up, to dry. The weather; it is awful." She rolled her eyes at the rain which continued to pound at the glass windows.
"A menu for you, Sir, and a menu for you." She said, handing over two menu cards. They were handwritten in deep green ink, illustrated in the corners with small sketches.
"Perhaps we could order a... Sharing platter?" Greg suggested cautiously. He was unsure as to where their relationship was. The previous night had been such an unexpected turning point, that he wondered whether it had been purely a whimsical thing of the moment.
"I was going to suggest the same thing - I am rather partial to Antipasti."
It wasn't long before the waitress brought to the table a long, wooden board, laden with various Italian foods. Each item was divisible by two: two bruschetta's, four delicate slices of prosciutto, twelve olives and so on. It was all perfectly delicious, and all was eaten within a few minutes. All except for one olive.
"Is the Lone Olive yours or mine?" Mycroft stared down at the green vegetable.
"I can't remember." Greg put down his fork.
"Hm."
"It's alright. You have it."
"No, no, I insist, Gregory. The olive is yours."
"Honestly, Mycroft. I don't mind at all, you have the olive."
"I do think I've had my share of olives, dear. Please, take it."
Greg froze: Mycroft had called him dear.
"I'm certain the olive is yours, Myc."
Mycroft flinched. It was the first time he'd heard anyone other than his brother call him by his nickname.
"Oh... I'm sorry Mycroft. I didn't mean to offend you at all..." Greg looked down in embarrassment.
"No, no, not at all. I'm merely not used to hearing it."  He went to say something else, but hesitated. However, upon seeing Greg's smile falter, he added: "But I certainly wouldn't object being called it more often. You don't mind me calling you Gregory?"
"I'll admit I like being called by my full name - no one else does, you see?"
Mycroft gave a weak smile and diverted his attention back to the olive, which was still sitting most unmovably on the wooden board.
"Please, Gregory. Take the olive - I cannot bear to discuss the damn thing further."
"You have it, and the debate's settled." Greg grinned cheekily, propping his chin up on his vertically-resting forearms. Mycroft narrowed his eyes in mock disdain, and eventually speared the thing with unnecessary force. He wavered in the air for a moment, then gingerly placed fork and olive back on his plate with such care, you might have thought it was a bomb.
"It's settled. I abdicate from eating the Olive. If you wish to, then please do. If not, that is entirely your choice."

Mycroft paid the bill, and thanked the Waitress most profoundly. They stepped back out into the torrent of rain, and battled the fierce winds which rendered the Umbrella wholly useless. The original plan had been to walk to Selfridge's, yet strangely neither man fancied the semi-long walk any more. Instead, Mycroft phoned for a car, which picked them up on Portobello road.
The Olive was left, forgotten.
It was a blessed relief to step into the warm vehicle, with its real leather upholstery and black privacy windows. Mycroft absent-mindedly placed his hand in the gap between the two seats. Greg, noticing this, subtly edged his a little closer.
"I do apologise for our trip being cut a little short. This weather is simply atrocious." The auburn sighed apologetically. He crept his hand over slightly in a half-hearted attempt to be inobvious.
Greg bit his lip. The events of the night before almost seemed like a beautiful dream now, and he could hardly decide where to take things next. He thought of their kisses with a tantalising thrill - how their lips had touched with such passionate affection, how Mycroft had pulled him in with his gorgeous, long-fingered hands.
His thought was interrupted by a click of a button - Mycroft putting the divider across. Greg's eyes flitted across to meet Mycroft's, who smiled almost devilishly back at him. Greg broke into a (slightly bated) grin, and questioned:
"The divider, Mr Holmes?"
"I felt the need for a little privacy." He undid his seatbelt, and with sudden confidence, took up Greg's hand in his own. Greg was confused in the nicest way - Mycroft Holmes was turning out to be a most unexpected man indeed.
Mycroft lifted Greg's hand and kissed it lightly, his breathing noticeably shaky. The inspector, seatbelt removed, shuffled over and ran his hands through Mycroft's soft, auburn hair and down his chest, finally resting upon his heart. Mycroft shivered at his touch, and brought him in closer. Their heads drew together, and the auburn planted small kisses on the detective's neck, working his way closer to his waiting lips. They kissed with a passionate urgency, Mycroft's long nose brushing against Greg's cheek, Greg running his hands across Mycroft's back.
The car journey was hideously short, and both men were incredibly put-out when it came to an end. Mycroft offered Greg in for a cup of coffee, but Greg disappointedly declined owing to a large amount of paperwork he had to complete (a result of his absence from work that day).
It had been a most pleasant trip to London, but decidedly, the journey home was far more pleasant.

A/N: Good Evening! With any luck I won't change my mind and republish this one. Hope you enjoyed :-) xx