Breaking the ice {Mystrade}

Chapter Seven - In the spirit of love

"Champagne, sir?"
"I really shouldn't... oh, go on then." Greg enthusiastically sipped the sparkling alcohol - he expected he'd need something on board to get through the night ahead. A few waiters floated through the buzz of the crowd, offering various canapés and drinks, most of which were alcohol of a stronger tendency - a silent agreement in preparation for what the evening might hold. A platform stood at one end of the room, occupied by a small ensemble and singer, who sang an oddly satisfying, jazz cover of Thriller.
"Ghosts. Fascinating concept. Imprints of what had been... Are you a believer, Gregory?" Mycroft asked, taking a small cube of cake from a passing waitress.
"Well, I'm definitely not a skeptic. Whether we'll see anything tonight, I don't know. These ghost tours are purely London tourist fodder."
A week had passed since their London antics. Mycroft was finally back in the office and pleased to be, although he did feel a certain urgency to series-tape a comedy he'd been watching on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. It was strange, really. Whilst he'd had the time to view it, Mycroft hadn't felt especially interested in the programme, yet when running the country again loomed, he felt compelled to continue the routine of watching. Perhaps it was purely his appreciation of routine (although, more likely the ample supply of rather dashing male characters).
It was Greg's idea to participate in a ghost tour. Ghosts had always thrilled him, even from a young age when his Grandfather would tell the most tantalising of ghost stories under flickering candlelight. He thought it might be a good way to relieve some of the pressure Mycroft-Holmes-The-British-Government had to face. Unfortunately, now the evening had begun, Greg had his doubts. Mycroft seemingly kept his composure, but Greg started to notice the vast number of drinks he was taking; whisky, sherry, ginger liqueur, a third of a 'Flying Kangaroo' (whatever it was, it was clearly disgusting). He even knocked back two vodka and pomegranate shots. It seemed there were countless sides to the man so private and reserved. Greg couldn't help but love the slightly nervous, vulnerable Mycroft - after all, he would be more than happy be the supporting hand that Mycroft needed.
Eventually though, Greg had to intervene - Mycroft needed his legs to walk the tour. Despite the substantial quantity of alcohol he consumed, the effect wasn't large - except for his keenness to point out the cake tray to Greg every time it went past.
"We're put through extensive alcohol training, people of my sort of position. For practical reasons, you must understand. If a person, for any reason is trying to get us drunk, it makes it about 30% harder for them to do so." Mycroft explained.
"And how does one train for that sort of thing?"
"As much as I'd love to say we spent a week in the Loire valley, it was actually a rather boring affair. Just a plain white room, a fridge and a couple of sofas."
"So you drank 'till the effect wore off? Sounds bloody awful to me."
"Mm. It wasn't all drinking though - there are methods for keeping one's head. Oh look! Cake - you must try some, dear, it's very nice."
A hush fell over the room as the last few notes from the band trailed off, and the tour guide took to the stage.
"Ladies and Gentlemen... This evening, we welcome you all to a chilling night of thrills, of hauntings and of terror. We shall begin at the infamous Geap Manor. Known for its troubled past and reputation for Evil, the manor has stood for many a century. Please, follow closely. We wouldn't want any of you to be snatched from behind our backs, would we?"
"All a load of crap, if you ask me. Clearly a failed Drama student trying his best." The auburn whispered to Greg, all too audibly.
"Mycroft!" Greg chuckled. A few people gave admonishing stares, but Greg didn't care. Mycroft's puckish smile was utterly irresistible.
The party exited the building, out into the cold night. A path stretched out leading up to an imposing house, only illuminated by the moonlight.
"Now unfortunately the property is off limits to the public, however it has been said that if you look up the the East window on a night like this one, a pale lady can be seen staring down, her eyes wide and panicked. Strange noises echo from within - a baby's cry, a man's cough, a woman's laughter..."
"Bloody cold tonight." Mycroft remarked, whilst peering into the cracked windows of the building. 
The group shuffled along to the next location, a small, disused farmhouse. An eerie quiet befell the building, and even the smallest noises ricocheted the walls. The majority of the group poured into the main room of the house, leaving Mycroft and Greg trailing at the back, with only the darkness behind them.
"Listen..." The guide whispered, and all fell silent. Trees rustled softly in the wind, and Mycroft desperately wanted to join the group inside. It was pitch black outside - 'who knew what could be lurking out there?' He thought. Irrational as they were, his fears of the paranormal were great.
Greg noticed how anxious the auburn was starting to look, and tried his best not to laugh - the change in the man, usually so contained and unaffected, was incredible! Sympathy, however stopped his amusement, and he reached down to take Mycroft's hand in his own.
"SHIT!" Mycroft leapt out of his skin, and others did to as he shouted out in shock. Greg couldn't help but laugh, as he placed a comforting arm around the auburn's shoulders. 
The tour took them around several more buildings (shops, houses, churches - even a castle) before finally commencing back at the original meeting point, where food and drink were still available. Greg left briefly for the loo, and when he returned, he found Mycroft passed out in a chair at the side of the room, an nearly empty cup of (what looked like) coffee on the floor next to him. Greg gave it a tentative sip: Irish coffee. Irish coffee with a more-than generous dose of Whiskey.
Greg hauled the half-conscious man out to the car, and bundled him inside as unsuspiciously as he could muster. Mycroft mumbled quietly, stirring every time the car stopped.
It took both Greg and the driver to drag him up the stairs, and unceremoniously dump him on the bed. As he thudded on to the mattress, Mycroft shot awake.
"Stay the night, Gregory dear?" He murmured sleepily, then collapsed again. Greg removed Myc's shoes and socks, but hesitated before taking off his coat and jacket - he wasn't quite comfortable enough to remove anything else, at least not for the moment.
It was late - very late, and Greg was exhausted.
"Stay the night." Mycroft had said. He didn't have work in the morning...
He sat down at the edge of the bed, contemplating the situation. It was awfully late... Mycroft was muttering in his sleep again, agitated this time, his brow furrowed in fear. Greg carefully lay next to the other man, cautious not to make too much noise. A smile crept across his face as he closed his eyes and fell into a deep, warm, sleep.

A/N: Okay, okay, it seems I'm becoming notorious for spending ages on chapters. I do, however have a plan for Chapter eight, so with any luck it won't take an eternity to write. Also, 'Geap Manor' is a reference to Crooked House, a fantastic three-part ghost story written by and starring Mark Gatiss. Hope you enjoyed xx