Title for this chapter comes from "If You Ever Come Back" from The Script (it's my go-to Johnlock song but we'll ignore that for now). Let's start this new story off right- here's some fluffy Mystrade :)
It wasn't dark when Mycroft entered his flat.
He paused on the threshold, door half open, hesitating as he stared across the expanse of foyer and into the sitting room, from which a warm, welcoming orange light glowed.
He hadn't left a light burning when he ran from the flat earlier that morning. He was very sure of it. Sherlock had been panicky when he called, rambling about smugglers, something about a curator, and losing John, but Mycroft had remained calm. He'd made his own calls and enquires before leaving, and he had been of a sound enough mind not to leave appliances on. He was conscientious about such things.
But a single lamp burned in his sitting room, a solitary beacon in the creeping dark, and Mycroft stared at it for a few moments, puzzled, before moving forward and turning it off, plunging the flat into darkness.
He stayed standing in the darkened room for a few minutes, running his fingers over the frilled shade contemplatively, thoughts crowding in one after the other, before a distant sound came from down the hall, and the reason for the light being left on slotted neatly into place.
He should have realized it sooner, Mycroft chastised himself as he ambled down the carpeted hallway and to his shadowy bedroom.
Allowances could be made, though, he supposed as he opened the door, considering that this was all still very, very new to him.
It was a pleasant surprise, every time, when he walked into his bedroom and found someone already laying in his bed.
Not a random stranger off the street, of course, who just happened to have a penchant for sleeping on expensive cotton sheets and frequently participating in sexual activities with Mycroft.
Mycroft stood and stared down at his dead-to-the-world boyfriend and smiled.
No one had ever waited up for him to come home before. Never. And there had never been anyone for him to come home to, not since he was an unappreciative teenager and Sherlock just a small child who still thought his big brother was some sort of deity. By the time Mycroft had realized how wonderful such a thing was, Sherlock had grown up and away and Mycroft had missed it.
Now, though, he had Greg who waited up for him, who left a light on when he himself was too exhausted from work to stay up a minute longer, who smiled and laughed with him and who looked forward to the times when Mycroft came home.
Mycroft was still getting used to that.
Shedding his clothes, Mycroft carefully slid into bed, trying his hardest not to wake Greg but secretly (and pathetically, he thought) hoping Greg, even in his comatose state, would somehow sense he was near and wake up.
Greg rarely disappointed Mycroft.
Humming sleepily, Greg rolled over, bumping into Mycroft before flinging an arm across his midriff and pulling him closer.
"You back, Myc?"
Wryly wondering just who else Greg was expecting to crawl into bed with him at half two in the morning, Mycroft whispered back. "Yes. I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep, Gregory."
"Ev'rything ok? You find John?"
"Yes, of course."
"He's fine. He was shaken up but I'm certain it's nothing John cannot fix."
Greg grunted and snuggled closer, wrapping a leg around Mycroft and was snoring against his shoulder in seconds.
Mycroft shifted beneath the warm, heavy weight of Greg until he was comfortable and closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift comfortably off after a very long day.