Spoo's Drabbles (mostly Mystrade, plus some other fandoms)

[ID2006]

The description of Greg's body bending sneeze... AMAZING *drools unashamedly. And Mycroft succumbing to the illness and Lestrades detective skills, brilliant.

[squealofapproval]

Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh.

Spoo!!!!!!! You write amazing things. And I must say this is the first time I've liked big sneezes.

[HoneyBunny]

Oh God, I'm giggling like the silly little schoolgirl I am. Mycroft. <3

Lovely drabbles, dear!

[Spoo]

Hahaha, I'm glad everyone seems to like Greg's ridiculous sneezes. But really, you all are far too kind. Your comments are always lovely and I feel so blessed to have such wonderful readers. NOW THEN. Allow me to give our lovely friend cally (whose Mystrade drabbles are to DIE for) some credit, because she was the one who suggested Mycroft contacting Sherlock. So thank you, dear! You're brilliant.

I uh, don't usually write for Sherlock (at least, to this extent) so I apologize if he seems vastly out of character. Aside from that, have some Holmes Bros feels! As well as some sort-of platonic Johnlock?? IDEK

1 - Kink :: 2 - Science Fiction :: 3 - Frightened :: 4 - Fake :: 5 – Pencil :: 6 – Squint :: 7 – Misplaced :: 8 – Joy :: 9 - Touched ::10 – Cough(x2) :: 11 – Hot/Cold :: 12 – Sin :: 13 – Care :: 14 – Frail :: 15 – The End :: 16 – Three :: 17 – Never :: 18 – Midnight :: 19 – Promise :: 20 – Fight :: 21 – Pollen :: 22 – Embarrassment:: 23 – Alcohol :: 24 – Mask :: 25 – Mistake :: 26 – Suspicion :: 27 – Disagreement :: 28 – Assignment :: 29 – Purple :: 30 – June :: 31 – Calculating :: 32 – Fall :: 33 – Cry :: 34 – Relief :: 35 – Breath :: 36 – Miserable :: 37 – Chocolate :: 38 – Violent :: 39 – Muffle :: 40 – Swift :: 41 – Run :: 42 – Poison :: 43 – Contagion ::44 – Tissue :: 45 – Sore :: 46 – Enraptured :: 47 – Wary :: 48 – Pathetic :: 49 – Sweat :: 50 – Gentle :: 51 – Milk :: 52 – Ravenous :: 53 – Blanket :: 54 – Needles :: 55 – Sports :: 55 – Ruin :: 56 – Lovely :: 57 – Hospital :: 58 – Annoying :: 59 – Mother :: 60 – Bike ::61 – Idiot :: 62 – Puppy :: 63 – Control :: 64 – Unfair :: 65 – Similarities :: 66 – Raincoat :: 67 – Worship :: 68 – Attitude :: 69 – Fuck :: 70 – Confession :: 71 – Floor :: 72 – Remedy :: 73: – Don't :: 74 – Ego :: 75 – Heartless :: 76 – Lullaby :: 77 – Secret :: 78 – Shut Up :: 79 – Music :: 80 – Grudge :: 81 – Solitude :: 82 – Magic :: 83 – Dirty :: 84 – City :: 85 – Teacher :: 86 – Sky :: 87 – Hypocrite :: 88 – Tattoo :: 89 – Money :: 90 – Childhood :: 91 – Goodbye :: 92 – Victory :: 93 – Weather :: 94 – Photo :: 95 – Rage :: 96 – Internet:: 97 – Fashion :: 98 – Favor :: 99 – Lazy :: 100 – Airplane

~ * ~

Series: Sherlock

Character(s): Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, John Watson

Prompt: 74 – Ego

Word count: 1318 (I give up on drabble length, I swear. )

'Miserable' didn't even come close to describing the current state of Mycroft Holmes, hay fever sufferer extraordinaire. He was much worse than that, and it was all thanks to the lovely company that decided to discontinue the only medication that ever worked to alleviate his horrific seasonal symptoms. Without the assistance of that miraculous white pill, the powerful and intimidating British Government was reduced to a watery-eyed, itchy, sniffling, sneezing normal person.

His allergies were so bad, in fact, that he'd refrained from going to work that day in order to stay home and keep away from the blooming outdoors. There was a reason he loathed spring, and it was an exceptionally good reason.

Clothed in matching pajamas and his dressing gown (which he hadn't bothered to shed all day) he was sat in his study, mulling over paperwork he couldn't, for the life of him, focus on. Whenever he started reading an informative paragraph, his eyes would tear and distort the printed text. If it wasn't that, then it was the itching. If not the itching, then the sniffling. If not the sniffling, then the…

"Hih'IGNSCHHhhh! IHGHSCHHhh! Hihhh'IGHSCHhhh'oo!"

Recovering, he sniffed drippily into his poor, spent handkerchief and decided that he'd had enough. Pride be damned, he needed help. Luckily for him he personally knew a well-practiced chemist - one he had absolute certainty would be able to replicate his old prescription to the exact and correct compound.

However… It wouldn't be free.

Nor would it be particularly easy to convince the chemist in question. Sighing quite heavily, Mycroft reached for his mobile and rang up his darling brother, all while thinking of potential bribes to sway the younger Holmes.

- - -

Sherlock was stretched along the sofa of 221B, in his dressing gown, where he'd been lying for hours now in complete silence. His hands were steepled against his mouth - an indication that he was deep in his Mind Palace. A crease of annoyance formed in his brow when his mobile began vibrating on the coffee table in front of him, disrupting his inner musings.

"John."

"Mm?"

Good. His flatmate was still around. Better yet, he was still seated on the other end of the sofa.

"My phone," Sherlock requested, holding out one of his hands.

He was lucky that John happened to be in an obliging mood. Actually, no. The former soldier was frustrated with his inability to word his current blog entry the right way and needed a distraction. That was why he complied.

"You'll need to move your legs," John pointed out, patting Sherlock's shins.

"Dull," the overgrown child droned, lifting his incredibly long, incredibly spiderish legs so that John was able to lean forward and retrieve the still-buzzing device.

Without bothering to check and see who it was, John handed Sherlock his phone and then resumed his blogging (though only after he'd settled Sherlock's legs back onto his lap, so the risk of having his nose smashed in by those large, hovering feet would be nonexistent).

As though it were a chore, and it was, Sherlock finally opened his eyes. Upon seeing his brother's name on the caller ID, he was beyond tempted to hit the ignore button so hard the screen shattered. After a few more persistent rings (weren't stopping > urgent > personal emergency) he rolled his eyes in utter annoyance and accepted the call.

"What is it?" he quipped.

John blinked at the rude greeting and glanced over with raised eyebrows, only to see Sherlock drinking invisible tea with a posh pinky up; it was the one charade for 'Mycroft' that didn't involve something obscene. Understanding, the dedicated blogger went back to his laptop and started pecking at the keys again.

On the line, Mycroft said:

"I am going to skip any and all formalities, as I know that you are able to deduce my predicament solely by hearing my voice, as you are now."

It took Sherlock no more than two seconds, if that.

"Your hay fever medication has been discontinued, and in your desperation you wish to have a chemist replicate it. You are acquainted with several chemists - some of whom have more credentials than they do shoes. However, you would rather go with someone who is already aware of the severity of your condition, rather than humiliate yourself in front of a colleague. Now, do be quick with your bribing, brother. I'm tremendously busy."

John snorted at that.

"Should you do this for me, I will grant you one month's worth of override into any facility of your personal choosing."

Sherlock considered the offer quietly. In all honesty, his willingness to recreate the medication depended on what he could weasel out of his British Government of a sibling, which, with the way Mycroft sounded, would give him very decent leverage. He remained silent a moment more before staking his claim.

“Unlimited overrides to the facilities of my choosing. Not just a month. I will text you the list. You will also cease in spying on John and I's flat for an entire month.”

There was an irritated sigh from Mycroft's end, followed by a wet sniffle.

"You and I both know that unlimited override is impossible. I have a respectable career to maintain, Sherlock. I can guarantee the lack of surveillance on your flat, and am willing to increase my original proposal by one month. So two months of override. Should that not be enough, know that I am absolutely mihhhh...hh...."

Although he wasn't there to witness it, Sherlock could see as plain as day what was happening: Having pulled his mobile far away from his face, Mycroft had turned his head and snapped into his handkerchief with three painfully stifled--"Mm'phffsh!"---sneezes, each muffling into the cloth more than they normally would.

He knew that his brother wasn't a fan of sneezing in full in front of anyone (anyone but Lestrade, Sherlock assumed) so this explained the aggressive squelching.

"...Miserable. Apologies."

Sherlock supposed that a part of him (a tiny, minuscule, microscopic part) could sympathize with his Mycroft, if only because the Holmes family was notorious for their hay fever - even though Mycroft undoubtedly had it the worst. On the other hand, hearing Mycroft actually admit how miserable he was was oddly satisfying. His level of desperation was truly astounding.

"Oh, fine," Sherlock miraculously agreed. "Two month's override and no surveillance. As you know, it will take time to obtain all that I require to recreate your medication. Try not to die between now and then; it would upset Lestrade and his grief would make my life unnecessarily difficult."

"I shall ask that you keep me updated on your pro-gress. For my own peace of mind, if you w-wihh-ll…"

Again, Sherlock heard the phone being swiftly pulled away as more sneezes emerged. This time, the detective's mouth curled into a smirk that was reminiscent of a certain green, Christmas-hating, Whoville outcast.

"'God bless you, Mikey.'"

"Oh Lord, must you imitate her?"

"Obviously."

Without bothering with goodbyes (his flawless imitation of their mother was a termination on its own) Sherlock ended the call and laid his mobile on his chest.

"So you're really doing it for him?" John asked, not taking his eyes off of his laptop screen. "For two month's override and no spying."

"His wounded ego would have been more than enough compensation, yet he insisted," Sherlock mused, closing his eyes again. "He really shouldn't depend on his medication so heavily."

"Says the man who took an antihistamine this morning when he couldn't stop bloody sneezing," John countered, not so much defending Mycroft as he was calling Sherlock out.

"Irrelevant."

"Oh no. It's relevant. You just won't admit it."

When Sherlock didn't answer to that, John looked over to find him back in his Mind Palace, oblivious to the world.

"Right," he said, clearing his throat. "Two wounded egos, then."

[TheCakeIsAlive]

The deduction bits are brilliant. It really adds so much to the story.

*giggles* The brotherly banter is so lovely. And John's deadpan is hilarious.

Love the amount of detail. I don't think it would even need to be adapted to script if one certain Scottish person would film it.

[cally]

How are you so perfect? That was perfect. Totally perfect.

And no, you're brilliant.

[VoOs]

Without the assistance of that miraculous white pill, the powerful and intimidating British Government was reduced to a watery-eyed, itchy, sniffling, sneezing normal person.

*CACKLING WITH GLEE*

John blinked at the rude greeting and glanced over with raised eyebrows, only to see Sherlock drinking invisible tea with a posh pinky up; it was the one charade for 'Mycroft' that didn't involve something obscene. Understanding, the dedicated blogger went back to his laptop and started pecking at the keys again.

"Right," he said, clearing his throat. "Two wounded egos, then."

*MORE CACKLING*

Oh, Spoo, I cannot stop smiling, and it is all your fault. "Vastly out of character", pfffhh, you have every single one of them spot-on, and you know it. <o>____<o>

Love, love, love.

[Dusty15]

Spoooo! I loved this one! Hayfever!Holmes brothers are so perfectly in character and so much fun

[tma]

Without the assistance of that miraculous white pill, the powerful and intimidating British Government was reduced to a watery-eyed, itchy, sniffling, sneezing normal person.

*CACKLING WITH GLEE*

John blinked at the rude greeting and glanced over with raised eyebrows, only to see Sherlock drinking invisible tea with a posh pinky up; it was the one charade for 'Mycroft' that didn't involve something obscene. Understanding, the dedicated blogger went back to his laptop and started pecking at the keys again.

"Right," he said, clearing his throat. "Two wounded egos, then."

*MORE CACKLING*

Oh, Spoo, I cannot stop smiling, and it is all your fault. "Vastly out of character", pfffhh, you have every single one of them spot-on, and you know it. <o>____<o>

Love, love, love.

My favourites spots as well! And the teacup thing was especially hysterical.

Loved!!

[AngelEyes]

Everyone above me beat me to all the best commentary so I'll just say, yes yes yes!!!!

[matilda3948]

Hilarious! The banter is priceless. Great job!

[Spoo]

Thank you so much, everyone! I'm glad the brothers' banter went over well. I'm always really nervous when I write for Sherlock, because he is literally THE MOST complex character I've ever come across (and that's coming from someone who's written Spock from Star Trek!).

I'm thinking some fatherly/sonly Sherstrade will be next on my list - featuring a concerned Papa!Lestrade () and a younger, John-less Sherlock. ()

[VoOs]

I'm thinking some fatherly/sonly Sherstrade will be next on my list - featuring a concerned Papa!Lestrade and a younger, John-less Sherlock.

I may have squealed out loud when I read this. <3 <3 <3

But seriously, I love the way you write Sherlock, and I think being nervous to write him shows that you do have a great understanding of his character. I don't think it's possible to write him well without recognizing how flippin' difficult it is to write him at all.

[AngelEyes]

I'm thinking some fatherly/sonly Sherstrade will be next on my list - featuring a concerned Papa!Lestrade () and a younger, John-less Sherlock.

Intriguing!

[squealofapproval]

Thank you so much, everyone! I'm glad the brothers' banter went over well. I'm always really nervous when I write for Sherlock, because he is literally THE MOST complex character I've ever come across (and that's coming from someone who's written Spock from Star Trek!).

I'm thinking some fatherly/sonly Sherstrade will be next on my list - featuring a concerned Papa!Lestrade () and a younger, John-less Sherlock. ()

Ha! I AM not the only one who ships this!

[Spoo]

VoOs: Coming from you, darling, that means the absolute WORLD to me. Thank you so much.

AngelEyes: Here's hoping it will be!

Super Awko the nerd: I ship Sherstrade under very specific circumstances, but in this particular drabble there's no chemistry or romance. Just some platonic, fatherish/sonish angst.

Yeahhhh, I really need to get to work rehoming these Sherlock drabbles to their own individual thread…soon. I just wanted to get this one written and posted before it drove me crazy and I was tempted to make a billion changes (still not completely happy how it turned out, buuuut...). Personal whining aside, have some context:

Sherlock is twenty-something and not at a very good point in his life. I won't go into detail, because that would require a visit to the adult board, but I'm sure you all can guess what he's been up to… It's a headcanon of mine that Greg was around to pick Sherlock up and set him back on his feet, so that's what I worked with.

1 - Kink :: 2 - Science Fiction :: 3 - Frightened :: 4 - Fake :: 5 – Pencil :: 6 – Squint :: 7 – Misplaced :: 8 – Joy :: 9 - Touched ::10 – Cough(x2) :: 11 – Hot/Cold :: 12 – Sin :: 13 – Care :: 14 – Frail :: 15 – The End :: 16 – Three :: 17 – Never :: 18 – Midnight :: 19 – Promise :: 20 – Fight :: 21 – Pollen :: 22 – Embarrassment:: 23 – Alcohol :: 24 – Mask :: 25 – Mistake :: 26 – Suspicion :: 27 – Disagreement :: 28 – Assignment :: 29 – Purple :: 30 – June :: 31 – Calculating :: 32 – Fall :: 33 – Cry :: 34 – Relief :: 35 – Breath :: 36 – Miserable :: 37 – Chocolate :: 38 – Violent :: 39 – Muffle :: 40 – Swift :: 41 – Run :: 42 – Poison :: 43 – Contagion::44 – Tissue :: 45 – Sore :: 46 – Enraptured :: 47 – Wary :: 48 – Pathetic :: 49 – Sweat :: 50 – Gentle :: 51 – Milk :: 52 – Ravenous :: 53 – Blanket :: 54 – Needles :: 55 – Sports :: 55 – Ruin :: 56 – Lovely :: 57 – Hospital :: 58 – Annoying :: 59 – Mother :: 60 – Bike ::61 – Idiot :: 62 – Puppy :: 63 – Control :: 64 – Unfair :: 65 – Similarities :: 66 – Raincoat :: 67 – Worship :: 68 – Attitude :: 69 – Fuck :: 70 – Confession :: 71 – Floor :: 72 – Remedy :: 73: – Don't :: 74 – Ego :: 75 – Heartless :: 76 – Lullaby :: 77 – Secret :: 78 – Shut Up :: 79 – Music :: 80 – Grudge :: 81 – Solitude :: 82 – Magic :: 83 – Dirty :: 84 – City :: 85 – Teacher :: 86 – Sky :: 87 – Hypocrite :: 88 – Tattoo :: 89 – Money :: 90 – Childhood :: 91 – Goodbye :: 92 – Victory :: 93 – Weather :: 94 – Photo :: 95 – Rage :: 96 – Internet:: 97 – Fashion :: 98 – Favor :: 99 – Lazy :: 100 – Airplane

~ * ~

Series: Sherlock

Character(s): Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade

Prompt: 14 – Frail

Word count: 1071

Sherlock had yet to touch his tea or toast.

Honestly, Greg hadn't expected him to. The younger man's appetite was trained for something else entirely, and the proof was hiding under his jacket sleeves, which, he noticed, clung to Sherlock's slender forearms like a second skin. He supposed the rain was to thank for that.

The graying Detective Sergeant heaved a heavy sigh and set his focus back on his black coffee. Finding Sherlock in an alleyway wasn't how he planned for his evening to go. Then again, it wasn't as though he could have just left him there. God knows how long he'd been there already, laid up amongst the rubbish, exposing himself to the less than desirable weather.

Ideally, Greg would have offered to bring him home for the night and have him sleep on the sofa. That way, he could have kept an eye on him and made sure he was someplace dry and warm until at least morning. Unfortunately, though…

"Your wife would find me the very definition of appalling, and if at all possible I'd like to avoid her poorly feigned acceptance," Sherlock rumbled hoarsely, catching Greg off guard.

"Sorry?" he asked, blinking.

But Sherlock didn't reply.

His brow furrowing, Greg gazed ahead into the pale, almost haunting eyes that were now staring at him beneath a fringe of black bangs. He found that the weight of the stare itself, along with Sherlock's vastly dilated pupils, made something in his stomach grow cold.

Nevertheless, a true (though not necessarily 'good') point had been made: The Missus wouldn't take too kindly to having someone who…someone like Sherlock occupying their sofa, regardless if it was for a night or for a few hours. Greg wouldn't hear the end of it.

Right. He'd try something else, then.

"The tox screen came back for that body you looked at on Tuesday. You were right about the narcotics," he attempted, hoping that Sherlock would take the bait.

Negative. It didn't work.

A full ten seconds of silence went by until, finally, Greg noticed movement. But…it wasn't what he was expecting. He watched as Sherlock's lips parted with a shaky inhale, and then, before Greg knew what was happening, Sherlock was curling into himself and sneezing rather explosively into his steepled hands.

"Hih'ISCHHHhhuh!…heh'IKTSCHHhhuh!"

A look of worry washed over Greg's face at the harshness of the outburst. "Bless you."

The polite phrase went unanswered, though it wasn't by choice. Sherlock was unable to reply because of the coughing fit that suddenly overwhelmed him (no doubt triggered by the sneezes). The coughs were deep, chesty, and indicative of something nasty festering in Sherlock's bronchial tubes.

Greg was tempted to reach out, rub his back, maybe push his untouched tea closer to him. Anything to soothe the fit. It wasn't easy watching Sherlock succumb, or see how he drew further in on himself, as though he were incredibly breakable like glass.

By the time Sherlock was able to recover, his eyes were glossy and his breath crackled with opened pockets of congestion.

"Christ. That doesn't sound healthy," Greg commented, unable to push down his concern now that it had bubbled up to the surface. "You need a doctor."

"And you need a marriage counselor," Sherlock croaked in return, yet the venom of his statement was nowhere near as effective with the thickness his voice now carried.

Fortunately, Greg knew better than to get offended when the younger man was like this. Withdrawal always made everything worse. "You're ill, Sherlock, and it sounds as though you've been that way for a while."

Sherlock didn't deny the statement, but he also didn't bother defending himself. Instead, he ran the sleeve of his jacket under his nose and sniffed. Beneath the table, one of his knees started bouncing impatiently. Greg could tell that his time was running out; it wouldn't be long before Sherlock went back out in the rain and sought comfort in the habit that was gradually consuming him.

The older man paid for everything - the coffee, the uneaten food, the neglected tea - and then started to shrug into his damp overcoat. Before he'd even finished putting it on, Sherlock stood up from the table (too fast, Greg noticed, by the way he wobbled unsteadily). It took a second of righting himself before the far-too-skinny bloke headed to the door.

Greg followed after, quickening his steps to catch up with Sherlock. They'd barely stepped into the rain when another pair of sickly sneezes made themselves known.

"Heh'ISCHISHhhu!…hh…hih'IESCHHhuhh!"

"Bless," Greg said, regretting the fact that he didn't have a handkerchief on him.

Sherlock straightened back up, sniffled wetly, and exhaled a small cloud into the frigid air. "Of course I was right," he managed, suppressing the violent shiver that raked down his long spine. "Your forensic team wasted their time."

Ah. So there was the answer Greg hadn't received while they were still seated at the table. "Still never hurts to double check. And anyway, I'm serious about what I said. You need to get looked at."

Reaching up and behind his head, Sherlock grabbed onto his hood and tugged it over his hair before stepping out towards the dark street. Greg instinctively moved forward, as if to stop him, yet he soon found himself grounded on the spot when a black car pulled up near the curb. A man emerged - a man dressed very smartly (unless the rain was playing tricks on Greg's eyes) - and opened an umbrella over Sherlock.

Did they know each other? Were they friends? Greg had to wonder.

From what he could observe, the two looked to be exchanging conversation, but it was unclear what was being said. Greg was too far away, and the downpour didn't help as far as clarity went. Overall, he wasn't so sure it was a good talk, seeing as how Sherlock appeared to be making every effort to walk away.

Eventually, and by some miraculous turn of events, Sherlock ended up ducking into the car. The mysterious man began to follow after, though he stopped to offer a look in Greg's direction. It lasted a fleeting moment at best, and then he disappeared into the vehicle that pulled off not a second after the door had shut.

"Dunno who you are, mate," Greg mumbled, sliding his hands into his pockets. "But take care of him, yeah?"

[TheCakeIsAlive]

I sense beginnings of Mystrade in those last lines. *grins*

Love how you made Greg much more involved in Sherlock's past and in a positive way. Oh Sherlock you idiot. He should be much more grateful.

[VoOs]

*incoherent cooing noises*

Poor baby. My heart is aching now.

The polite phrase went unanswered, though it wasn't by choice. Sherlock was unable to reply because of the coughing fit that suddenly overwhelmed him (no doubt triggered by the sneezes). The coughs were deep, chesty, and indicative of something nasty festering in Sherlock's bronchial tubes.

Greg was tempted to reach out, rub his back, maybe push his untouched tea closer to him. Anything to soothe the fit. It wasn't easy watching Sherlock succumb, or see how he drew further in on himself, as though he were incredibly breakable like glass.

By the time Sherlock was able to recover, his eyes were glossy and his breath crackled with opened pockets of congestion.

"Christ. That doesn't sound healthy," Greg commented, unable to push down his concern now that it had bubbled up to the surface. "You need a doctor."

"And you need a marriage counselor," Sherlock croaked in return, yet the venom of his statement was nowhere near as effective with the thickness his voice now carried

This entire bit... I could eat your language with a spoon. And then shed a tear or two.

Beautiful.

[cally]

You were right, this was going to be sad and you didn't disappoint.

[AngelEyes]

Oh, I love it so much. It's just so much feel! It feels really authentic.

And this part:

Reaching up and behind his head, Sherlock grabbed onto his hood and tugged it over his hair before stepping out towards the dark street.

reminded me of this pic.

[squealofapproval]

Uh uh uh um

*faints*

THAT PIC THO

[Spoo]

Is it too late to provide my own share of sick!Greg? This idea was not actually my own, for it was originally written a while back with a tumblr friend of mine (who also shares this fetish!). I've tweaked it since then and rewritten a lot of it. I just thought I'd put that out there because it's unfair to hog the credit when someone else contributed.

That aside, enjoy!

1 - Kink :: 2 - Science Fiction :: 3 - Frightened :: 4 - Fake :: 5 – Pencil :: 6 – Squint :: 7 – Misplaced :: 8 – Joy :: 9 - Touched ::10 – Cough(x2) :: 11 – Hot/Cold :: 12 – Sin :: 13 – Care :: 14 – Frail :: 15 – The End :: 16 – Three :: 17 – Never :: 18 – Midnight :: 19 – Promise :: 20 – Fight :: 21 – Pollen :: 22 – Embarrassment:: 23 – Alcohol :: 24 – Mask :: 25 – Mistake :: 26 – Suspicion :: 27 – Disagreement :: 28 – Assignment :: 29 – Purple :: 30 – June :: 31 – Calculating :: 32 – Fall :: 33 – Cry :: 34 – Relief :: 35 – Breath :: 36 – Miserable :: 37 – Chocolate :: 38 – Violent :: 39 – Muffle :: 40 – Swift :: 41 – Run :: 42 – Poison :: 43 – Contagion::44 – Tissue :: 45 – Sore :: 46 – Enraptured :: 47 – Wary :: 48 – Pathetic :: 49 – Sweat :: 50 – Gentle :: 51 – Milk :: 52 – Ravenous :: 53 – Blanket :: 54 – Needles :: 55 – Sports :: 55 – Ruin :: 56 – Lovely :: 57 – Hospital :: 58 – Annoying :: 59 – Mother :: 60 – Bike ::61 – Idiot :: 62 – Puppy :: 63 – Control :: 64 – Unfair :: 65 – Similarities :: 66 – Raincoat :: 67 – Worship :: 68 – Attitude :: 69 – Fuck :: 70 – Confession :: 71 – Floor :: 72 – Remedy :: 73: – Don't :: 74 – Ego :: 75 – Heartless :: 76 – Lullaby :: 77 – Secret :: 78 – Shut Up :: 79 – Music :: 80 – Grudge :: 81 – Solitude :: 82 – Magic :: 83 – Dirty :: 84 – City :: 85 – Teacher :: 86 – Sky :: 87 – Hypocrite :: 88 – Tattoo :: 89 – Money :: 90 – Childhood :: 91 – Goodbye :: 92 – Victory :: 93 – Weather :: 94 – Photo :: 95 – Rage :: 96 – Internet:: 97 – Fashion :: 98 – Favor :: 99 – Lazy :: 100 – Airplane

~ * ~

Series: Sherlock

Character(s): Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Phillip Anderson, Mycroft Holmes

Prompt: 70 – Confession

Word count: 1819

Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan looked up from her paperwork to see a scowling Phillip Anderson standing directly in front of her desk. Without saying anything, he held out a folder for her to take, which she did, but only after issuing a knowing statement.

"Freak was right, wasn't he?"

Anderson sneered. "Why else would I be here?"

He had a point. Had Sherlock been wrong, he would have been off boasting to the entire office about the man's shocking incorrectness. Even so, Sally rolled her eyes and opened up the report that confirmed every single one of the drugs Sherlock had deduced from their most recent body. It was almost upsetting that he hadn't missed a single one.

"That settles it, then," she acknowledged, shutting the folder and standing up. "I'll let the boss know."

It was very likely that Greg already knew that Sherlock hadn't been mistaken, but protocol was protocol so off she went. Were it an emergency she would have simply barged in (as she'd done many times before) but since there was no greater issue at hand, she knocked once and then opened the door to Greg's office.

"Sir, the tox screen came back," she began, though stopped from saying anything else when she took in her superior's appearance.

Greg was sitting with one elbow braced on his desk and his head bowed; his fingers were buried in his silvery hair while he signed a report with the other hand. A handkerchief was resting beside him, near his elbow, ready to be snatched up should he need it.

And chances were he would need it quite soon, if the constant sniffles leaving his bothered nose said anything.

"Sir?" Sally tried again.

That did the trick.

Greg grunted softly and glanced up, squinting slightly at the woman in the doorframe. "What is it?"

"The tox screen…?"

"Tox screen? Oh." Sniffing thickly, he finally lifted his head in full, though his fingers remained in his hair. "Right. And?" One look at Sally's face had Greg instantly understanding. "Sherlock was right, wasn't he?"

Sally pointedly ignored the question in favor of asking something in return. "You have heard yourself, haven't you?" she inquired, stepping into his office and shutting the door behind her.

Greg huffed and let his hand drop on his desk with a testy thud. "Yes, I've heard myself. I've had to make phone calls like this, how could I not hear myself?"

He didn't like that his second in command was blatantly pointing out how horrible he sounded. Not that he'd expected nobody to notice, but to come and say it so blatantly to his face? Only Sally would be that brave.

The Detective Sergeant folded her arms across her chest and sighed. "Then why're you even here? You should've stayed home if you were ill."

With yet another sniffle, the sick man finally reached for his handkerchief and swiped it against his wet nostrils. "Have you ever known me to stay home with a cold?"

Greg had a point. It was a known fact around the office that he was never the type to take sick days unless he was literally on the verge of death. Even so, the man sounded so miserably congested that she could barely make out what he was saying. That was more than enough of a reason for him to have stayed in bed.

"Sir, you didn't stay home when you had pneumonia, let alone a cold," Sally pointed out, arching an eyebrow. The men she worked with were so ridiculously stubborn; they were no better than belligerent little boys who were more willing to argue than to do what made sense. "And that's exactly what you'll have again if you don't take care of what you've got now."

"…If I didn't know any better," Greg began, still mopping at his nose with the handkerchief that had nearly reached its maximum point of absorbency. "I'd think you were trying to get rid of me."

"The Yard won't collapse if you're not here," she quipped. "And I think going home is something you've been wanting since you came in."

No, what Greg had been wanting was to clear some of the congestion from his head. Even though wetness constantly dripped from his nostrils, what filled his sinuses with pressure and made it impossible for him to speak without sounding like an utter idiot was packed more solidly than cement, because no amount of blowing could dislodge it.

Handkerchief abandoned - really, what good was it doing him? - he rubbed his forehead tiredly, attempting to rid himself of the headache that was pulsing in his skull. "Are you going to let me see the tox screen or not?"

Reluctantly, Sally approached the desk and laid down the folder she'd brought in with her. "He was right," she finally confirmed, prior to stepping back where she'd previously stood by the door.

She had no desire to catch whatever Greg had; it was bad enough that she was continuing to expose herself to it in his office. The last thing the Yard needed was for the illness to spread; they'd already had their annual touch of flu two months prior. There was no need for the introduction of a new germ.

"Freak'll want the file," Sally added. "Even though it's confidential." Because that's just the way Sherlock Holmes operated. Nothing was sacred or private when it came to his obsessive investigations.

"Yeah, well…snnnnrrrrkkk!"

Greg gave a mighty sniffle in an attempt to improve his voice. It worked a little, and while he was hardly clear, he did find that he could pronounce most of the alphabet again. For the time being, anyway.

"I'm not feeling too inclined to give him anything he asks for right now. He can come pry it right from my bloody fingers."

Picking up the folder with one hand, he lifted his other to scrub a curled knuckle against his nostrils, which were twitching with sensitivity. Unfortunately, it seemed that rubbing his nose was not good enough to rid himself of the tickle that had been brewing in his sinuses all day. If nothing else, in fact, the touch seemed to have aggravated it.

With his breath already shivering and hitching softly, he groped for his handkerchief. It was damp to the touch, and he doubted it would be able to handle another explosive sneeze. And yet, he had little choice, because he didn't have time now to fumble in his pockets for the spare he'd brought.

The agonizing sensation lingered a moment, making the man tremble with need for release; his fingers desperately curled around the pocket square. Just when he thought that maybe it wasn't going to come out after all, he gave a final gasp and collapsed into the handkerchief.

"Huh'RDSCHHHh'ah!…hhr'RSCHISHHhuhh!"

Though he'd been polite and turned away - well, as 'polite' as one could be after a pair of sneezes like that - Sally still felt it best to promptly remove herself from the confined space of the room while the opportunity continued to present itself. Before she left, she added one final comment over her shoulder.

"Still think you're better off in bed. And bless you."

Following her leave, Greg had to admit that Sally was right. After their brief interaction, he found himself dizzy, achey, and totally unable to complete any of the tasks that needed his immediate attention. It was only after he'd fallen asleep on his desk, drooling along a stack of crime scene photographs, that he made the ultimate confession to himself:

He, Greg Lestrade, was ill, and he needed to go home.

He didn't miss the grateful looks on the faces of his team when he left his office, coat on and handkerchief pressed to his nose, nor did he miss the way people moved away from him as he waited at the tills to buy some medicine for himself at Boots. He didn't blame them, of course. Who wanted to be near someone with the plague?

When he finally got home an hour later, Greg didn't think twice about getting into bed. In fact, he'd left a line of clothing articles from front door to bedroom, like a trail of breadcrumbs to lead Mycroft to him when his better half finally got home from work.

It was not yet lunchtime when Greg passed out.

- - -

Mycroft's early departure had proven to be a wise choice on his part. He was able to take care of the more pressing matters and leave the less complicated ones for later, which he did. As soon as the opportune moment came up, the busy man was out of his office and traveling home in his sleek, black car. Anthea sat beside him, listing off the following day's schedule, and while Mycroft wasn't really listening, he still managed to provide input here and there.

He arrived at he and Gregory's shared home sometime during the late afternoon. He had meant to contact his lover earlier, but an impromptu meeting with a diplomat soaked up what free time he had specifically reserved for a phone call. Nevertheless, he was home now and...

…And there was a pile of clothing on the floor. Gregory's clothing, to be exact.

Mycroft followed it until he reached the bedroom, where a heartbreaking sight awaited him. It seemed that Gregory had indeed come home; his cold must have gotten much worse to have successfully pulled him from the Yard. Quietly, the younger man walked over and did his best to gently rearrange the sleeping body, so that it was actually under the covers instead of spread amongst them.

The very instant their skin made contact, however, Mycroft became aware of something quite alarming: Gregory had a fever. A high fever. Reaching out, Mycroft gingerly stroked his shoulder with hopes of waking him.

"Gregory?"

There was no response outside of a muffled whimper. This wouldn't do.

Quickly leaving the bedside, he hurried into the en suite and went about wetting a washcloth beneath the tap. He wrung out the excess water and then returned to the bedroom to try and wake his partner again. This time, he resorted to brushing the washcloth against Gregory's scorching features, chasing the heat away with its damp coolness.

The gentle motions succeeded in waking Greg, who groaned softly and turned to look at the man soothing his fever. "Myc?"

Without bothering to undress from his three-piece suit, Mycroft laid down and spooned his poor darling from behind. One arm wrapped around the older man's waist while the other tucked under his head and kept the washcloth pressed to his brow. Kiss after kiss was set to the back of Gregory's burning neck.

"Shhh," Mycroft consoled. "Go back to sleep."

The warmth and security of the embrace encouraged a sound of gratitude to resound within Greg's throat. This is what he'd needed, he thought, losing himself to sleep again. More than paperwork, more than medicine, he'd just needed Mycroft.

[cally]

Awwwwwwwwwwww Poor, poor Gregory. This made my heart break for him.

More than paperwork, more than medicine, he'd just needed Mycroft.

[AngelEyes]

Wow. This is amazing! The interaction between Greg and Sally was perfect! I can totally see/hear them. Poor miserable Greg. And Mycroft comfort. Awwww!

[TheCakeIsAlive]

Greg was sitting with one elbow braced on his desk and his head bowed; his fingers were buried in his silvery hair while he signed a report with the other hand. A handkerchief was resting beside him, near his elbow, ready to be snatched up should he need it.

*flail*

Without bothering to undress from his three-piece suit, Mycroft laid down and spooned his poor darling from behind. One arm wrapped around the older man's waist while the other tucked under his head and kept the washcloth pressed to his brow. Kiss after kiss was set to the back of Gregory's burning neck.

"Shhh," Mycroft consoled. "Go back to sleep."

The warmth and security of the embrace encouraged a sound of gratitude to resound within Greg's throat. This is what he'd needed, he thought, losing himself to sleep again. More than paperwork, more than medicine, he'd just needed Mycroft.

Guhhh... are you trying to kill me, woman? That is just so... lovely and awwww and *flailflail*