Here Comes The Rain Again (Or, How Greg Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the British Government) - BBC Sherlock

[bangbang]

Haha, Greg needs to get his scones in before he can concentrate on anything else! Also he's a little wary of drawing too much attention to something that Mycroft's obviously trying to hide, especially in front of Sherlock.

I'm moving tomorrow instead - so here's the next part! This one's quite short and sadly not so sneezy because the next one is huuuuge and this was the best way I could break it up.

Part 5 - In which our star-crossed pair have a phone call, Mycroft is much sicker than he's letting on, and Sherlock has a run in with the circus.

=====

Two days later, Greg found himself swearing at Sherlock under his breath as he dialled a familiar number from the inside of his car.

“Detective Inspector. What can I do for you?” Mycroft sounded like a sword-swallower who’d had a bad accident; his normally velvety voice was rough and full of jagged edges.

“Um. Hi. How are you?” Greg instantly felt guilty about calling him.

Mycroft sounded slightly icy as he said “Fine, thank you.” He obviously wasn’t, but it was as though he was daring Greg to say otherwise and Greg shook his head at the denial. Vulnerability was obviously something that Mycroft wasn’t good at.

“Alright then. Sorry to call, but –”

“Excuse me, one moment. Thank you, Angela.” There was a rustle of paper and then a long sigh. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the fact that I’ve just been handed information about Sherlock and some kind of abandoned warehouse?” Prolonged speech seemed to dry out his throat, and there was a muffled cough as though he’d lowered the phone.

“Your information’s probably as up-to-date as ours.” Greg joked half-heartedly, looking at said warehouse through his car windscreen. “John’s in there too. And a troupe of man-eating clowns. We’ve got backup going in any minute now.”

“Of course.” Mycroft said, sounding resigned. “I wonder what horrendous title Dr Watson will think of for this escapade.”

“We’ve got a poll going on in the Yard if you want to get in on it. My bet’s for The Case of the Balloon Cannibals.”

“Don’t. Terrible puns set my teeth on e-iii—hhh… on edge. Excuse me.” There was the sound of the phone being placed on a desk and then, faintly, in the background, “hhhISSSCCHHT! Hehh-YISHHT! HEH—hhhh…ih,ih,ihHISSSCCHT!” They were slightly less contained than his sneezes when he’d been with Greg in person, as though he hoped he couldn’t be heard.

The phone was picked back up. “Bless you,” said Greg, feeling even guiltier.

“Thank you.” Mycroft’s speech was slightly slurred with congestion. “I can be over there in twenty minutes, traffic permitting.”

“Are you sure? If you –”

“It’s no trouble,” Mycroft interrupted. “And I’m afraid one of the clowns – a Mr Tickles, apparently – will need to be briefed by our department. Someone will sort out the paperwork for you.”

“God,” Greg groaned, “why didn’t I get a nice easy 9 til 5 instead?”

“Sometimes I wonder the same thing,” said Mycroft, sounding strangely miserable, and hung up. Greg looked at the phone for a long minute, and then got out of the car and signalled to the others.

======

[Spoo]

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Your dialogue is superb! I can actually hear both Greg and Mycroft speaking in my head as I'm reading along. Also, I can see our poor British Government has gotten worse in his illness. He needs rest and tea and warm, cuddly blankets. Perhaps even a Detective Inspector, too!

I think what I'm liking most so far (plot-wise) is that things are not yet romantic between them. There's a platonic sort of feel with enough friendship and consideration/thoughtfulness towards one another that makes it perfect. I love it! You're doing such a wonderful job.

(And omg "Mr. Tickles", LOLOL)

[rodakemopetojoen]

Ooooh! This is a real joy to read, I'm really excited for the rest of the story, especially now it's got going.... I eagerly anticipate the next chapter!!

[ellwren]

Delightful!

[SneezyRae]

Mycroft, dear, poor sneezy Mycroft. You can't hide it forever. Gregory will want to take care of you.

Again good luck with the move. I will look forward to the next sneezier installment

[cally]

“We’ve got a poll going on in the Yard if you want to get in on it. My bet’s for The Case of the Balloon Cannibals.”

It's taken me three read throughs to get the pun!

Oh Mycroft, you poor, poor dear.

[bangbang]

Yeah - I definitely did not structure the entire crime around that pun *shifty eyes*.

Thank you everyone who's taken the time to comment; I'm super excited that I get to write Mystrade for you guys, seeing as I've enjoyed it so much on the forum from al the talented authors and artists who've done it before! I appreciate it all so much (and of course your compliments, you're all too kind!), you have no idea.

At this stage no one will ever believe that I'm moving house at all, and that this is just the dullest case of catfishing on the internet. To prove my good intentions, here's the promised installment.

(This might be a dumb question, but please be honest - am I updating this too fast? I feel like some people will see that there's like, 5 chunks of text uploaded within 48 hours and just not bother. I'm a bit giddy because this is my first story and I have it mostly complete - please give me advice as to whether I should play it cool! I don't want to bombard you all until you lose interest.)

Part 6 - In which Mr Tickles is even more sinister than we thought, Mycroft has no sense of self-preservation, and Greg just wants a damn cup of coffee already. Plus our pair make actual physical contact at last! Hooray! (Don't get too excited.)

====

Exactly 19 minutes and 45 seconds later – which made it just about a reasonable hour to be getting up - a black car pulled up beside the police caution tape. Mycroft Holmes, bundled into a greatcoat that looked even cosier than Sherlock’s, got out. Greg gave him a wave and walked towards the barriers to meet him.

Mycroft tapped the roof of the black car and it drove off as he made his way over to Greg. He looked awful; several shades paler than normal, eyes framed with dark circles and heavy, bruised looking lids, lips chapped and nose and cheeks flushed. Greg tried not to wince and failed. Mycroft obviously noticed and his face hardened slightly.

“I’m assured that I’m past the point of contagion,” He said croakily as Greg held the caution tape up for him to duck under. Greg sighed; it was like Mycroft was a hedgehog, curling around himself in a protective, spikey ball.

“Don’t worry about it – I’m just sorry for dragging you out here. ‘Specially in this weather. And at this time.” Greg gave an exaggerated yawn; he hadn’t had time for breakfast, and at this stage, he would have swapped his left arm for a cup of coffee.

“It’s fine.” It didn’t look like it was fine; a semi-frown fleeted across Mycroft’s face, pulling his eyebrows into a distressed pucker. Then the bridge of his prominent nose crinkled slightly, and Greg just about saw the flare of angular nostrils as Mycroft whipped out a tissue.

He gave a stuttering inhalation, paused for a millisecond, and then exhaled deeply and heavily – then gasped, as though taken by surprise, and crushed two sneezes in between his covered hands. “hhhHNGCHhh! Heh…hhhNGGhh!”

“Bless-” Greg began, but Mycroft interrupted him.

“Excuse me. How goes it with the man-eating clowns?” He tucked the tissue away fussily, and Greg resisted the urge to roll his eyes. But he’d had experience arguing with the younger Holmes brother, and didn’t fancy trying his luck with the elder – even if he was hampered by what seemed like a much worse cold than he would admit. So he let the matter drop.

“All in custody. Your Mr Tickles – ”

“Already being transferred. You should get a message about it any moment –” Greg’s phone chimed – “now,” Mycroft finished, with a wry twist of his mouth.

“Great. Can you let whoever’s handling the paperwork on your end know that he’s a biter? Plus, we think he’s got a background in explosives – rigged up something pretty nasty in there that we had to call the bomb squad out for. For future reference.”

“That would be me,” Mycroft said, with a sigh. “I’ll make a note of it in the preliminary report.”

“Would’ve thought you’d have people to do that for you.”

Mycroft waved a dismissive hand. “Staffing issues. I’m sure you can empathise. Sometimes it’s just easier to do it yourself. Sherlock?”

“With the paramedics, he and John had a run-in with Mr Tickles.”

Something raw and panicked flashed over Mycroft’s face and what little colour he had drained out. He seemed to sway where he stood, and Greg, realising that he’d made it sound a lot more serious than it was, quickly added “He’s fine, they’re both fine, just minor scrapes and bruises. Are you- ”

“Fine, thank you,” Mycroft murmured, although he was the colour of old milk and was shaking hard – Greg doubted it was just because of the freezing temperatures. He instinctively reached out and gripped the crook of Mycroft’s elbow to stop him from falling, remembering too late how he’d flinched when Mrs Hudson did the same.

Surprisingly, though, Mycroft didn’t pull away; in fact, after a minute, the shaking subsided somewhat. Greg swallowed down on an unexpected wave of – tenderness? Affection? and gave Mycroft’s arm a quick rub. He was still white as a sheet and looked very far away. Greg cast his eye around for a seat. He felt Mycroft clench slightly, and turned back in time to see him twist almost desperately away from Greg and sneeze into a shielded hand. “hHHHhhh-nGSSCHHt!”

“Bless you.”

“Thaaahh -” Mycroft disentangled his arm and pulled out a tissue. “hhhhINGGNSSHh!”

Greg frowned at the thick, uncomfortable-sounding stifle. “God,” he said, “you’ve got a dose and a half, haven’t you? Pop and see Sherlock and then get home and back to bed. I can do Mr Tickle’s paperwork.”

“Classified information,” Mycroft said with a hoarse snuffle into the tissue, “and I’ve got to get back to the office anyway.”

Greg rolled his eyes and thought darkly about the stubbornness of Holmes’s. “Fine. But sit down somewhere first, you look like you’re about to collapse.”

Mycroft didn’t argue, so Greg touched him lightly on the back and led him over to his car, letting him in the passenger door and flicking the heat on. “Be back in a mo,” he said, as Sally waved him over. Mycroft nodded, lips a pale slash in a paler face. He looked like he needed a good rest; unfortunately, his nose didn’t seem to want to give him one.

Greg paused, hand on the door, as Mycroft narrowed his eyes, breath coming in short, irritated-sounding heaves. He was still holding the tissue, and he bent into it as his face crumpled with a “HHHH-NGSHhhhhhh! HNGSH! Heh-hhhh!....HHHH!” The last one seemed to dawdle in his sinuses for a second before finally giving him some relief. “HHHH-NGSHooooooo!”

“Bless you.” Greg could guess that Mycroft was humiliated by the loss of control - the end sneeze had been barely stifled. He shut the door before the man could look up from his tissues, to give him some modicum of privacy, and jogged over to his sergeant.

Sally jerked her head towards the car. “Who’s that?”

“Someone from the government,” Greg not-quite-fibbed, “apparently one of the cannibal clowns has been transferred to them.”

“What, like secret service?” Sally frowned.

“I honestly have no idea,” said Greg, which wasn’t even a fib. “Can I smell coffee?"

Sally grinned. “Vat of it just arrived.” Greg felt like falling to his knees and thanking the heavens; he settled for giving Sally a quick pat on the back and rushing off in search of caffeine.

====

Hope you all enjoy and thank you for your comments!

[cally]

There are never, ever too many updates.

Oh, those poor, ticklish sneezes seem to be tormenting poor Mycroft. I hope that Greg can make him see some sense and take him home and tuck him into bed and never leave.

[squealofapproval]

I like your updates. I'm actually kind of jealous. I can't work that fast.

[rodakemopetojoen]

I agree with the above posts..... Bring on the updates!! It's truly wonderful, so it's well worth the quick flow of chapters. It's getting unbearably exciting, too, so having to wait would be too much to handle! Congrats on such a successful story!

[ID2006]

Me being ever so selfish would love all of this as fast as possible, but i do understand posting in smaller segments.

[matilda3948]

There are never, ever too many updates.

^^ This

This story is awesome!!! Sooooo, so awesome!

Hope your move went well. I loathe moving It's stupid.

[SneezyRae]

Regular updates are fab, more sporadic are also fine. As long as I get more of this fantastic fix I really don't care

[Spoo]

I would be lying if I said I don't enjoy the frequent updates. Speaking of which, this update was fantastic! I really liked the visual imagery of this line:

He felt Mycroft clench slightly, and turned back in time to see him twist almost desperately away from Greg and sneeze into a shielded hand.

The poor thing. He's got such a bad cold! (I should probably feel a little more sorry for him, but whooooops. ). I love this story so much!

[bangbang]

Aw, thanks you guys! You have no idea how happy it makes me to hear you're all enjoying it! (I feel like I'm accepting an Oscar.)

Because you're all so lovely, here's the next chapter!

Part 7 - In which we return to Greg's car, where Greg finally gets his coffee and Mycroft has the sads (and the sneezes).

====

Greg had managed to sneak his way to the front of the coffee queue and grab two cups, adding plenty of milk and sugar to his and sugar to the other – Mycroft, king of self-denial, normally took it plain and black but right now he looked like he could do with an energy boost. Greg made his way back to the car and tapped on the driver’s door with his elbow. Mycroft leaned over and opened it.

“Ta,” said Greg, passing him in the coffee and getting in. “Brrrr. Better in here, eh?”

Mycroft took a sip of the coffee and shivered. “Thank you.” He looked a little less like he was about to faint, but he was still paler than any living person had a right to be. There was a raw-looking, tender redness around his nose and eyes that made Greg imagine that the sneezing fit he’d heard on the phone had only been the tip of the iceberg.

“No problem.” Greg took a glug of his own. “What’s the deal with this Mr Tickles, then?”

Mycroft looked at him cautiously and then settled into his seat. “He may have certain… information. Connections. I’m afraid that’s really all I can say about it without granting you rather hefty security clearance.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that not an option then?” Greg grinned at him cheekily.

Mycroft sighed “You don’t want it. Believe me, sometimes knowing where the bodies are buried is less of a blessing than a curse.” He placed his coffee on the dashboard and gave into a dry, racking cough that sounded like it was pulled from the depths of his lungs. When he’d finished (an awkward few minutes where Greg wasn’t sure whether to pat him on the back or pretend it wasn’t happening), he swiped a hand over his face and took another sip. “You’ll have to forgive my morosity. Work has been… better.”

Greg shrugged, a little surprised at the admission. “I’ve had my fair share of bad days.”

“I’m sure.” Mycroft gave him a calculating look that was only half-ruined by him ducking his head to stifle an unexpected sneeze into a tissue. Greg quickly took his coffee off him so he didn’t spill it as he launched into a violent fit. Greg didn’t think he’d ever heard anyone sneeze as many times in one go in his entire life.

“HHH-gnNCH! Hhh-ISHT! Hhhih-ih-h-GNNNSCHH! Hhhhh-yiGNCH! Hihhh-ih-ih-ihhhGNNsch! Hehhh-ish! Hhh-ISH! HH-ISH!”

Mycroft was quivering now, and finished in a rapid-fire chain, without pausing for breath in between. “ISH!ISH!ISH! h-GSH! HhhNGSH! hhGNCHTT!”

“Bless you!” Greg had no idea how Mycroft managed to stifle every sneeze into submission but he was sure it couldn’t be good for him.

“Thank you. You’ll also have to forgive me this. I’m rather trying to avoid prolonged contact with anyone. ” Mycroft took a little longer to recover than before; sniffling into his seemingly endless supply of tissues self-consciously.

“Thought you weren’t contagious anymore?” Greg grinned, to try and put him at ease – in what world was sitting in a car with someone for ten minutes prolonged contact? Mycroft’s insular little bubble, apparently.

Mycroft grimaced. “I’m not. It’s still distasteful.”

“I deal with dead bodies for a living. A bit of a cold doesn’t faze me.” He handed Mycroft his coffee back.

“Hmmm.” Mycroft looked like a dishrag that had been rung out too many times; limp and overtired and slightly grey. He looked at Greg again and seemed to make up his mind. “Something is happening. Something that’s not desirable, on a national scale.”

Greg’s blood ran cold. “What, you mean worse than bomb-toting clowns who eat their critics?”

Mycroft wrapped his fingers around his coffee like he was seeking the warmth. “There’s an… agent. Who has been passing what we believe to be incomplete information. And we don’t know if it’s because… they’ve been compromised, or if they’re deliberately withholding, or if they’re providing information to someone else as well as us.”

“Can you find out?”

Mycroft coughed. “Undercover. And there are currently… added difficulties. There’s not supposed to be any sort of communication from our side, save for in dire emergencies. It’s not strictly my department; my hunch doesn’t, apparently, warrant a dire emergency.” The look on Mycroft’s face seemed to indicate that he disagreed.

There was a few seconds of silence and Greg looked out at the storm clouds gathering. “Should you be telling me this?” he asked, quietly.

Mycroft sighed. He looked wearier than anyone Greg had ever seen. “Technically, no.”

Greg had to ask. “Then why are you?”

Mycroft looked at him, levelly. “Because I trust you,” he said simply, and Greg felt the weight of this trust descend onto his shoulders like armour.

Briskly, Mycroft continued, “And because I also have reason to believe that there is some connection to a case you’re currently working on.”

Greg tipped his head in the direction of the warehouse in a question.

“No,” said Mycroft, who was sounding snuffly again, “not this one. Not exactly.” He raised an eyebrow at Greg as he produced another tissue from the pockets of his coat.

“Ah,” Greg said, “Mansfield’s sister-in-law is your suspicious agent?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.” His breath wavered a little, eyes narrowing.

Which was as good as a confirmation. Greg nodded. “I’ll keep an eye out for you,” he said, as Mycroft’s shoulders shuddered with another heavily contained explosion.

“hh-yiihh-GNCH! Hhh-hishSHNT! ISH! HH-ISH! Hh-hh-hhGNSHH!”

Mycroft lay back a little in the seat and tucked the tissue away. He looked utterly exhausted, as if the action of stifling his sneezes was almost too much for him. “Excuse me.”

“Bless you. I feel shit for dragging you out here.”

Mycroft gave an irritated shake of his head. ”It’s better not to do these things over the telephone. Besides, Sherlock.”

“Say no more.” Greg joked, trying to lighten the mood. It seemed to work; Mycroft smirked and drained his coffee as his phone buzzed with a message.

“Speaking of whom. I really must check on him and get back,” he said, flicking his thumb across the screen and scrolling faster than Greg could ever dream of doing.

“Duty calls?”

“Always,” Mycroft sighed, and shivered as he opened the car door and stepped into the cold.

====

Enjoy!

[Spoo]

Buhhhhh. Because everyone knows that Mycroft Holmes can never sneeze just once. Prolonged fits (like his intelligence) are a natural part of his genetic code. Or so makes up my headcanon, haha. I'm loving the case you're fleshing out and how it's now involving the both of them! Don't get me wrong, I love domestic stories with them playing house and being cute, but man, a good case!fic is just as epic.

Still loving the dialogue, still loving the interactions, still loving this story!!

[bangbang]

Eeeeh! Thank you! I'm in complete agreement with your headcanon - in my mind Mycroft has always had enormous, uncontrollable fits that can reach up to ridiculous amounts of sneezes before he's done and it drives him batty, because holding them back only works for a while and stifling them only makes it last longer and makes the sneezes more intense. But he does it anyway because he's nothing if not restrained, even if he has to retreat somewhere later on and sneeze until his head spins...

[Wildwood]

MYCROFT. Love! You make him sound so deliciously precious when ill…hehehe.

[cally]

I read this while I was on my way home and I was so excited that there was an update! Nothing to do with that rather spectacular fit at all.

[SneezyRae]

Oh my gosh! I am speechless! Just fantastic! Love the idea of Mycroft having rapid fire, can't take a breath fits. I just want to hug him to give him support

[AngelEyes]

Mycroft sighed “You don’t want it. Believe me, sometimes knowing where the bodies are buried is less of a blessing than a curse.”

The epitome of Mycroft, totally read that in his voice. Actually, your dialogue is so good I read All of it in their voices! This is amazing, fantastic! And rapid fire prolonged fits? Yup.

Eeeeh! Thank you! I'm in complete agreement with your headcanon - in my mind Mycroft has always had enormous, uncontrollable fits that can reach up to ridiculous amounts of sneezes before he's done and it drives him batty, because holding them back only works for a while and stifling them only makes it last longer and makes the sneezes more intense. But he does it anyway because he's nothing if not restrained, even if he has to retreat somewhere later on and sneeze until his head spins...

Officially accepting this as canon. (Also this is the biggest turn-on for me of anything, so Ta!)

[squealofapproval]

I'm sorry. I just got the pun now. Brb dying.

...

Ok I'm back! Poor Mycroft. At least Greg is there for him.

[bangbang]

Ah, thank you all so much! I'm so happy you think I've got the voices right, they're such difficult characters!

Love how I asked about fast updates then instantly dropped off the face of the earth - my new flat has no internet, and I'm kind of scated to risk an update in starbucks? But the plus side is I've entirefinished the story so you have 25,000 plus words to look forward to when I manage to get a secure ly wifi connevtion!

[bangbang]

There is a bar below me that has wifi, so you get the next part sooner than expected! (I am cringing so much at all the typos in my last post.)

Part 8 - In which Holmes brothers have a snark-off, Mycroft's drivers work in mysterious ways, and John makes a brief cameo.

(Also - for those who don't know, a BBC accent is sometimes (and a little contentiously) used to refer to Received Pronunciation, which is an accent used on the wireless on the early days of radio - you can read about it here! http://en.wikipedia...._Pronunciation. It's the kind of accent Mark Gatiss uses for Mycroft - very old-school posh.)

====

Sherlock was perched on the edge of the ambulance, squawking at anyone who’d listen that he was completely fine, while a long-suffering John let a paramedic rub antiseptic on a cut on his knee.

“Alright,” he said pleasantly as Greg and Mycroft came over, “everything turn out OK on your end?”

“Should’ve done,” Greg said, as Sherlock huffed.

“I don’t need a bandage!”

“Come now, brother dear,” Mycroft drawled, “perhaps they’ll have one with a nice picture on it for you.” Despite his sarcasm, he leaned over and parted Sherlock’s hair with a tongue depressor - to check for head wounds, Greg assumed.

“Oh, shut up Mycroft, don’t fuss,” snapped Sherlock, slapping his hand away. “I’m not a child.”

“Then don’t act like one,” Mycroft croaked, and frowned. “Have they checked for concussion?” He made to reach out for Sherlock again; but halfway through the movement he seemed to change his mind and angled his shoulders away. “Damnit,” Greg heard him mutter, before stifling two sneezes into his gloved hands. “IHHHhGNSH! hHHNGSSSHHt!”

“Bless you,” muttered Sherlock, folding his arms and scowling.

“Yup,” said John, “he’s fine. Just grumpy because most of them gave up without a fight. You sound a bit under the weather though.” He looked at Mycroft consideringly.

“Perfectly fine, thank you,” Mycroft said breezily, and tapped his umbrella on the ground. Sherlock snorted.

“Sure?” John pressed, and Mycroft let out an irritated exhale through his nose.

“It’s a slight head cold, Dr Watson. Hardly life-threatening.” He gave a sharp bark of a cough and frowned, almost to himself, pulling out his phone and tapping a few buttons.

“Alright,” said John, placid, “drop by if you get any worse. Don’t fancy being drafted into World War Three because you’re laid up with the flu.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. Now, if there’s nothing else that requires my attention –”

“No,” Sherlock snapped, “please do leave as soon as possible. Preferably five minutes ago.”

“It was a joy to see you as well, brother mine,” said Mycroft sardonically. “I’ll call you about the Sumatra files whenever I have a free –” he paused, eyebrows crashing together, and grabbed a tissue.

“hhhNNNSH! ISH! Hh—hhh-hhh!GNSH! GNNNSSHHH! Hhh,hhh-ih-ihHHGNNSHHH! Hhhh—hh!-hh!--- ” He was cut off, abruptly, breath still hitching. His nose wrinkled as if to try and combat the tickle and Greg had the strangest sensation of wanting to smooth a hand over his creased forehead.

He settled for clapping Mycroft on the back as he straightened, obviously giving up on the sneeze, and saying vehemently, “Bless you!”

Sherlock looked at him, the way he looked at a crime scene, and it made Greg vaguely uncomfortable. He flicked his eyes between Greg and Mycroft, and said, pensively, to the latter, “This has come on fast.” Greg assumed he meant the cold, but there was something strange in his eyes, as though he knew something that Greg didn't.

Mycroft, who’d pulled out a phone, glanced almost imperceptively at Greg. “These things tend to, brother dear. As you well know.”

Sherlock inclined his head.

“Well,” Mycroft sighed, putting the phone back in his pocket, “I really do have to be off. Detective Inspector -”

“I’ll walk you out,” Greg said, and ignored Sherlock’s muttering to John as they left. “Sorry for calling you all the way out here,” he said as he lifted the caution tape to let Mycroft out again.

“I prefer to see him for myself after these… incidents.” Mycroft looked knackered, and his crisp BBC accent was failing him on the “n” sounds.

“Yeah. No, I get it.” Greg cast a look back at the ambulance where Sherlock had finally consented to let John clean up his scrapes and remembered the days before John Watson with a shudder.

Mycroft nodded decisively, as though he knew what Greg was thinking. Sometimes he wasn’t entirely convinced that the Holmes’s couldn’t read minds. A black car - Greg was sure it wasn’t the same one as before – pulled up.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, “for your call. And the coffee.” And the company, was left unsaid.

“No problem.” Greg watched the long, lean figure walk away, umbrella tucked into the crook of his arm where Greg’s hand had been, not half an hour before.

Mycroft had one hand on the car door before Greg, feeling strangely unsure of himself, called out, “Feel better!”

Mycroft turned, and then his hawked profile dipped into his elbow with an inaudible sneeze – the one that had been toying with him, Greg imagined. He straightened, raised a hand to Greg; and then he got into the car and disappeared.

====

Enjoy!

[cally]

I'm seriously addicted to this fic and I need more!

Sherlock looked at him, the way he looked at a crime scene, and it made Greg vaguely uncomfortable. He flicked his eyes between Greg and Mycroft, and said, pensively, to the latter, “This has come on fast.”

Oh yes. And we want more!