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

[Spoo]

Uhhhh-ohhhh. Sherlock knows something~ And it looks to me like Greg might have the beginnings of a little crush. Hehehehe. Also, I'm glad poor Mycroft is finally heading home (hopefully to get in bed where he should be). I'm super excited to see where the story goes next!

[NorthernLady]

I have to concur with everybody else. There is no such things as too many updates. I just discovered the fic and I'm so addicted already :S Love Love Love all of it

“Your immune system is pathetic,” Sherlock informed him.

Let me just say that for this, Sherlock deserve his very own sneezy cold *evil smirk* even if Greg's probabl the one who's most at risk of catching it. Ah whatever happens, I'll be happy camper Just as long as up update soon ;-)

[bangbang]

Real life is hard but fun. Thanks for all your kind comments!

Part 9 - In which Greg's car is a third main character, Mycroft is disgusted by incompetent agents, and Greg is developing Unusual Feelings.

====

Mycroft’s phone rang five times before he picked up – an unprecedented event, in Greg’s experience. A cool female voice answered it. “Mr Holmes will be with you in a moment, Detective Inspector.”

Greg tapped his fingers on the steering wheel of his parked car. The attendant at the entrance of the Diogenes Club pointedly didn’t look at him; he’d been in and out of here often enough that they probably knew his eye colour and shoe size by now, let alone his car registration.

“Hello, Greg.” Mycroft sounded a little breathless, as though he’d just finished a sprint. Although it was more likely, Greg mused, that he’d choked off an extensive sneezing fit, one like he’d had in the car, before he’d quite finished. “Is everything alright?”

“I had a meeting,” Greg said, carefully, “and I thought I’d tell you about it, but I remembered what you said about phones.”

“Ah.” There was a shuffle of papers. “I also have a meeting. Spanish embassy, twenty minutes. Perhaps we could –” He cut himself off with a tired, “Not again.” Greg heard him lower the phone and imagined him groping for tissues before collapsing into a faint “hhhhIIISH! ISCHt! HhhhGNSHHH! hhh..hh!SSSHHH!”

“Bless you,” said Greg, when Mycroft picked back up the phone, “I’m outside your office now, if you’re in. Give you a lift?”

There was a hoarse chuckle. “I suppose it’s your turn to choose the radio station. I’ll be out in a moment.”

A few minutes later, he came out of the building, clad in the same cocooning coat and a patterned silk scarf, umbrella tucked under his arm, a paper cup in each hand. He nodded at the door attendant, who tipped his hat to him, and then came down the steps to Greg’s car. Up close, he looked even worse than the day before; peaky and haggard and like he needed a good night’s sleep.

Greg opened the door for him and took the coffee as he climbed in. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he joked.

Mycroft huffed slightly, and Greg found that he quite liked making him laugh. “Come here often?” he asked, leering and waggling his eyebrows, and Mycroft launched into a surprised coughing fit. Greg pounded him on the back. “Sorry.”

Mycroft waved a hand dismissively at the apology and brushed a stray tear from his eye, recovering his breath.

Greg turned the engine on and pulled out into the road, taking a gulp of his coffee. It was exactly how he liked it. “Ta,” he said,

nodding at it.

“Thank Agnetha.” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “We’re working through international singing legends, apparently.”

“Doesn’t that get confusing? I barely remember my team’s names, and they’re not changing it every five minutes.”

Mycroft shrugged. “We usually default to Anthea in the end. Especially if there’s a particularly difficult situation.”

“Are you and her…?” Greg trailed off and tipped his shoulder. John had told him about his unsuccessful ventures in that area; privately Greg thought that although she was undeniably beautiful, she was probably mainly around to kick people six ways to Sunday rather than as eye candy. She’d always been pleasant to him, at any rate, probably because he had absolutely no interest in hitting on her.

Greg had always considered his sexuality a fluid thing, but the divorce had hit him hard and he was only just regaining his powers of flirtation. Interestingly, he found himself much more male-orientated than he had been before the marriage; not, he huffed, that he had any time to act on anything, what with work and all. He realised that he had no idea if Mycroft was gay or straight, married or not. Why do you care anyway? asked the little voice in his head that sounded like Sherlock, the one that Greg normally ignored.

Greg was pulled out of his ruminations by Mycroft’s soft cough of laughter. “Decidedly not.”

Greg grinned at him lecherously and Mycroft rolled his eyes; there was a faint flush on his cheeks. “What was it that you wanted?” he asked, pointedly – and then held up a hand to stop Greg replying, fumbling for a tissue. He placed it in his hands and tented them over his nose in the pseudo-prayer pose that both he and Sherlock used as their thinking position, although it didn’t look like he could think about anything except his nasal troubles right now.

His eyes scrunched shut, and the sneezes sounded as though he was clenching his teeth in an effort to hold them back. “hhhNG! Ih-GNNNNSH! hhhhrrrIIISHHt! hhh-Hhh!hhh-NGSHHhhhhh!” A faint tremor ran through his face, as though it was paining him to leave it at that. He dabbed at his nose and muttered a quiet apology. “Excuse me. You were saying?”

Greg bit his lip. “Bless you; the sister-in-law. Paid her a visit.”

“Ahh.” Mycroft looked cautious. “And?”

“She didn’t seem,” Greg said carefully, “to be in any trouble. Seemed a bit agitated, but then Sherlock accused her of killing her sister’s husband, so who wouldn’t be?”

“Indeed.” Mycroft was frowning into the middle distance, and he brushed the bridge of his nose lightly with the heel of his hand. The outer edges of his nostrils twitched, as if the touch tickled, and Greg found it oddly endearing.

“But,” Greg said, “There were some – things in her flat. That I thought were a bit – “

“Circus equipment?” Mycroft inquired, sounding rather as though he was holding his breath, and Greg nodded.

“One of those spinning top things, and what looked like a trapeze, and some other stuff.” He’d leaned, with interest, into the back room she’d tried to hide, laughing it off as an embarrassing hobby. There’d been what looked like lengths of silk hanging from the ceiling, what looked like juggling pins, and a half-covered cage that he hoped hadn’t contained a lion cub at some point.

Mycroft exhaled hard. “One wonders what they’re training these people for. Undercover apparently means very little to them. Keeping one’s work equipment in one’s own place of residence is basically suicide.”

“Is this to do with – ”

“Mr Tickles?” Mycroft made a slight moue of distaste at the name. “Yes. Thank you,” he said, with a tone of finality, “for telling me. Take a left here, if you would.”

“I’m guessing that’s all you can tell me.” Greg wasn’t offended; he wondered what it was like for everything in your life to be confidential. “I can probably get a warrant for her computer or –”

Mycroft shook his head, wearily. “It’s better if you don’t. You’re not really supposed to –” he made a vague gesture that encompassed everything, and left the rest of his sentence unsaid. Greg filled in the blanks - you’re not supposed to know about this. Be giving me lifts. Be talking to me at all. He imagined Mycroft’s strange, solitary life and felt sadder than he had any reason to be.

====

[cally]

Oh Mycroft darling, you're going to have to let those terrible ticklish sneezes out eventually. Don't worry, Gregory will take care of you.

I am eagerly waiting for instalment 10.

[ID2006]

Noooo.... more anticipation.... so excited there is more of this though.

[bangbang]

I am insanely stressed by real life so I've been procrastinating by editing - have another update.

Part 10 - In which Mycroft succumbs to the inevitable, Greg tries to be helpful, and Holmeses don't wear hats.

=====

Mycroft’s tissue usage increased as the journey went on, and Greg wasn’t surprised, as he pulled into the sidestreet, by Mycroft’s short, tortured intake of breath beside him.

“Bless you,” he said, pre-emptively, as Mycroft’s head dipped into a handful of waiting tissues. He barely managed to stifle; Greg assumed that was a bad sign.

“hhhhhyGNSH! Hhh-YIIISH! HHH-GNSHHHH! Hh!-hh-hhh!...HH! YIIISSSHHHH! ISH! HhhTISH!”

“And again.” He noticed the Spanish embassy; they still had plenty of time, so he circled into a different street to give Mycroft time to get his composure back as he continued to sneeze every few seconds, managing to quell them so entirely that a passer-by would barely notice. Greg wouldn’t have noticed himself, except that he’d rapidly become attuned to the jerky incline of Mycroft’s shoulders as he pinched the tissues over his face.

“iiiISH! HhTISH! ISH! Hhh-hhh…YISHH!” Mycroft's breath quavered, eyes half-closed, and he exchanged his tissues; Greg noticed that his nostrils were flaring spasmodically, and his elegant nose was reddened. “hhhh-YISSSHHHOO!” The sneeze seemed to take him by surprise and he didn’t manage to restrain it; he looked vaguely horrified at himself. “Eh- excuse me,” he said, struggling the words out in between feathery inhales. Greg shook his head and swung into a parking space.

He stopped the car and turned the engine off. Mycroft, mercifully (for the sake of his nose at least) succeeded in terminating his fit with a long, teasing “hhhh – IHHHH-ISHHH! hhh…hhh!hhhh!YISSSSSHHHH!”

“Bless you.” Greg risked a glance to the passenger seat, where Mycroft was still buried in the tissues. He tactfully looked away as the man blew softly, obviously trying to minimise the noise.

“Excuse me.” Mycroft sounded embarrassed; Greg tutted.

“Relax. Get yourself sorted before you have to go in there.” It was starting to drizzle. “I’ll drive you back round in a moment.”

“Thank you.” He still sounded congested; he blew his nose again and cleared his throat, sipping whatever was in his cup. It smelled herbal. He looked utterly miserable, and Greg felt an overwhelming desire to lock the car doors and make him lie down in the back seat for a nap. Instead, he tried to cheer him up.

“Vicks,” Greg said, “that vapour rub stuff. Chuck some of that on your chest before you go to bed. My mum always used to do it for us as kids; clears you right up. Smells awful but I can’t imagine you’d notice it too much at the moment.”

Mycroft huffed what might have been a laugh or a cough. “I’ll bear that in mind. Thank you.”

“Got a hat? Get a hat. Wear one of those ones with the earflaps that Sherlock has. You look like you need the warmth. You lose 90% of your body heat through your head.”

“That’s a myth,” said Mycroft, but he had a tiny smile all the same. “Besides, Sherlock would never let me live it down.”

“Saunas!” said Greg, triumphantly, and Mycroft barked a painful sounding laugh. “We’ll go together. One of those ones that are always getting shut down. The Met Police and the British Government. Headlines write themselves!” He snuck a glance at Mycroft; he still looked pale, but he was sitting a little straighter and looked like he might just be able to get through a meeting without coughing up a lung. “Do you need picking up after?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’ll call a car,” he said, croakily.

“Alright. Ready to go around?”

Mycroft nodded. “Thank you.”

Greg pulled up outside the embassy as Mycroft finished his tea and gave his nose a final blow, wrinkling it again in that gesture that made all Greg’s latent caretaking instincts fire up. He tucked the tissues away, cleared his throat and adjusted his already perfect tie in the mirror.

“Off and save the world, now,” Greg said, and Mycroft rolled his eyes, got out of the car, and disappeared into the shadows of government under his umbrella.

====

[Spoo]

I can't help but marvel at your characterization and how real this feels. I love how you're balancing the case and their development; I'm so impressed by it! And omg, this:

“Saunas!” said Greg, triumphantly, and Mycroft barked a painful sounding laugh. “We’ll go together. One of those ones that are always getting shut down. The Met Police and the British Government. Headlines write themselves!”

I laughed and 'aww'ed' because Greg, honey, you're trying so hard. It's precious! My feels are exploding and it's still relatively "early" for them. Also, I really hope Mycroft gets to rest soon. This cold is draining the poor man. It must be awful to have to function when you feel so wretched. Poor thing.

[cally]

Mycroft, dear. Please go home to bed with Gregory. You need someone to dote on you with tea and tissues.

Also, everything Spoo said.

[AngelEyes]

This story is my new Crack! Must have more! I'm hooked! And I absolutely love your chapter intros, "In which..." Brilliant!

[bangbang]

I can't help but marvel at your characterization and how real this feels. I love how you're balancing the case and their development; I'm so impressed by it!

I laughed and 'aww'ed' because Greg, honey, you're trying so hard. It's precious! My feels are exploding and it's still relatively "early" for them. Also, I really hope Mycroft gets to rest soon. This cold is draining the poor man. It must be awful to have to function when you feel so wretched. Poor thing.

Thank you so, so much! Really glad you're enjoying it! And yeah, Greg is a cutie and Mycroft is suffering pretty bad.

Mycroft, dear. Please go home to bed with Gregory. You need someone to dote on you with tea and tissues.

I really am torturing the poor thing - he's not out of the woods just yet, but I promise I will give him a break... eventually...

I absolutely love your chapter intros, "In which..." Brilliant!

Hahaha, thank you so much! I stole it from Diana Wynne Jones - Howl's Moving Castle in particular!

[bangbang]

Part 11 - In which the case escalates, Greg goes to da club (not that kind of club), and Mycroft is king of changing the subject.

====

Greg was driving home the next evening when his phone rang. He swore and pulled over as soon as possible, fished his phone out of his pocket and answered without checking caller ID.

“Lestrade.”

“Good evening. I hope this isn’t a bad time,” said a wretched-sounding rasp on the other end.

“God,” said Greg, caught by surprise, “you sound like shit.”

“I’m aware, thank you.” Mycroft’s voice turned chilly and Greg winced.

“I didn’t mean it like that. Sorry.”

“No,” said Mycroft, sounding wearier than ever, “my apologies. I’m a little stretched at the moment. I didn’t intend to snap.”

“Nah. My fault. Spoke without thinking. What’s up?”

“I’m afraid I require your assistance. I wouldn’t ask, but –”

“Is it Sherlock?” Greg asked, feeling himself go cold at the tone in Mycroft’s voice.

“Partially. Everything is alright - I can’t really explain over the phone, it’s a difficult situation.”

“Where are you? I’m in the car now.”

“Diogenes,” said Mycroft, although it took Greg a second or two to make out what he was saying through his cold, all his consonants blurring together.

“I’m on my way,” said Greg, and hung up.

====

He got to the Diogenes in less than fifteen minutes and followed the attendant down to Mycroft’s office. The whole place gave him the creeps; the silence, the journey underground, even the portrait of the queen on Mycroft’s wall. He wondered if Mycroft had chosen the space or inherited it. Or, for that matter, if anyone had even had Mycroft’s job before. Maybe Sherlock had got the idea of inventing his own career from his older brother.

Mycroft was typing away on a laptop when Greg was shown in. “Please do sit down. I’ll be one moment,” he said, frowning at the screen. Greg took a seat and leaned back. There was a box of tissues next to the phone and a roll of cough drops at Mycroft’s left hand, both half used. Mycroft carried on typing as he deftly flicked a tissue from the container and pressed it to his septum, squinting slightly.

It didn’t seem to work; he was forced to abandon his computer and swivelled the chair so that he was partially hidden and no longer facing Greg. All the same, his prickly, tense inhalations were still audible, and Greg imagined the expression on his face, burning with incessant need, as he kept hitching in little pants until whatever tickle was plaguing him gave him release.

“hhh – hhhhh!...HHH! -- YISHhhhhh! NGSHhhhht! HhhNGSH! NNNNGSCH! ISCHT! ISH! Hhh-YISH!”

Greg waited until he was sure Mycroft was done before murmuring a blessing; Mycroft inclined his head and turned back round. There was a trace of wetness in his eyes that he brushed away impatiently, then squeezed a frankly obscene amount of sanitizer on his hands and carried on typing. He occasionally touched a tissue to his nose as though it still bothered him. Which, Greg reflected, it probably did – his cold seemed to be steadily worsening every time Greg saw him.

Mycroft’s assistant brought in a tray of tea. “Thanks,” Greg said, quietly, and she gave him half a smile and slipped out of the room as silently as she came.

Mycroft gave a decisive sigh and closed the laptop. “Apologies,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“No problem. Tea?” Greg poured without waiting for an answer. Mycroft looked exhausted, paler than ever, but still impeccably dressed; his suit today was a grey pinstripe and he didn’t have a hair out of place.

“Thank you.” Mycroft took a sip and rubbed his temple. “And for coming down here. I’m sorry to impose.” He coughed. It sounded like it hurt.

“Don’t worry about it. What’s wrong? Is this about the Mansfield case?”

“And the Sumatra one. And that ridiculous cannibalistic circus troupe. They’re all intertwined.” Mycroft glared wearily at the manila folders on his desk.

“The Sumatra one that you put Sherlock on?” Greg nodded at the files and took a gulp of his tea.

“Hmmm. I should have seen before – stupid, really, not to notice, but there’s been rather a lot going through here at the moment-”

“You can’t do everything,” Greg interrupted, “you’d work yourself into the ground.” He’d seen it before; not on the kind of scale as Mycroft worked on, but with officers who couldn’t let things go. Who let themselves run ragged trying to deal with cold cases and new cases and giving themselves a breakdown before they got to fifty. He’d been on that track himself when he’d been married. In a way, the divorce was the best wake-up call possible.

Mycroft looked like he was about to argue but instead he grabbed a tissue and steepled his hands over his face, turning to the side of the table. He waited a beat, and then, “HHhhhNNNGSH! Ih-hh-HHHGGNSHH! HehINGSTCH! IHHHH-INGSCHOOO!”

“Bless you. No offence, but you do sound terrible.”

Mycroft nodded tiredly. His eyes were bloodshot and the edges of his nostrils were an uncomfortable-looking red in stark contrast to his pallor. “It’s just a cold,” he said, hoarsely. “Nothing to be done about it.”

“You could get some bloody rest.” Greg was vaguely, strangely furious that he hadn’t. “You’re not going to get any better if you keep working like this.”

Mycroft waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t have time, Detective Inspector, to get, as you said, some bloody rest. There’s rather a crisis at hand. Speaking of.” He indicated the files. “What were your conclusions on the Mansfield case?”

Greg gave him a I-know-you’re-changing-the-subject look and started talking.

====

[Spoo]

I'll have you know that I read the newest update while at a convention today, cosplaying a female!Greg. We were waiting in line for an event to start, and since I had some time I pulled up the forum on my phone and was lucky enough to see that you had added a new part. So I read it, making all the appropriate facial expressions for Greg as he was interacting for Mycroft.

That nonsense aside...

All the same, his prickly, tense inhalations were still audible, and Greg imagined the expression on his face, burning with incessant need, as he kept hitching in little pants until whatever tickle was plaguing him gave him release.

Oh man. This hit a lot of my fetish buttons. The desperation, the vulnerability (the noise, the people)...yes please! What a delicious gorgeous beautiful ticklish terrible cold poor Mycroft has.

His eyes were bloodshot and the edges of his nostrils were an uncomfortable-looking red in stark contrast to his pallor.

That imagery, tho. Perfect, posh, flawless Mycroft with irritated eyes and angrily red nostrils. Get on this Moffat and Gatiss. Stat!

Gahhhh. You're doing such lovely things with this story; I seriously explode with happiness whenever I read more of it!

[AngelEyes]

Gods almighty but this is lovely.

[matilda3948]

Gods almighty but this is lovely.

^^ This (and everything else that has been said). It's so lovely, so well-written, and full of such fetishy goodness

[bangbang]

Aw, Spoo, thank you! I bet you made a great female!Greg. And AngelEyes and Matilda, I am blushing so hard right now.

I'm so glad it seems to be fetishy enough for people - I've never written anything fetishy before except for odd little things for my own amusement!

Part 12 - In which Mycroft has a bargaining chip, Sherlock is demanding, and Greg reaches A Startling And Terrifying Conclusion regarding Mycroft Holmes and feelings

====

Thirty minutes and two pots of tea later Greg had explained the Mansfield case – an estate agent with a peanut allergy, found dead of anaphylactic shock with absolutely no trace of peanuts around, in a locked room on the fifth floor.

Their main suspect had been the sister-in-law, who apparently was out of the running seeing as she’d been undercover performing an aerial show at the time of death and another four hours later when the body was discovered. Nor could they find where Mansfield had been that day – there was fur that apparently belonged to a rodent clinging to his jacket, but none of the pet shops nearby had recognised him and his wife swore they didn’t have a pet.

Mycroft was palpably frustrated, tension radiating off him like a fever. (Greg made a mental note to check him for an actual fever.)

Greg had initially thought Mycroft was annoyed at him, but soon realised that he was angry at himself; for not noticing whatever the connection was sooner, for not being able to solve it, maybe just for being ill in the first place. He had the strangest urge to give Mycroft a hug and feed him soup and tell him it was alright to be human. He didn’t really know what to make of this odd desire, so he dampened it down and tried to do something practical instead.

“Maybe we should get Sherlock in?” he suggested, as Mycroft clattered on his laptop. His assistant had been fielding calls and emails but they were still being interrupted every few minutes with something urgent and Greg wondered how Mycroft ever got anything done. “Since he’s been working on all three cases.”

“He’s on his way.” Mycroft moved the laptop and massaged his temples. “Allegedly. Anthea?” he said, as she came in with a sheet of paper, “ETA on my brother? Actually,” he said, as she pulled out her Blackberry, “put him on speaker. Thahhhh-hhh!NGSHHH! ISH!ISH! hhh, hhh,hhhh!NGSSHH!”

They seemed to take him by surprise; he barely managed to grab the tissues in time, swivelling his chair away from Greg and his PA and bending at the waist.

Anthea waited a second until Mycroft sat back up, then, at his nod, dialled Sherlock. She put the phone on the table and it rang briefly. Sherlock picked up, and Mycroft spoke before he had a chance to.

“It takes seventeen minutes in bad traffic to get from Baker Street to the Diogenes and Anthea called 45 minutes ago. Excuse?”

“I couldn’t find any socks,” Sherlock said haughtily. “You sound disgustingly ill.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “Your GPS tracker says you’re halfway there. You have nine minutes to walk through this door or Mummy finds out what happened to her blue quilt.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.” Mycroft hung up. “Thank you, Anthea.”

“Not at all, sir.” There was a wicked sort of glint in her eye that Greg had seen in Sally too many times – he wondered, briefly, what she thought of Sherlock. “Tea?”

“Please. Thank you.” She scooped up her phone and clipped out.

“What happened to the blue quilt?” Greg asked, and Mycroft gave him a flash of an exhausted smile. It was barely there but Greg felt a strange burst in his chest, the same kind of affection that he’d felt when Mycroft let him hold his arm; when Mycroft had laughed at his jokes and said that he trusted him.

The same kind, in fact, that he’d got when he’d caught the eye of the woman he’d later marry across the table in a bar and felt like she’d smiled just for him. Suddenly, his urge to stoke Mycroft’s back and make him tea and put him to bed made perfect, mortifying sense.

“You don’t want to know,” said Mycroft, with the closest thing to a grin he could muster, and in that instant Gregory Lestrade knew he was doomed.

====

Sherlock skidded through the door six minutes later, panting slightly and glowering. Anthea was hiding a grin behind her Blackberry and Greg was reeling from the oh-shit revelation he’d had when Mycroft had smiled.

Mycroft himself was wearily pulling the last handful of tissues out of the box. “Yes, alright,” he said, as Sherlock bounced on his heels, “you’re safe from Mummy’s wra--hh-hhh, wrath this time.” He finished in a hurry as he convulsed into a fit that seemed to use his very last scraps of energy; he didn’t even manage to stifle some of them.

“hhhhhGNSSHH! hhGNSH! HhHHIGNNSH! HehhHYISHOOO! hhnnGSSSHHH! ISHOOO! hehhh---ih,ih-hhh—dammnit.”

“Bless you?” said Greg, wondering if he was finished; Mycroft shook his head from the bouquet of tissues and “hhhh-hiINNGSHHooooo!”

Anthea slipped another box of tissues onto the desk with the tea tray and Mycroft gave her a wan smile. Greg felt inexplicably jealous.

Mycroft took a handful and daubed at his nose; the underside was even more lividly coloured than before and he grimaced as the tissues brushed against his sensitive nostrils. More than anything, Greg wanted to envelop him into a hug, run his hands through Mycroft's hair to abate the headache and tuck him up under a blanket.

“Yes, yes,” said Sherlock, who obviously had no such desire, “bless you. Feel better soon and wrap up warm and all that. If this is about the Sumatra, which is barely a four –”

“It’s about all of them,” Mycroft said, all congestion and exhaustion, “Mansfield, Sumatra, cannibalistic clowns with bombs.”

Sherlock paused.

“More than a four?” Greg inquired.

“Give me your laptop. And some of those cough sweets.” At Mycroft’s raised eyebrow, Sherlock said, almost defensively, “I like the red ones.”

====

[Wildwood]

Oh GOD this is brilliance! Just been through the whole thing! Ahhh the characterization is perfect, and Mycroft is just adorkable! And that's hilarious about the BBC accent, I didn't know about that. More when you can, please please!

[cally]

I don't have adequate words to express how much I am loving this and am constantly checking for updates.

I hope Gregory just says screw it all, carries Mycroft off to a waiting car and then home to tend to his ailments.

[Spoo]

Anthea slipped another box of tissues onto the desk with the tea tray and Mycroft gave her a wan smile. Greg felt inexplicably jealous.

Awwwwwwhhhhhhh.

Sherlock said, almost defensively, “I like the red ones.”

Omg, I thought I was the only one! I used to eat cough drops all the time as a kid, even if I wasn't sick. I just really enjoyed the taste for some bizarre reason.

But guhhh, Greg's got a crush! And on a Holmes, no less. That comes with all sorts of fine print. I'm hoping he does get the chance to look after Mycroft and nurse him back to health~

[AngelEyes]

Mycroft was palpably frustrated, tension radiating off him like a fever. (Greg made a mental note to check him for an actual fever.)

Awww. Good luck with that one Detective Inspector!

“Not at all, sir.” There was a wicked sort of glint in her eye that Greg had seen in Sally too many times – he wondered, briefly, what she thought of Sherlock.

Indeed...

Suddenly, his urge to stoke Mycroft’s back and make him tea and put him to bed made perfect, mortifying sense.

So much Awwww!!!!

Greg was reeling from the oh-shit revelation he’d had when Mycroft had smiled.

Oh dear, you'll get used to it!

I'm so hooked on this! It's absolute brilliance!

[bangbang]

And that's hilarious about the BBC accent, I didn't know about that. More when you can, please please!

There's a bit of contention over standard English vs BBC pronunciation and the definitions of each - BBC pron. is usually used as a catch-all though.Interestingly, I remember reading something from a linguist that said that Mycroft's accent on the show is actually a lot less posh than Sherlock's - probably because Benedict actually did go to a 30,000 grand per year tuition private school. I love language and stuff like that!

I don't have adequate words to express how much I am loving this and am constantly checking for updates.

I hope Gregory just says screw it all, carries Mycroft off to a waiting car and then home to tend to his ailments.

Eeeeeh! I am so happy you like it!

But guhhh, Greg's got a crush! And on a Holmes, no less. That comes with all sorts of fine print. I'm hoping he does get the chance to look after Mycroft and nurse him back to health~

I like cough sweets too! But only the red ones. I am secretly Sherlock. Poor Mycroft is in desperate need of some nursing.

Oh dear, you'll get used to it!

I'm so hooked on this! It's absolute brilliance!

Hahaha! Greg had better learn not to be fazed if he's going to get involved with Mycroft Holmes. Thank you!

[bangbang]

Part 13 - In which Sherlock has giant feet and a big mouth, Greg worries, and Mycroft is a language whizz.

====

Five minutes later Mycroft had relinquished all the red cough sweets, the laptop and his swivel chair to Sherlock, who was now forcing Greg to go through about a hundred pages of manila folders to look for “anything unusual”. Mycroft had taken Greg’s seat; Greg was perched on the edge of the desk plotting his revenge on all Holmes’s.

“You might help Lestrade,” Sherlock told Mycroft, who was replying to texts in what looked like Arabic. He was still typing faster than Greg could in English.

“I’m preventing a civil war,” Mycroft croaked. His voice sounded like a TV set playing in another room, faint and crackling. He put two fingers under the collar of his shirt, as though to loosen it, and rolled his neck. His Adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow and Greg forcibly dragged his eyes away, trying not to think about kissing the hollow of his throat.

“You’re the one who made me come out here. Without any socks. I had to wear John’s. Someone might have seen.”

Greg sneaked a peak under the desk at Sherlock’s bony ankles encased in a ludicrously small pair of socks.

“I’m sure your formidable reputation could withstand it.” Mycroft, still typing, patted his nose lightly with a tissue. From where Greg sitting was on the desk to where Mycroft was leaning his elbows was less than a foot, and so he heard as Mycroft’s congested breathing switched to a quicker, shallower pace.

The curl of his lip and the crinkle of his eyebrows spoke of unimaginable weariness, and Greg looked away, feeling like he was seeing something private and vulnerable. Mycroft’s breath was still audible, though, as it tripped over itself in a series of teasing little gasps.

He was forced to abandon his phone and use both hands to muffle the sneezes, once they eventually struggled out.

“HEH-ISHOOOO!” Every sneeze was separated from the other by several seconds of torturous hitching, culminating in an explosion that sounded violent even through Mycroft’s valiant attempts to smother them in the tissue. “HHHH-HHH!HH!HEHH-SHOOOO! HEH-YISHOOO! HHHHHhhhh… hhhhh!YISHOOO! hhhGNSH!”

Mycroft cut himself off with a harsh closure of the throat; Greg winced. “Bless you.” Mycroft nodded his thanks; he was flushing and Greg, not wanting to embarrass him, turned to Sherlock.

“Where are all your socks?”

“Dr Watson’s taken them.” Mycroft had switched to what looked like Cyrillic.

“What?” Sherlock snapped, looking up.

“Monday night’s date.” Mycroft leaned his head forward onto his hands and coughed so harshly it shook his entire body. “Revenge. Should have hidden his own too though. Pass me that folder.”

Sherlock swore quietly under his breath, something about a nurse, and tossed the folder across the table. Mycroft fumbled the catch and Greg passed it over to him; their hands touched and Greg almost flinched from the cold. He reached out and touched the back of his hand against Mycroft’s forehead.

Mycroft was shivering very slightly; Greg wouldn’t have noticed it at all if he hadn’t been sitting so close. His forehead emanated dark heat against Greg’s hand. Greg felt eyes on him and glanced over; Sherlock was giving them both a strange, brooding look.

“You’ve got a temperature,” Greg said quietly, looking away from Sherlock’s penetrating gaze.

“Hmmm. I know.” Mycroft smothered a cough and sniffled. “Pass me the tissues. Please.”

Greg passed him the new box and Mycroft pulled out a handful. He looked utterly drained as he stood up and exited the room; Greg could vaguely hear him blowing his nose on his way down the corridor and assumed he hadn’t wanted to do it in front of them.

“He really is horribly ill,” Sherlock said casually, flicking through files on the laptop. “I wonder how many coups are going unchecked at this very moment.”

“Lot of work for one person,” Greg commented, and Sherlock gave him a piercing look.

“He likes it,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

“Seems a bit run down to me.” Greg underlined a name.

“I told you. His immune system’s pathetic. Always has been, even when we were children. Especially under stress; it crumples like a piece of cheap tinfoil and he ends up being constantly unwell until whatever exam or uprising or war is finished with – which they never are, in his job.” Sherlock met his eyes, meaningfully. “He doesn’t know how to take care of himself.”

Greg snorted. “Bit rich, coming from you.”

Sherlock tossed his head. He looked a bit like a horse. “I don’t need to know how to take care of myself. John does it for me. And before that, Mycroft did it. Everyone assumes Mycroft can do everything for himself because he does it for me- even our parents always have. And then he catches pneumonia twice in a year because he can’t take time to drink some Lemsip once in a while.”

Greg was about to reply, but Mycroft came back in. “Progress?” he asked Sherlock, sounding a little less congested after blowing his nose.

=====

Ahhh it seems to cut off in a kind of weird place - it's just because that section was too long so I had to split it! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!

[cally]

“I don’t need to know how to take care of myself. John does it for me. And before that, Mycroft did it.

Oh so true, Sherlock.

I hope that Gregory takes that conversation to heart and drags Mycroft by his tie to his bed.

[Spoo]

His Adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow and Greg forcibly dragged his eyes away, trying not to think about kissing the hollow of his throat.

I squealed like a fiend reading this line. If it wasn't obvious before, it is now: Greg's DEFINITELY got the hots for a Holmes.

Mycroft’s breath was still audible, though, as it tripped over itself in a series of teasing little gasps.

He reached out and touched the back of his hand against Mycroft’s forehead.

Greg felt eyes on him and glanced over; Sherlock was giving them both a strange, brooding look.

Lestrade. Lestrade, that's my brother. My big brother. You're touching my big brother.

“I told you. His immune system’s pathetic. Always has been, even when we were children. Especially under stress; it crumples like a piece of cheap tinfoil and he ends up being constantly unwell until whatever exam or uprising or war is finished with – which they never are, in his job.” Sherlock met his eyes, meaningfully. “He doesn’t know how to take care of himself.”

Ugh, my heart. Poor, poor Mycroft.

This is such a good fic. I can't stress that enough!

[AngelEyes]

What Cally and Spoo said. Exactly. So much this. Yes.

[bangbang]

Mycroft is my poor baby and I am being terrible to him. Thank you so much for reading!

Part 14 - In which Greg learns geography, Sherlock learns to share, and Mycroft is so over this case already.

====

Sherlock stood up and stretched. “You can have your seat back. It’s not especially comfortable.”

Mycroft sank down into the chair and winced at the light of the laptop. “The sister-in-law’s got an alibi,” he reminded Sherlock.

Sherlock rummaged in one of the desk drawers and tossed Mycroft a packet of Ibuprofen. “Take two of these, you imbecile. And I know that,” he snapped, “and she’s also been involved with that cannibal clown. You need to keep a closer track of your agents.”

“Not mine,” Mycroft said tiredly, swallowing the pills with a sip. “And I was aware. She’s been working for the same circus, undercover, in the hopes of revealing a smuggling ring. They seem to have got a little too chummy. No indication that she knew about his, ah, dietary habits. Or his background in explosives – we suspect he’s got links to one of the Russian mafia dynasties. However, the drugs have been coming in much more efficiently recently, suggesting-”

“That she’s helping them instead of trying to shut it down. Is the smuggling ring based in – is Sumatra a place?” Greg asked, still not quite understanding how it all linked together.

“It’s an Indonesian island. The drugs are coming from Taiwan. Unrelated. I didn't understand the link between the clown and Mansfield's sister in law at first - things are not always how they appear. Idiotic, not to have seen it sooner.” Sniffling again, Mycroft tapped the folder in front of him.

“You’re not exactly at your best, though,” Greg said; privately, he wasn't surprised that it was the emotional aspect of someone falling in love that had been the part of the case to stump Mycroft Holmes. There was a small sinking feeling in his chest about what that meant regarding his newfound crush, which he quickly trampled down.

Sherlock snorted. “You have a gift for understatement, Lestrade.”

“That shouldn’t matter.” Mycroft’s voice was increasingly stuffy. “And it's complicated by the fact that the ring in Taiwan is not the only smuggling that’s involved. Although why anyone would want a giant Indonesian rat is beyond me.”

“Giant… rat?” Greg asked, warily, standing up and moving behind Mycroft’s seat to look over his shoulder. Mycroft jerked his chin towards the manila before drawing a faint, exhausted breath and burying his nose in the tissues he was holding. He didn’t even try and stifle at least half of them; Greg took that as a sign that he was on his last legs.

“hhiYISHOOO! HEH-hh-GNSSSHHHoo! Hhh-hh-ISCHT! Hhh-hhh-YISHOOOO! ISH! Hhhh-hhISH!” He pitched forward into his cupped hands with each sneeze, a little further each time, the strength of them completely sapping him so he was unable to remain upright. Greg put a hand on his back to steady him. Mycroft felt hot even through three layers of expensive cloth.

With a final, explosive, “Hhh-IYGNSHHOOOO!” Mycroft rested his head on his hands. Greg rubbed his spine up and down – he felt somehow too thin – and Mycroft seemed to lean into the touch slightly.

“Bless you,” said Greg. Mycroft waved a hand in thanks. Greg rubbed a circle in between his shoulder blades, then, seeing the look Sherlock was giving him, he quickly took his hand away and flipped open the folder.

“JESUS!” It was involuntary, and both Holmes’s suppressed a laugh, Mycroft’s still a little breathless from the growing intensity of his fit.

“It’s the size of a dog!” Greg stared at the photograph, went back round the desk and sat down heavily.

“It’s a Giant Sumatran Rat,” Sherlock said snidely, “the clue’s in the name.”

“This thing is loose in London?”

“We think so.” Mycroft still sounded sneezy, vowels fluttering like kites in the wind, and Greg could almost feel the waves of heat rolling off him. He loosened his tie, and Greg offered him the box of tissues again. “Thank you. It was in the custody of an accountant and his wife – we’re almost sure it’s either been stolen, set free, or escaped. Either way, we’re not entirely sure of its current whereabouts.”

“Not entirely sure?” Greg asked dubiously. “Why don’t the Met know about this?”

Mycroft pressed the tissues to the underside of his nose and frowned in distaste. “It’s classified information. Technically, you shouldn’t really know now. He’s an accountant for a small section of government that doesn’t officially exist – which is why this has had to be kept very hush-hush, the rat’s in the exotic pet trade. They got it as a baby – grew up, mauled a house guest, they claim to have had it put down but they’re almost certainly lying.” He wrinkled the bridge of his nose as if to try and combat a tickle.

Greg shook his head. “Alright. So what exactly are we dealing with?”

Mycroft rubbed his nose again. “We have drug smuggling, exotic pet smuggling, an agent that may have turned, a bomb-building clown – ”

“Who also eats people,” Sherlock interrupted.

“-who also eats people,” Mycroft conceded with a nod, “and a seemingly unrelated murder that cannot possibly be unrelated.”

“Rat fur,” said Greg, suddenly, remembering the scratchy hairs they’d analysed from Mansfield’s clothes. “The rat has something to do with Mansfield’s death? Might not be that rat. Maybe it’s just coincidence.”

“The universe is rarely so lazy,” said Sherlock, and the quotation marks were almost audible.

“The universe seems to be working bloody overtime in this case,” Greg grumbled.

Mycroft looked faintly amused; then Greg realised that the twitch of his lip was caused by his nasal troubles as much as Greg’s lament.

“Bless you,” he said, as Mycroft’s eyes squeezed shut with an unexpectedly violent sneeze that made them all jump slightly.

“hh-GNSHHOO! Hh-HH!-YISHOO! YISHOOOOOO!” He took a moment to recover his breath, little huffs in his chest making Greg hand him some more tissues.

“Thank you.” It came out hoarse – Mycroft gave a little throat clearing cough and blew his nose softly, then continued. “The universe is a convoluted matter. Pass me a cough sweet, Sherlock, would you? Fine, I’ll take an orange one.”

====