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

[cally]

Oh the poor, poor dear. Sherlock should just leave them too it. I mean for Gregory to take care of Mycroft of course. Maybe help him remove some layers to soothe his fevered skin. Oh wait, that's what I would do. Just sayin'.

[Spoo]

Voice comment!

(Due to having too much to type and too many Feels. )

[peppercat]

Mycroft on his last legs? What a shame that some more... /drastic/ action will have to be taken....

[SneezyRae]

Just catching up with the last few posts. Poor poor Mycroft. What are you playing at Greg? Start looking after him properly. This is amazingly fantastic. Can't wait for more

[AngelEyes]

What a convoluted web you weave. Fascinating. And dearest Mycroft. For heavens sake Greg, get with it and take care of the for sweet thing.

[bangbang]

ARGH guys I am so happy I want to punch myself in the face! I am so glad you are enjoying this! Unfortunately Greg isn't sweeping Mycroft off to bed just yet - Mycroft is way too stubborn for that.

(And Spoo - you caught the Sumatra thing! I put it in mainly as a little giggle for myself and didn't expect anyone to catch it but yay!)

Part 15 - In which Greg remembers An Important Detail, Mycroft takes a nap, and Sherlock needs a lesson on boundaries.

====

Greg sat bolt upright. “Shit,” he exhaled.

Mycroft had dozed off, head resting on his elbow on the desk; Sherlock had given him a strange look that Greg would almost have described as worry from anyone else and taken Mycroft’s coat from a stand. He’d draped it carefully over Mycroft’s shoulders and tucked it in around him, then scowled at Greg when he caught him looking and pinched the laptop from under Mycroft’s arm.

Everything had been quiet for more than half an hour; just Greg turning pages, Sherlock clacking on laptop keys, and Mycroft’s quiet, hoarse breathing. Until Greg had remembered something he was kicking himself for not mentioning.

“What?” Mycroft had jolted awake, looking vaguely startled but alert. Greg turned to him.

“Remember how I told you I went to the sister-in-law’s flat? And she had all that weird circus stuff?”

“She’s a trained aerialist, that’s why she was chosen to go undercover – yes?”

“Did she have a pet?” Greg asked Sherlock, who had paused his typing.

“How should I know? I wasn’t in her flat.”

“But you met her. Could you tell? If she had a pet?”

Sherlock thought. “No. Not even a fish.”

“She had a cage. In a storage room, it was sort of half hidden under a blanket –“

“How big? Could you see inside?” Mycroft interrupted, pulling his coat around him like a makeshift blanket.

“It was definitely empty. One of those ones you get to crate dogs – probably big enough for a Labrador, or –”

“Or a giant rat,” Mycroft completed, and sank his head into his hands.

“You’re sure it was empty?” Sherlock asked.

“Positive. It looked broken, actually. I’m sorry I didn’t remember it-”

Mycroft shook his head. “Why would you? Unimportant, especially considering that you had no idea we were even looking for an animal at the time. I should have asked.”

“Once you’ve both finished your self-flagellation,” Sherlock snapped, “perhaps we should rethink in light of this information.” He looked sideways at Mycroft, who was shivering again. “You can go and find tea,” he told Greg imperiously.

Greg snorted. “Yes, Master,” he said, in an attempt to make Mycroft laugh – he got a small, forced smile and a glare from Sherlock.

He left, just as he heard Sherlock start talking quietly.

====

Anthea had been tapping away on a computer; she’d looked at Greg and started preparing a tea tray.

“You’re here late,” Greg commented. She gave him an absent-minded smile and added a packet of biscuits to the tray; Greg’s stomach grumbled.

He took the tray off her and carried it back down the corridor; as he drew closer to Mycroft’s office he could still hear Sherlock talking. Something in Sherlock’s tone made him pause before opening the door; it was an intense, low sort of concern. He heard a hoarse reply, presumably from Mycroft, and pushed open the door.

They both turned to look at him – Sherlock was sitting on the desk in front of Mycroft, glaring at Greg over his shoulder.

“Is Anthea still here?” Mycroft inquired. He had one hand on his temple. The dark circles under his eyes could have caused a lunar eclipse.

“Yup. She sends biscuits.”

“Could you tell her she’s free to leave whenever she likes? And ask her to remind me to read over the Minroth documents in the morning. Thank you.”

As Greg closed the door, he heard Mycroft say, quietly, “Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock. It’s not a possibility.” He almost wanted to stay and hear the rest; but the door swung shut, so he went and passed on the message.

Anthea frowned in the direction of Mycroft’s door as she packed her things up. “Take care,” she told Greg, and he didn’t think she meant of himself.

By the time he’d come back, Sherlock was leaning over the back of Mycroft’s seat, fiddling with the laptop, and Mycroft was bent to the side at the mercy of his cold again.

Greg watched in sympathy as Mycroft’s fine-boned, aquiline profile shuddered and dipped into the tissues, only to emerge, frustrated at his inability to force out the sneezes that were bothering him. His narrow nostrils were flaring into trembling ovals, and his eyes were at half-mast, the whites barely visible through fluttering eyelashes.

Mycroft seemed caught in an excruciating minute of harsh little pants – at least, until he accidentally brushed the edge of the tissue against the outer wing of one nostril. Greg was vaguely taken aback by the reaction even that gentle touch caused – Mycroft practically spasmed forward.

“iihhhHHHSHOoooo! ISH! hhh-HHH-YISHOOO! ISHOO! HHHH-TISH! Hhhh-HHHGNChhhooo!”

“Bless you,” Sherlock said, without looking up from the laptop. “Move your elbow, it’s in my way.”

“Have you, perchance, heard of such a thing as personal space?” Mycroft croaked, but moved his elbow anyway. He looked up at Greg with glassy eyes; whether it was from the fever or the crippling strength of his sneezing fit, Greg didn’t know. “Sherlock’s never quite understood the concept of boundaries, I’m afraid.”

“I’ve noticed.” Once he’d woken up to his wife’s screams after discovering a blood-soaked Sherlock had broken into the house, made himself toast and was taking a shower.

“We’re brothers. Your space is my space. Your money is my money. Your cough sweets, incidentally, are also mine. Don’t even think of eating the purple ones.”

“Entitled brat.”

“Stingy bas-”

“Oi,” said Greg, in his best dealing-with-Sally-and-that-twat-Anderson voice, “stop bickering. What about this giant rat then? Any idea where it is? ”

“No,” Mycroft said, “but we know someone who might.”

“So,” Sherlock said, chucking Greg his coat, “We’re paying her a visit. Mansfield’s sister-in-law – you’re driving.”

====

[cally]

(And Spoo - you caught the Sumatra thing! I put it in mainly as a little giggle for myself and didn't expect anyone to catch it but yay!)

I got it too, I just didn't say anything.

By the time he’d come back, Sherlock was leaning over the back of Mycroft’s seat, fiddling with the laptop, and Mycroft was bent to the side at the mercy of his cold again.

Greg watched in sympathy as Mycroft’s fine-boned, aquiline profile shuddered and dipped into the tissues, only to emerge, frustrated at his inability to force out the sneezes that were bothering him. His narrow nostrils were flaring into trembling ovals, and his eyes were at half-mast, the whites barely visible through fluttering eyelashes.

Mycroft seemed caught in an excruciating minute of harsh little pants – at least, until he accidentally brushed the edge of the tissue against the outer wing of one nostril. Greg was vaguely taken aback by the reaction even that gentle touch caused – Mycroft practically spasmed forward.

“iihhhHHHSHOoooo! ISH! hhh-HHH-YISHOOO! ISHOO! HHHH-TISH! Hhhh-HHHGNChhhooo!”

“Bless you,” Sherlock said, without looking up from the laptop. “Move your elbow, it’s in my way.”

Ummmm Sherlock? Get any closer and you'll end up with this terrible, nasty cold as well. And I am not sure Gregory is capable of handling two cold-ridden Holmes' brothers.

[ID2006]

So in love with this

[Spoo]

And Spoo - you caught the Sumatra thing! I put it in mainly as a little giggle for myself and didn't expect anyone to catch it but yay!

I sure did! I try to be detailed with my comments on stories. As a writer, I know we love hearing what exactly our readers liked, or what - in this case - we managed to pick up on, versus just general 'it was good'. Not to mention there's more than just Mystrade and general interactions going on. There's a case! A CASE, JOHN. A CASE

I got it too, I just didn't say anything.

Then how were we supposed to know that you got it?

Sherlock had given him a strange look that Greg would almost have described as worry from anyone else and taken Mycroft’s coat from a stand. He’d draped it carefully over Mycroft’s shoulders and tucked it in around him, then scowled at Greg when he caught him looking

Awwww, Sherlock. I see you taking care of your brother; you're not fooling anyone.

“Once you’ve both finished your self-flagellation,” Sherlock snapped, “perhaps we should rethink in light of this information.” He looked sideways at Mycroft, who was shivering again. “You can go and find tea,” he told Greg imperiously.

He's never been very tactful, I suppose.

As Greg closed the door, he heard Mycroft say, quietly, “Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock. It’s not a possibility.”

Oh, but it is. A huge possibility. Hehe.

Greg watched in sympathy as Mycroft’s fine-boned, aquiline profile shuddered and dipped into the tissues, only to emerge, frustrated at his inability to force out the sneezes that were bothering him. His narrow nostrils were flaring into trembling ovals, and his eyes were at half-mast, the whites barely visible through fluttering eyelashes.

Mycroft seemed caught in an excruciating minute of harsh little pants – at least, until he accidentally brushed the edge of the tissue against the outer wing of one nostril.

Oh. This was gorgeous. Every bit of it. I may or may not have salivated a bit.

This is just getting better and better! The snippy-snaps between the Holmes brothers give me life. I swear. Not to mention Greg's mounting concern, Mycroft's progressing misery, and Sherlock's knowing glares. Hahaha.

[bangbang]

Cally - I think Sherlock's body probably has a built-in defence system against Mycroft germs - he trained it early to avoid EVER sharing ANYTHING with his brother. Mycroft germs are the worst kind of germs!

Icky - Glad you're enjoying!

Spoo - the Sumatra thing probably just harks back to my continual need to be told how clever I am at ALL times. Praise me! Your insecure and narcissistic monarch demands it! But I am glad you like my sneezy descriptions and are still enjoying the case!

[cally]

Then how were we supposed to know that you got it?

Ummm duh. I'm going to have 4 degrees in less than a year. Of course I got it. :insert smug yet bratty emoticon:

Cally - I think Sherlock's body probably has a built-in defence system against Mycroft germs - he trained it early to avoid EVER sharing ANYTHING with his brother. Mycroft germs are the worst kind of germs!

I hope so, for Gregory's sake.

[AngelEyes]

Anthea frowned in the direction of Mycroft’s door as she packed her things up. “Take care,” she told Greg, and he didn’t think she meant of himself.

Awww. So much love for Mycroft. Not that he would accept or understand it. Yet.

[bangbang]

Ummm duh. I'm going to have 4 degrees in less than a year. Of course I got it.

Oooh, get you, all edu-ma-cated and stuff!

Awww. So much love for Mycroft. Not that he would accept or understand it. Yet.

I see Anthea as a totally exasperated Girl Friday like "Sir, the PM is arriving in 5 minutes. Sir, we've intercepted a nuclear strike. Sir, your shoes are untied..."

Have a baby update because I have Things To Do and Deadlines and Important Stuff that I need to get on with today.

Part 16 - In which Greg likes Freddos, Sherlock makes someone cry, and... that's about it.

===

When they arrived at the flat it was nearly eleven; Greg felt tired himself and Mycroft was huddled in the passenger seat, a box of tissues seemingly glued to his hand.

He pulled up to a halt and Mycroft unbuckled his seatbelt – from the backseat, Sherlock snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re barely awake,” he said, tossing the rest of the cough sweets onto Mycroft’s lap.

Greg turned the heat up. “Make sure no one nicks the car; there’s a Freddo in the glovebox if you get peckish,” he joked, and got a tiny smile in return. He left Mycroft the keys and he and Sherlock went up to the flat.

Fifteen minutes later, they exited – Sherlock was calling the sister-in-law every name under the sun under his breath (after doing it to her face) and Greg was shaking his head. Mycroft unlocked the doors for them. The sudden influx of chilly night air sent him stooping into a tissue.

“HHHhhhGNSHHh!” The stifling sounded almost reflexive, but he winced slightly as though it hurt, and settled for simply muffling the rest. “Hh-HSTSCH! HhhISHOOO! ISHT! Hhh…HHH!HHHSHOO! For goodness’ sake,” he said, more to himself than anything. He held the tissue under his nose for a second, blinking a few times as the others climbed into the car. He shook his head and addressed Greg. “Any luck?”

“That imbecile-” Sherlock started and Mycroft, wearily, said,

“The abbreviated version, please.”

“She woke up one morning and the cage was broken and her flat door was open.” Greg gave Mycroft the once-over and, then, kindly, asked, “Do you want to go home?”

“How did she even have it in the first place?” Mycroft completely ignored his suggestion – in the rearview mirror, Greg saw Sherlock roll his eyes.

“Wouldn’t tell us. Just cried, Sherlock accused her of taking part in the smuggling and she just crumbled. Might want to get someone to bring her in.”

Mycroft coughed into a loosely-clenched hand; unfortunately that seemed to set him off, and he was seized by a hoarse fit that made Greg want to hug him. As Mycroft’s shallow, uneven breathing returned to almost-normal, Greg made up his mind. “Come on,” he said, “we’re going to get a cup of coffee somewhere at least. I don’t know about either of you two vampires but I’m starving. We can have a think while I’m eating.”

====

[cally]

Oh poor Mycroft, bless him. Someone Gregory get him a mug of Lemsip at the very least.

[Wildwood]

Awwwwww the poor dear... No I wanna hug him! Gregory get with it already and give him some TLC!

[Spoo]

Greg turned the heat up. “Make sure no one nicks the car; there’s a Freddo in the glovebox if you get peckish,” he joked, and got a tiny smile in return. He left Mycroft the keys and he and Sherlock went up to the flat.

Overlooking how poorly he's feeling, there's something adorable about Mycroft waiting in the car - all bundled up in his coat, box of tissues in hand. Probably fading in and out of sleep as Greg and Sherlock are inside. And hah, of course there's a Freddo in the glovebox. Oh Greg.

...For goodness’ sake,” he said, more to himself than anything.

He's probably beyond peeved [and exhausted] from all the sneezing he's been doing. If anything, at least it's a good ab workout!

Mycroft coughed into a loosely-clenched hand; unfortunately that seemed to set him off, and he was seized by a hoarse fit that made Greg want to hug him.

I think it makes all of us want to hug him, the poor thing! I'm sure his illnesses wouldn't be so severe if he had the time and openings in his schedule to rest and get well.

And now coffee! And snacks. Though something tells me the Holmes brothers won't be very keen on eating... Hopefully Greg can coax them into getting something in their stomachs~

[bangbang]

Someone Gregory get him a mug of Lemsip at the very least.

Gregory get with it already and give him some TLC!

Mycroft is still in the prickly don't-look-at-me-don't-touch-me stage - and Greg doesn't want to make it too obvious that he is in luuurve.

Overlooking how poorly he's feeling, there's something adorable about Mycroft waiting in the car - all bundled up in his coat, box of tissues in hand. Probably fading in and out of sleep as Greg and Sherlock are inside. And hah, of course there's a Freddo in the glovebox. Oh Greg.

He's probably beyond peeved [and exhausted] from all the sneezing he's been doing. If anything, at least it's a good ab workout!

I think it makes all of us want to hug him, the poor thing! I'm sure his illnesses wouldn't be so severe if he had the time and openings in his schedule to rest and get well.

Greg has a constant supply of snacks. And yeah, Mycroft is getting so fed up with his body right now... and he still doesn't join the dots that if he took a few days off he wouldn't get so ill. For a genius he's pretty dumb.

I feel bad about the lack of sneeziness in this bit - the next one will be much, much more fetishy. I promise.

Part 17 - In which Mycroft gets some alarming news, Greg gets something to eat, and being a Holmes is like being in a permanent beauty pageant. (Don't ask.)

====

Greg, being used to shift work, knew all the late night cafes in London. Sherlock, being Sherlock, had most of the owners in his debt, so within twenty minutes Greg was sitting opposite the brothers in a booth and digging into a plate of fish and chips.

“You should eat something,” he said, gesturing to Mycroft with the other end of his knife.

Mycroft hadn’t taken his coat off – in fact he’d turned the collar up – and was clutching a cup of tea like his life depended on it, tapping on his phone. “I think I’ll pass,” he croaked, giving Greg’s plate a dubious glance.

Sherlock, who had slid into the bench next to Mycroft (earning himself surprised looks all round) tapped his fingers on the table.

“While you’re stuffing your face, Lestrade –"

“Alright,” Greg said, not wanting to hear another one of Sherlock’s rants until he’d eaten at least half the plate, “let’s think where this thing’s got to then. Although it could be anywhere by now.”

The brothers exchanged looks. “We think we know where it is,” Sherlock said.

“Where, then?”

“Well,” said Sherlock, who looked like he was having more fun than should be allowed, “think to yourself, Lestrade; if you were the ringleader, say, of a clown troupe who dealt with people who didn’t laugh at shows by hunting them down and eating them, and you found out that the woman you were seeing was in possession of a giant, vicious Indonesian rat, what would you do?”

Greg groaned. “Mr Tickles and the Giant Rat of Sumatra?”

“You must admit it has a certain ring to it. Considering that we brought Tickles and company in yesterday, and assuming that they left the rat in the warehouse–”

“It should still be there?” Greg asked, hopefully.

“The warehouse was searched. I think even your incompetent officers would have noticed a rat the size of an Alsatian. Either moved, if anyone else knew about it, which I doubt, or escaped by now.”

“So we’re back to stage one then,” Greg said sadly, thinking of his soft, comfy mattress.

Mycroft’s phone rang. “Excuse me.” He answered it, and Greg concentrated on his fish and chips, not wanting to eavesdrop.

“What’s happening?” Sherlock demanded, having no such scruples.

“Thank you for the information.” Mycroft hung up, looking pale. “Our Mr Tickles has started talking.”

“Does he know where the rat is?” Greg asked.

“No. But he has left us a little present. A rather explosive one.”

“There’s a bomb?” Greg raised his voice and Mycroft and Sherlock both shushed him.

“Somewhere.” Mycroft’s mouth was drawn tight. “He hasn’t said where yet – except that it’s apparently not deadly. Or when it’ll be

detonated, except for at some point tonight.”

“Jesus,” Greg groaned, and then “Not deadly?”

“Allegedly.” Mycroft leaned forwards and rubbed the bridge of his nose with the fingertips of both hands as though he was trying to relieve a sinus headache or prevent a sneeze.

“Why would he set off a bomb that’s not going to kill anyone? Apart from his obvious insanity, that is,” Sherlock said; even he looked disturbed.

“Explosives are often used to destroy evidence – I’m assuming that Mr Tickles and his cannibalistic faction had a rather higher death count than previously believed.” Mycroft’s arched nostrils twitched, and Greg could see it was only a matter of time before the cold bothering his sinuses refused to be ignored any longer.

“Jesus!”

“Mmmm. Sherlock, let me out of the booth.” Mycroft’s eyelids were dropping, and he pressed a wrist against his nose, looking unbearably irritated. Greg sighed – he really didn’t want Mycroft to end up on antibiotics because he’d let the cold develop further. He seemed to be sneezing more frequently than ever and the exhaustion was clearly taking its toll on him.

Sherlock, grumbling, stood up and let Mycroft sweep past him in a shadow of his usual stride, heading towards the bathrooms.

=====

“He should actually be at home, you know,” Greg said quietly as the bathroom door swung shut.

“We should drug his tea,” Sherlock said, consideringly.

“No,” Greg said, patiently, “we should take him home. Hot water bottle. Honey and lemon. Sound familiar?”

“He’d be more pliable if we drugged his tea. And it’s not as though he would taste it anyway, given how stuffed up he is. You’re very concerned for a man who barely knows him.”

“You’re very concerned for a man who claims to hate him. And,” Greg said, at Sherlock’s snort, “we have known each other for what, five, six years? As long as I’ve known you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, gazing keenly at Greg, “but you don’t really know him. And this goes beyond your normal do-gooder nature. You like him.”

Greg swallowed. “He seems nice enough, why wouldn’t I like him?” he bluffed. The last thing he needed was Sherlock finding out about his new-found crush.

“No,” said Sherlock, looking almost gleeful, “you like him.”

“That’s what I just said.”

Sherlock gave him a triumphant look, but mercifully dropped the subject and started droning on about perfume and his website. Greg wasn’t listening; he was beating himself up for being so, as Sherlock would say, obvious. If Sherlock, who was by all accounts the less clever Holmes brother (which was a little like being the ugliest Miss Universe contestant), had figured it out, then surely Mycroft had too. He probably wasn’t saying anything because he was tired and ill and embarrassed and a little more tactful than Sherlock. But while Greg had been making cow eyes (he groaned inwardly), Mycroft had probably been rearranging all future plans so he wouldn’t have to deal with Greg ever again.

With a sense of surprise, Greg realised he’d miss him, even as they had been before – the elder Holmes was a stable, besuited presence in his life. He didn’t want anything from Greg – a promotion or results or interesting crime scenes or divorce papers – beyond looking after Sherlock, which Greg was already doing. And now he was probably hiding in a café bathroom to avoid him.

Shit, Greg thought, and mournfully finished his chips.

=====

[Spoo]

Voice comment number 2!

[cally]

I think Gregory is me, because damn if I don't over react about things like that all the time. No, Gregory. Go after him, do the opposite of what you are thinking. He's probably in there sneezing his head off and needs some one to bring him some soft tissues or something.

And then drug his tea.

(I am way too emotionally invested in this story, BTW)

[AdrianMarx]

Oh my goodness. I just found this story. Please forgive ramblings.

Okay, can I just start with the case? The case is so good, oh my God. It's so clever how you made them all intertwine. I have to watch Sherlock alone because my family hate my guts since I spend the whole time spouting comments like, "THAT'S FROM THE ACD CANON" and "HOLY SHIT THAT'S SO CLEVER" so I'm not allowed to watch it with them anymore and I'm doing the same thing with your story and I just can't express this in words, oh my gosh. I love that you included the giant rat of Sumatra, though I hear some have said that the world is not yet prepared for that story But, seriously, I love the thought you've put into this. I'm actually squealing behind my hands as I read it. Oh my goodness.

I love Greg driving Mycroft everywhere because, even though he could probably pick up the mechanics of it in a heartbeat, he doesn't drive. He has other people to do that for him. And I loved Greg wondering if anyone had ever had Mycroft's job before. I's never thought that Sherlock created his own career because his big brother did it first. Because Mycroft is the only equal (in intelligence terms) that Sherlock has and he probably looked up to him as a child until they started all this petty fighting. There was probably a time where he wanted to grow up to be just like his big brother and that's what he's done and my heart is hurting, oh gosh.

And Greg having constant snacks on hand is just totally compliant with all of my character emotions and also Mycroft not wanting to eat chips from a late night café. And your dialogue is flawless. And I couldn't stop laughing when Sherlock suggested they drug Mycroft's tea. Greg is endlessly patient with him. I love that he just explains, "Actually, no. That's not how normal people function." And Sherlock eating the cough sweets. I used to do that. Sometimes I still do that. I loved that. It was so cute. And he has absolutely no concept of personal space, even when Mycroft has a cold. Though I bet he's too stubborn to catch Mycroft's cold - like you said, he won't share anything with his brother. I'm grinning at the thought of that, help!

Moving on to the actual point of posting on this forum (sorry!) poor Mycroft! He's so sick but he's so busy and stubborn so he won't look after himself. Awh. Good thing Greg is there to hassle him, even if he doesn't actually take it on board. I just want to bundle him up in blankets. I totally get Greg's feelings. It's definitely the way I crush on people. I'm fairly sure it's only when that happens that I go, "Shit, I like you," so I relate to him there. He's so cute. And Sherlock knows so Mycroft will certainly know. I liked that "least attractive Miss Universe" thing. It made me giggle.

Okay, sorry. Done. Maybe I should have followed Spoo's example but I can't articulate my feelings spontaneously. I have to edit. Just, shRIEKS I LOVE IT SO MUCH GOOD DAY

[ID2006]

So excited cause I have full confidence that fluff will come eventually... and that everything about this is amazing

[Wildwood]

Just, shRIEKS I LOVE IT SO MUCH GOOD DAY

So excited cause I have full confidence that fluff will come eventually... and that everything about this is amazing

This. This. THIS.

[Gingersnaps12941297]

Ooh oh ooh!

[AngelEyes]

I see Anthea as a totally exasperated Girl Friday like "Sir, the PM is arriving in 5 minutes. Sir, we've intercepted a nuclear strike. Sir, your shoes are untied..."

So Totally! LOL!

Of course Sherlock wants to drug his tea. He loves doing that. I'm sure he would be especially pleased to do it to Mycroft. And Lestrade just like, No, that's Not what we should do. LOL!

“No,” said Sherlock, looking almost gleeful, “you like him.”

LOL. I love it. If Sherlock has figured it out, Mycroft should have, unless, perhaps, he is too ill?

[bangbang]

Devil and Gingersnaps - Thanks for reading, I'm glad you're enjoying it!!

Spoo - your voice comments give me life. Mycroft totally eats sandwiches with cutlery. And thank you for your compliments about the case and the dialogue because I've never written anything case-y before so I'm glad it is kind of making sense! Mycroft is deteriorating fast, poor thing. And Sherlock is literally a child teasing Greg about his crush.

He's probably in there sneezing his head off and needs some one to bring him some soft tissues or something.

Are you psychic as well as educated?

shRIEKS I LOVE IT SO MUCH GOOD DAY

SHRIEKS I AM SO HAPPY YOU DO! I'm really happy you're enjoying the case!!

So excited cause I have full confidence that fluff will come eventually

I am putting him through the ringer before the cuddly stuff a bit, aren't I?

If Sherlock has figured it out, Mycroft should have, unless, perhaps, he is too ill?

Now, that would be telling

PART 18 - In which Greg enters the Twilight Zone (aka a greasy spoon bathroom) and Sherlock is horrified by Greg's technological incompetence.

======

“Go in and find him,” Sherlock said impatiently, jerking his head towards the bathroom door, “I need his phone. My post on scent identification should be gathering attention by now.”

“Use mine,” said Greg, the last thing he wanted being to follow Mycroft into the toilet like a lovesick puppy.

“Yours doesn’t have internet. How can one own a phone without internet in 2014?”

“My last one had buttons on it,” Greg said helpfully, and Sherlock shuddered.

“Go. Make sure he hasn’t drowned himself in the sink or any other nonsense.” Sherlock slipped out of the booth. “Forget it; I’ll use the owners’. JEFFREY!”

Greg groaned, head in his hands; then made up his mind and walked into the bathroom. There was a corner as he went in – he paused and said “Um, Mycroft?”

There was a small flurry of sound, and Greg went round the corner. Mycroft was half-leaning against the far wall by the sink, eyes closed and tissues clamped over his face.

“Are you-” Greg paused before asking if he was alright, because Mycroft obviously wasn’t, and walked over, fishing in one of his pockets for the travel pack he’d nicked from Mycroft’s office drawer just in case.

“nnGSH! Hh-NGGsh! H-NGSH! Nxsh! NGSHH!” Mycroft was stifling so hard it made Greg’s head hurt just listening to them. With every sneeze, the line between his eyebrows deepened – that was all Greg could see of his face, the rest hidden by the tissues.

“God,” Greg said, with feeling, “have you been like this the whole time?”

Mycroft gave what could have been a nod, or maybe just the start of another sneeze, forcibly caught in the back of his throat. “hhh-NGSH!”

“Come and sit back down,” said Greg, and touched Mycroft’s shoulder to try and take him out of the bathroom. Mycroft dug in his heels and shook his head miserably. Above the tissues, his cheeks were painted with a bright flush.

“hhh-hh-hh!GNSH!” Greg remembered how embarrassed Mycroft had been when he’d sneezed in the car the first time and shook his head – having a sneezing fit in a café was obviously not within Mycroft’s limited comfort zone. Then he sat Mycroft down on the edge of the radiator – it was off, making the whole room cold – then plonked himself down beside him, and patted his shoulder.

“Don’t stop them so much, you’re going to give yourself a killer headache.”

“It’s – hh!HH!GNSH! ISH!ISH!ISH!” His nostrils were flaring and his eyelids were bruised and swollen-looking. The sneezes seemed almost reflexive, like a tic he couldn’t control – short and uneven and wrenching. Greg knew that if he touched Mycroft’s forehead, it would be burning.

“Bless you. Save your breath. I’ve got more tissues here if you want them.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft managed to choke out, discarding the ones he was holding and accepting Greg’s. He didn’t quite have time to open them before he had to turn away from Greg (almost knocking himself over in the process) and stifle a harsh triple sneeze into his shoulder.

“NGSH! HhNGSH! HhhNGSH!” He cleared his throat. “Forgi –hhhh…Hhh! Forgive me.” His voice was giving out, and he was already quivering with the buildup to the next sneeze as he enfolded himself in the tissues again.

“God,” said Greg, rubbing his back, “don’t apologise to me.”

“hhhh-HINGSH!”

“You’re probably just prolonging it by holding them back.” Greg made his voice as low and comforting as possible; Mycroft was shaking badly under his hands, probably a combination of being chilly and exhausted and feverish and caught in a never-ending sneezing fit. “You’re OK. It’s just me.”

“hhhYISHt!” That was a bit less restrained, at least. “hhhHEH-SHOO!” Although he didn’t know if it was because Mycroft had heeded his advice or was just too tired to try and hold them back anymore. He was heaving short, shallow breaths and the constant use of tissues seemed to be irritating his nose even further - his rims of his nostrils were a livid crimson and looked inflamed.

Greg shook his head in sympathy as Mycroft twisted forward with another paroxysm; the poor thing really couldn't catch a break.

“hhehISHooo! Heh-hhh-hhhh!-ISH-ISH-ISH! YISHOOOO! Hhh-YISH! Hh-SHOOO! –shOOO! Hhh-hhh!-hhh!YISHOOO!” They were coming faster now, like heavy rainfall, and Mycroft seemed barely to have enough time to finish one before starting the other. Greg nudged him with the tissue pack.

“Blow. It’ll help.”

Mycroft obediently gave an unproductive, congested blow and looked up at the ceiling, jaw clenched, as though he was determined that that would be the end of it.

But even the formidable willpower of Mycroft Holmes couldn’t hold off this kind of siege, and it was only a matter of seconds before he was forced to submit to a crashing sequence that practically echoed off the bathroom walls. Greg had no idea how he ever managed to hold such massive, ticklish sounding sneezes back in those violent little stifles. “HHH-HHHSHOO! ISCHT! Ish!-ISH!-ISHOOOOO! HHHIHYISHOOOOO! Hehhh-TISH! HEH-TISH! Hh!hh!HHHYISHOO! hehSSCHOOO! Hhh-hhh!hhh!HHH!YISHOOOOOO!”

As he finally finished, he was sagging against Greg as though he didn’t even have the strength to sit upright anymore. He blew his

nose again and gave a long sigh. His head was almost on Greg’s shoulder and Greg had to stop himself from stroking his hair back.

“That’s a bloody bad cold you’ve got,” he said, instead, and Mycroft gave a sore-sounding chuckle.

“Don’t make me laugh, I can hardly breathe.” They sat there for a second or two; Mycroft’s snuffled breathing punctuating the silence.

“I’m driving you home now. Don’t argue; there’s no way you’re spending the night running around London looking for a bomb or a rat or whatever in this state. You’ll give yourself pneumonia.”

“I’ll be fine in a moment.” Mycroft’s eyes were closed, and he leaned against Greg for support. Greg was halfway putting an arm round him when he remembered, belatedly, that he was supposed to be acting like he didn’t fancy the pants off Mycroft, and shuffled away quickly.

His sudden movement seemed to snap Mycroft out of his exhaustion; he gave a brisk shake of his head and stood up. He swayed a little and put his hand on the wall to steady himself; Greg bit down the urge to grab his elbow to help. Mycroft regained his balance and said, rather shortly, “I do apologise. Shall we continue on?” He washed his hands quickly and fastidiously and strode out of the bathroom without waiting for a reply.

=====