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

[cally]

1. Oh bless, Mycroft you poor thing.

2. I......ummmmm........yeah. I'll come back when I'm coherent.

Are you psychic as well as educated?

Yup.

[Spoo]

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.

Ughhh. He really can't catch a break. (But what a gorgeous description. ) I feel like this was the huge fit we all knew was coming, hahaha.

“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.”

This is both hilarious and sad! But man, what an understatement. I'd reckon that's the worst bloody cold London's seen in years. (And of course Mycroft Holmes would catch it.)

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.

I really hope Mycroft listens to Greg at some point; he doesn't have much left in him! Buh, so eager to see where this goes.

[AngelEyes]

IJWEFHNBDLSKCNLSMCWQO;LNAMXkl;sncmjirwvi!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Complete and utter meltdown! Holy Good Gods Almighty! Just Just Yeah. Epic!

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

Wow.

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.

Perfect.

“I do apologise. Shall we continue on?”

Jeez Mycroft.

[ID2006]

You are killing me. GREG YOU ARE MEANT FOR HIM... HOLD HIM

[Garnet]

I'm a super dick and realized that despite gushing a few times about this fic to Spoo on Skype, I haven't actually commented here. Your writing is superb. I usually try to keep my distance from many things Sherlock, despite loving the source material. But this is a perfect reminder of all the things I enjoy about it when done well.

The voices for all of the characters are spot-on, and there is nothing I love better than a slow burn fic, especially when there is some sexual (or, well, just affectionate) tension looming in the backseat of the main plot. Greg's little mini-realization at the cafe is killing me. I eat that stuff up.

Looking forward to the rest of this, for sure, although the wait almost makes it better. Thanks for sharing!

[bangbang]

2. I......ummmmm........yeah. I'll come back when I'm coherent.

Ha! Glad you enjoyed.

I'd reckon that's the worst bloody cold London's seen in years. (And of course Mycroft Holmes would catch it.)

Oh, Mycroft. If anyone would end up this ill it's him.

Complete and utter meltdown! Holy Good Gods Almighty!

ARRRRGHHHHH I am so happy people are liking it!

GREG YOU ARE MEANT FOR HIM... HOLD HIM

Greg srsly needs to get a grip (on Mycroft.)

I'm a super dick and realized that despite gushing a few times about this fic to Spoo on Skype, I haven't actually commented here. Your writing is superb.

OK I am so happy because I love your writing and the fact that you talked about my fic to someone else and you think it's good makes me super super fuzzy inside. GRAGH.

Part 19 - In which Mycroft cracks the case, Sherlock has road rage, and Anthea probably hasn't had a full eight hours of sleep since she met the Holmes boys.

=========

“What did you do?” Sherlock hissed at Greg as they followed Mycroft out of the café – he had his tea in one hand, his umbrella in the crook of his elbow, and was talking on the phone in a language Greg didn’t recognise. “He’s got his emotionally-constipated face on. Don’t tell me the puppy love has worn off already.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Greg snapped back in a whisper, “I’m just trying to minimise the bloody awkwardness until we manage to sort this mess out and I can go be humiliated about all this in peace!”

Sherlock gave him an incredulous, infuriated look. “You’re even more of an idiot than I thought you were,” he said, scornfully, and sped up to walk alongside Mycroft instead.

“I’ll drive,” Sherlock announced when they got to Greg’s car, “I don’t feel comfortable putting my life in the hands of someone quite as stupid as you.” He got in before Greg could argue – not that it would come to anything anyway. Mycroft had already taken the passenger seat so Greg got into the back, feeling vaguely like a child whose parents were ignoring them.

Sherlock was a surprisingly good driver, if you ignored the constant barrage of insults he muttered about everyone else on the road. Then again, Greg could hardly criticise, being no stranger to road rage himself. He glanced at Mycroft, reflected in the wing mirror; he looked wan and sipped his tea as though it hurt to swallow.

“Where are we going?” He said, breaking the silence.

“To talk to Mr Tickles.” Sherlock said when Mycroft didn’t.

“Should I call the Yard?” Greg asked – once you put a bomb into the equation, it wasn’t really fun and games anymore.

“My people have been informed, Detective Inspector; this rather goes over your head.” Mycroft’s tone was frigid. “In fact, it would perhaps be best if you returned to your place of residence.”

“This is actually my car,” Greg said, trying not to get angry.

“I’ll see to it that it’s returned in its regular– ah – pristine condition,” said Mycroft, surveying the empty coffee cups and assorted wrappers that littered the dashboard.

Greg’s temper rose. “Sorry that it’s not up to the pristine condition of your normal chariot, Your Highness – want me to lick your boots clean once I’m finished tidying it to your approval?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to retort, but instead shielded his head in his elbow. “hhhGNCH! HhNCH! Hhhh…HHH-GNSHH!”

Greg felt his fury wane at the small, tight sounds, and the way Mycroft’s shoulders hunched as though he was trying to disappear. He opened his mouth to apologise, but before he could, Sherlock snapped “You two are like schoolchildren pushing each other into the mud – it’s painfully obvious, I should take a video, for blackmailing purposes –”

“Quiet!” Mycroft said, sharply, and, as Sherlock kept talking, “Be QUIET!” There was a sense of urgency in his tone.

“Are you-” Greg started, but Mycroft whipped up a hand to cut him off and everyone fell silent.

Mycroft had the same expression Sherlock did whenever he made a breakthrough at a crime scene – eyes wide, concentration so intense that Greg could almost hear the gears whirring in his incredible brain.

“Turn the car around, Sherlock,” he said, and then, to himself, “stupid, stupid, it was right there, all along –”

“Where am I going?” Sherlock asked, making an illegal U-turn that Greg pretended not to notice. “What about Mr Tickles?” He sounded a little disappointed; interrogating a cannibal clown was right up Sherlock’s street.

“Office,” Mycroft said, “and forget him; he’s not as important – it was the accountant, don’t you see, it begins and ends with the accountant – blackmail, how did I not see the blackmail – no,” he said, cutting himself off, “actually, we’re going down to the river – to the luxury flats they’ve just built, that’s where it’ll be –”

“The ones Mansfield was selling?” Greg leaned forward as Sherlock made another U-turn, giving the finger to someone who honked at him.

“Yes – it was the sister-in-law - well, no, but she was -” Mycroft seemed to be thinking too fast to be able to convey any information.

He half-threw his phone at Greg and said. “Call Anthea. Tell her that – no, actually, give it to me.” Greg tossed the phone back, having already dialled.

Anthea must have picked up on the first ring, because Mycroft pressed it to his ear and instantly started talking. “Sorry to wake you - we know where the drug smugglers are operating from. And where the bomb will go off. Get a team to the apartments - the one that Mansfield was working on selling down by the Thames - take a left here, Sherlock, it’ll be faster - someone should have already picked up the sister-in-law, yes? Good. The accountant’s been running the drug ring; he’s been blackmailing her. Have someone block the accountant’s passports, his wife’s passports, send someone out to them and do not let them confer, not with each other or Mansfield’s sister-in-law, get them in custody as soon as possiihh –“

He held the phone at arm’s length and stifled a sneeze into his shoulder. “IIIGNSH! Yes; we’re nearly there. Thank you; right here, Sherlock; keep me updated and I shall talk to you soon.”

He hung up, grabbed a tissue, and bent in a fit of rapid-fire, unsatisfying sneezes. “ISH! hhNGSH! ISHt! ISH!ISH!ISH! hh-hhhYISHOOOO!”

They pulled up outside the block of flats. There was a pale mist rolling in off the river; Greg drew a breath, feeling his pulse pound in his head like it did when something was about to happen.

“Is there anyone in there?” Sherlock asked, looking at the dark building.

“I don’t know.” Mycroft said. “Let’s find out.”

======

[cally]

Poor Mycroft. All the attention on the case and none on blessing the poor lamb.

I have a thought as to where you might go with this next and I'm giggling in delight!

[Spoo]

Noooooo! Omg, I was so sad when Greg and Mycroft started snapping at each other. Mostly because Mycroft seems like he's put up a few walls; he's extra guarded now. It's harder for poor Greg to get close. But man, that silver fox temper! Greg gets so riled so quickly (at least he wasn't kicking tires!).

I love Mycroft cracking the case. I could see it so perfectly (and hear him telling the other two to be quiet, haha).

He held the phone at arm’s length and stifled a sneeze into his shoulder. “IIIGNSH! Yes; we’re nearly there. Thank you; right here, Sherlock; keep me updated and I shall talk to you soon.”

Oh yesssss. I love sneezing-interrupting-speech. Especially when it happens to Mycroft!

“I don’t know.” Mycroft said. “Let’s find out.”

UGH. Be careful, babies!! Don't get hurt.

[AngelEyes]

“He’s got his emotionally-constipated face on. Don’t tell me the puppy love has worn off already.”

OMG. LOL!

Greg got into the back, feeling vaguely like a child whose parents were ignoring them.

Poor dear.

Greg’s temper rose. “Sorry that it’s not up to the pristine condition of your normal chariot, Your Highness – want me to lick your boots clean once I’m finished tidying it to your approval?”

Snippy!

He half-threw his phone at Greg and said. “Call Anthea. Tell her that – no, actually, give it to me.” Greg tossed the phone back, having already dialled.

LOL.

This is so brilliant! I'm so excited for more!

[YouAreHawTCHEW!]

THIS is pure gold. Thank you for writting it, the details are just... God these details!

[bangbang]

You guys are making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside! Thank you so much for reading!

Part 20 - In which Sherlock is overjoyed, Greg watches too many horror films, and everything terrible happens at once.

====

Greg had paused when they got to the locked glass entrance doors; Mycroft hadn’t, and, within minutes, had picked the lock, disabled the security system and got them inside. Greg supposed Sherlock must have learnt it from somewhere.

“John would have loved this,” Sherlock said, glumly, and for the first time Greg realised that the diminutive doctor hadn’t been mentioned all evening.

“Where is John?” he wanted to know.

Sherlock sighed. “Date. A woman called Mary. He seems to like this one.” He sounded forlorn.

“Really, brother,” Mycroft whispered with a sniffle, “now isn’t exactly the appropriate time for pining.”

“You’re one to talk,” Sherlock whispered back, pointedly. “What exactly are we looking for?”

“Lots of drugs,” Mycroft said, “and a bomb, and some corpses, and potentially drug smugglers.”

“All of my favourite things,” said Sherlock. Greg hoped it was sarcasm. “With a giant rat on top. Is it my birthday?”

=====

The building’s electricity hadn’t been turned on yet; which is how Greg found himself holding Sherlock’s sleeve as they navigated through a dark basement by the light of Mycroft’s phone, looking for a multi-million pound stash of smuggled drugs, and possibly a bomb. Mycroft himself was upstairs, waiting for Anthea’s promised team to arrive.

“I don’t think there’s anything down here,” Greg said, in a whisper, trying not to think of the iconic Silence of the Lambs scene.

“Unless it’s being stored – wait here,” said Sherlock, shaking him off, and the light bobbed away, leaving Greg in the pitch black. He held his breath and counted down from ten. And then, when the light didn’t come back, ten again.

“Sherlock?” No answer. “Sher –”

“Shhh!” A cold hand clamped around his wrist.

Greg bit back a volley of swearwords and instead settled for a whispered “Your hands are bloody freezing.”

“Do speak louder, there’s a deaf old lady in Wiltshire you haven’t woken yet,” Mycroft breathed, “and Sherlock’s gone to the - hhGNSH!” His grip on Greg’s wrist tightened momentarily and in the darkness Greg felt rather than heard him turn away. “hh-HHhhGNSHH!” The second sounded wetter and harder to stifle and Greg frowned in sympathy. Mycroft swallowed. “To the laundry area in the back room,” he whispered, sounding stuffy.

“How does he expect to find anything in this bloody dark?” Greg couldn’t see his hand if he waved it in front of his face; unless the Holmes’s were half owl or bat or some other nocturnal creature, he had no idea how this was going to work.

He was answered by a nearly silent “NGSCH!” and Mycroft held his wrist almost painfully. Greg manoeuvred himself out of the grip and felt his way up to Mycroft’s elbow.

“You OK?” He whispered, as quietly as possible.

“MMGsh! Hh-NGSH!” Mycroft shuddered violently with each sneeze and Greg could feel how much force it was taking to hold them back.

“This is ridiculous,” Greg muttered.

“I agree,” hissed Sherlock behind him, and Greg jumped almost out of his skin. “There’s nothing here, anyway.” The light from the phone shone under Sherlock’s chin, making him look even more ghoulish than normal.

“Do you have any phone recep – receh! Hhh! hhnNGNSH! hhNGSH! NSH!” Greg felt Mycroft stiffen beside him and it sounded like it was an effort to stop at those few.

“Not down here.” They made their way back up the dark stairs and into the faint light of the entrance hall. Mycroft looked dead on his feet and his breathing was coming in sharp little wheezes in his chest.

“Wait here,” Greg said, “and we’ll go upstairs.” Mycroft nodded.

“If you get any reception, call Anthea; they should be arriving any moment.” He pressed a wrist to his nose and stifled a harsh “HNNGSH!”

“Bless you,” said Greg, and he and Sherlock went upstairs.

They’d gone a little way down the hall when there was an almost inaudible beep. Greg froze – beside him, Sherlock flung out an arm.

He looked almost as white as Mycroft, as he pointed at the wall. Greg swallowed. “Shit.”

There was what looked like a motion sensor, and, propped up next to that, a small black box with numbers ticking down on it, triggered from when they’d ascended the stairs. That would have been bad enough; except, at the other end of the hallway, they heard a squeaking noise that made Greg’s blood run cold.

The phone buzzed, making both of them jump, and Greg scrambled to answer it.

“Yewan’s fled,” said Anthea, quickly, “his wife doesn’t know-”

“Wait –”

“Detective? ” She paused, and then hurtled on – “Tell Mycroft; the accountant, the one who’s running the ring, he’s gone – his mobile is switched off but his car GPS says he’s down by the flats; our team will be there in approximately two and a half minutes –”

“He’s here?” Greg hissed – and then, to Sherlock, who was pulling Greg slowly backwards down the stairs, “The accountant’s here – Anthea, we just set off the bomb. And I think we found the rat.”

There was a short silence. “Two and a half minutes,” Anthea said, “we think he’s armed. Stay low; stay together; get out.” She hung

up; Greg and Sherlock exchanged horrified looks and bolted down the stairs.

But when they got down, Mycroft was nowhere to be seen.

=====

DUNDUNDUN! Cliffhanger! I am evil.

[Spoo]

Hurray! An update!

His grip on Greg’s wrist tightened momentarily and in the darkness Greg felt rather than heard him turn away.

I love this sort of thing so much. When someone can actually feel the sneeze going through someone else.

But when they got down, Mycroft was nowhere to be seen.

. . . ! Mycroft, noooooo! Ohmygosh, he'd better be okay! I'm so worried! I'm also on the edge of my seat, ACK!!

And the bomb, and the rat, and...oh Lord. What a mess!

[AngelEyes]

“Lots of drugs,” Mycroft said, “and a bomb, and some corpses, and potentially drug smugglers.”

“All of my favourite things,” said Sherlock. Greg hoped it was sarcasm. “With a giant rat on top. Is it my birthday?”

Oh Sherlock. Really?

Mycroft holding onto Greg while sneezing! Yum. Total Hotness!

DUNDUNDUN! Cliffhanger! I am evil.

NONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Come back!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Please!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[Lietome]

Oh my god!!!!! I seriously can't even wait for more!! It's perfect!!!

[cally]

“Do speak louder, there’s a deaf old lady in Wiltshire you haven’t woken yet,” Mycroft breathed, “and Sherlock’s gone to the - hhGNSH!” His grip on Greg’s wrist tightened momentarily and in the darkness Greg felt rather than heard him turn away. “hh-HHhhGNSHH!” The second sounded wetter and harder to stifle and Greg frowned in sympathy. Mycroft swallowed. “To the laundry area in the back room,” he whispered, sounding stuffy.

Awwww Mycroft, you poor thing. Also LOL deaf old lady

But when they got down, Mycroft was nowhere to be seen.

nooooooooooooooo

I was so so so excited to read this update in the middle of the night (for me)!

[YouAreHawTCHEW!]

That cliffhanger!

Can't wait for next update!

[bangbang]

I was tempted to leave you all on that cliffhanger for a week or so, but... even I'm not THAT evil! So here it is!

Part 21 - In which Anthea is worth her weight in gold, Greg hates this kind of thing, and poor Mycroft gets a dunking.

=====

Later, Greg couldn’t have explained how it happened. He’d developed a procedural memory out of necessity while filing crime reports; but, as he and Sherlock raced out of the building, the overwhelming sensation was of panic. It was as though a fog had descended and all that was in his head was a distant screaming to get Mycroft and get out.

If he was pressed, he would have described the accountant as a tall man – his silhouette was around the same height as Mycroft’s but wider - with a ferrety sort of face and light chinos. His hair was slicked back in an oiled pompadour; his tan was visible even in the moonlight; his watch was ostentatiously expensive – in short, he looked like exactly the sort of man who would buy a giant pet rat and smuggle drugs.

All those details blurred into the background as he focused on one – the pistol he was holding. Greg wasn’t an expert on guns; he knew how to fire one but wasn’t used to having to do it. John Watson could probably have told you the make, the year and the type of bullets it took – all Greg knew was that it was several metres away from Mycroft and pointing straight at him.

Even from a distance, Mycroft’s face was white – he had both hands held at shoulder height in a pacifying gesture. He was halfway along a pier-like structure that looked like it had been built for the future residents of the flat to use as a patio. The accountant was standing just off it, on solid ground.

There was shouting; some of it from himself, some from the man with the gun as he waved it; there was a bang; there was a shove as something that was furry and waist-height barrelled past him and launched at the accountant; there was the slow arch of Mycroft’s back as he fell into the river and disappeared into the dark water.

In that moment Greg thought his heart had stopped. There was a dull roar in the back of his head, growing louder and louder and -

And then Mycroft’s head broke the surface, and he found himself running towards the bank, trying to remember the lifeguard training he’d had when he was sixteen, trying not to imagine how cold the Thames was in January –

But by the time he got to the water’s edge, Mycroft was already wading into the shallows, choking and spluttering, and Greg let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and ran down to help him out.

Mycroft was soaking as Greg pulled him up the bank, shivering so hard he was almost vibrating, and his lips were almost blue. Greg fumbled the sodden coat and suit jacket off him and yanked off his own coat, wrapping it around Mycroft’s shaking body. He was worryingly pliant. “Did he-” he started, running his hands over Mycroft’s torso for a bullet wound he prayed wasn’t there.

“Missed,” gasped Mycroft, “Sher –” Greg spun around to try and see Sherlock. He was standing over the accountant, gun in his hand, as the enormous rat slowly slipped into the Thames and swam away. Sherlock met Greg’s eyes and nodded tightly.

“Fine – see, he’s fine –”

The roaring noise had gotten louder still and for the first time Greg realised it wasn’t the rush of blood in his head – he looked up in time to see a helicopter circle over the building. At the same time, there was the crunch of gravel and a horde of black vans pulled up.

“Here comes the cavalry,” Mycroft wheezed, drew a deep, shuddering breath, and bent almost double, sneezing into cupped hands.

“YISHOOO! Hhh-HHHYISH! ITSCH! ISH! ISH! ISHH! HehhRRRSHHHOOOO!”

Greg, eager to get him warmed up, half-pushed him towards the car and into the backseat. He could vaguely make out a team of five running towards Sherlock and another racing into the building. Through his adrenaline haze, he realised that Anthea was coming towards him, moving surprisingly fast in six-inch heels.

“Is he - ” For once, she wasn’t holding her phone – she looked as rattled as Greg felt. He shut the door to keep the heat in the car and to stop Mycroft from climbing back out.

“He went into the Thames – not shot though; I think he’s alright – Anthea, the bomb-”

“Right,” Anthea said, “we’ve got the bomb squad in there – thirty seconds should do it - did you say the rat –”

“Went into the water; swam away, I don’t -” They were both almost babbling. Anthea shook her head in a decisive movement that reminded Greg almost forcibly of Mycroft.

“Right. We’ll send Sherlock over in a minute – I’ll keep you informed; get him home and into bed, Sherlock knows the way.” She glanced at the car. “I’ll deal with this. Tell him.” With that, she pulled her phone out and clipped away.

Greg shook his head; he didn’t understand anything about Mycroft’s world, but he was glad there was someone like Anthea in it. He opened the car door.

“I’m dripping all over your upholstery,” Mycroft managed to stutter.

“I’ll send you the bill,” said Greg, climbing in and putting the heating on full blast. Mycroft almost laughed and broke into a cough that sounded like plague victims and hospitals.

“Jesus,” Greg moaned, feeling Mycroft’s hands; they felt more like icicles than flesh. He tucked them into his own armpits, ignoring Mycroft’s sounds of protest, and pressed up against him. “Let’s get you warmed up before you get bloody pneumonia.”

“hhhhYISHOOO!” Mycroft sneezed into his own shoulder, cringing away from Greg. Greg tutted and pulled him closer into his body heat. “HHHTISHOOO! Heh-SHOOO!”

“Bless you.” Greg shifted so Mycroft’s head was tucked into the hollow of his shoulder. Mycroft made a desperate little sniffling noise, and Greg rubbed his back. The coat Greg had thrown over him was already damp. “It’s OK,” he said, wincing to think of how cold Mycroft must be.

Mycroft rested damp hair against Greg’s shoulder and asked in a hoarse whisper; “Did you find the bomb?”

“God. Yeah, we did – don’t worry about that now. Your people are sorting it out.”

“I should go and -”

“No.” Greg rubbed Mycroft’s back again as he coughed. “Anthea told me she could deal with it. For once in your life, let someone else be in charge – you don’t have to be responsible for everything.”

Mycroft made a small noise of disagreement and then yanked away from Greg with a harsh gasp. He clasped his hands over his face and sneezed – they sounded wet and intense, almost falling over each other with their speed. “ISH! HH-RRRSH! HHHH-YISHOOO! ISH!”

Greg handed him a tissue and then pulled him back in closer. “Sherlock’ll be back in just a minute, then we’ll get you home,” he murmured, and Mycroft nodded, snuffling wearily into the tissue in a way that made Greg tighten his arms around his thin shoulders.

The door burst open and Sherlock leaned in. “Are you –”

“Fine; he’s freezing, but fine.” Greg answered over his shoulder. “Do we need to stay for anything? Do you think we should get a doctor?”

He felt Mycroft shake his head against him, and Sherlock said “He wasn’t in the water long enough to get frostbite or hypothermia – if we get him warmed up and dried quickly enough he should be alright. I’ve already told them we’re leaving. Any debriefs can wait.” He slammed the door and went round to the driver’s side.

Greg disentangled himself from Mycroft long enough to buckle both their seatbelts. Mycroft attempted to do his own, but his hands looked numb and he lay back, compliant, and let Greg click it into place. Greg folded him back into a hug, winding his legs around Mycroft’s longer ones and blowing on his stiff fingers. He didn’t miss Sherlock’s smirk in the rearview mirror, but found that he didn’t really care how much of a fool he was making of himself; until Mycroft had reached some semblance of normal body temperature, this was the best way to warm him up.

Mycroft shuddered as Sherlock started to drive, and then shook with a long, exhausted fit of coughing, muffled against Greg’s shoulder. He drew a sharp breath afterwards and pulled his hands free. Greg gently pressed a tissue into his cold fingers.

Mycroft, angling his head, sneezed into it. “hhhYISHOOO! HHH-SHOOO! HhhHHIIISHOO! SHOO! ISH!-ISH!-ISHOOO!” He seemed unable to stop; Sherlock’s worried eyes searched for Greg’s in the mirror as Mycroft trembled with the violent convulsions. “hhhyTISHOOOO! ITSCHOOOO! ISH! Hhh-hheh-YISHOOO!”

“You’re alright,” Greg murmured, clutching Mycroft tighter, “You’re alright.”

A final, merciful “YISHOOOOOO!” seemed to rid him of the tickle at last and Mycroft buried himself deeper into Greg’s arms, almost subconsciously seeking the heat.

“Bless you.” Greg rubbed his back, feeling his wet body shake.

Mycroft gave a miserable snuffle and a half-formed cough. But eventually Greg’s body heat and the movement of the car seemed to lull him, and he dozed off to sleep on Greg’s shoulder as they drove through London.

====

[cally]

Awwwwwwwwwww

I know of a better way to warm him up, Gregory.

[ID2006]

Yay, snuggles! And Mycroft lets him and leans against him. Melts into smiley pile of goo.

[Spoo]

Voice comment number 3!

[Wildwood]

SLEEPING ON THE SHOULDER AAAHHHH AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH

[AngelEyes]

Greg shook his head; he didn’t understand anything about Mycroft’s world, but he was glad there was someone like Anthea in it.

She's definitely the best!

“No.” Greg rubbed Mycroft’s back again as he coughed. “Anthea told me she could deal with it. For once in your life, let someone else be in charge – you don’t have to be responsible for everything.”

Yes Mycroft!

He didn’t miss Sherlock’s smirk in the rearview mirror, but found that he didn’t really care how much of a fool he was making of himself; until Mycroft had reached some semblance of normal body temperature, this was the best way to warm him up.

Oh Sherlock. Be nice! That's right Greg. Take care of the poor dear!

Mycroft, angling his head, sneezed into it. “hhhYISHOOO! HHH-SHOOO! HhhHHIIISHOO! SHOO! ISH!-ISH!-ISHOOO!” He seemed unable to stop; Sherlock’s worried eyes searched for Greg’s in the mirror as Mycroft trembled with the violent convulsions. “hhhyTISHOOOO! ITSCHOOOO! ISH! Hhh-hheh-YISHOOO!”

“You’re alright,” Greg murmured, clutching Mycroft tighter, “You’re alright.”

A final, merciful “YISHOOOOOO!” seemed to rid him of the tickle at last and Mycroft buried himself deeper into Greg’s arms, almost subconsciously seeking the heat.

Um. Yeah. Pretty sure I just died! Hotness. Poor baby.

[YouAreHawTCHEW!]

Now Greg can finally take a proper care of the poor guy!

Thanks for not leaving us with a cliffhanger, this is another cool chapter and I can't wait for all the cute stuff to happen!

[blackrose]

poor Mycroft! As if he was not sick enough before, this is going to warrant a week in bed at least!

[SneezyRae]

Poor Mycroft but yay Greg finally gets chance to take care of him