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

[Coffee Chicken Barista]

I've been reading this story since the beginning and I keep forgetting to comment on it but it is so adorable! Poor Mycroft.

[bangbang]

Thank you all so, so much for reading! I am the worst person in the world for dragging it out this long and for vanishing without a trace just as it got cuddly. So here is the next part!

Part 22 - In which Mycroft has a shower (alone, sadly), Sherlock is nice for a change, and the tailors of London are very grateful for the eldest Holmes.

====

Greg held Mycroft half-propped up, gripping him around the waist, as Sherlock unlocked the door to a tall townhouse. The wet, expensive fabric of Mycroft’s waistcoat was freezing Greg’s fingertips. He rubbed the middle of Mycroft’s back in some small measure of comfort, feeling the bumps of vertebrae and the constant shaking. He bit his lip; he would feel much more relaxed once Mycroft was warm and dry and wasn’t in danger of losing any toes to frostbite.

Sherlock let them in and flicked the light on as he strode down the hallway. The warmth of the house seeped into Greg’s bones like a hug. He followed Sherlock into the kitchen, gently pulling Mycroft along into the heat.

Mycroft was shivering harder than ever and seemed barely awake. He leaned away from Greg, causing him to tighten his hold, and sneezed into his elbow. There wasn’t even a pretence of holding them back anymore – just the sneezes himself seemed to drain him without any additional effort. Greg felt them shake through his body like an earthquake or a hurricane or some other unstoppable force.

“YISHOOOO! HhhSHOOO! Heh!heh!hhhYISH! ISHOO!-ISHOO!-Heh – ISSHHH! Ouch,” he said, breathlessly, pressing a hand to his own chest as though it hurt. He staggered slightly away from Greg and leaned against the wall.

Sherlock turned on the kettle then, frowning, grabbed his brother by the wrist. “Help me get him upstairs,” he told Greg, slinging his arm around the small of Mycroft’s back.

“I can walk by myself,” said Mycroft, but he was barely audible over his chattering teeth, and Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically.

They made it up the staircase, Mycroft clinging to Sherlock and the bannister and Greg following anxiously behind, and entered a bathroom. Sherlock fiddled with a fancy-looking shower and a jet of water so hot it was almost steam came gushing out. He stripped Mycroft of his tie and waistcoat in a business-like manner. “I’m surprised you didn’t drown under the weight of all the cloth you’re wearing - you aren’t obliged to keep every tailor on Savile Row in a job, you know.”

Mycroft gave a wheezy kind of laugh and then leaned away from Sherlock in a gesture that was all tiredness and sneezed into the crook of his elbow. “YISH! ISH! Hhhhhh….hhh!hh!HHHRRRSSHHH!”

“Bless you. Do you want me to…” Greg tilted his head at the door, feeling uncomfortable – much as he wanted to see Mycroft undressed (and that was a problem within itself), this wasn’t exactly the situation he’d fantasised about.

Sherlock, yanking at Mycroft’s cufflinks, threw a haughty “Make tea. Bring it up,” over his shoulder to Greg.

Grateful to have something to do, he went to the kitchen and opened several hundred cupboards before he found tealeaves and a pot, and then several hundred more looking for honey while the tea brewed. Widening his search, he located a bottle of cough syrup, some Ibuprofen, and another box of tissues.

The shower was a comforting sound; he sat down at the kitchen table as he waited for the kettle to boil and listened. He could hear Sherlock’s voice, softer than usual, and a prolonged, chesty cough. He put everything on a tray and took it upstairs, then hesitantly knocked on the bathroom door.

Sherlock opened it, looked at the tray and grabbed the tissues. He didn’t bother closing the door, instead striding back in and saying, over the noise of the shower, “Here, if toilet paper doesn’t meet your exacting standards.”

The steam and the heat from the shower were obviously taking their toll on Mycroft’s cold. Although Greg pointedly turned away from the bathroom so as not to invade his privacy, he could hear Mycroft snuffling even from the door. The conclusion wasn’t unexpected; even so, Greg almost dropped the tray at the first unrestrained sequence of sneezes.

“HHHHH-ISCHOOOO! HEH-HHHSTCHOOO! Hhhhh!SHHHHIOOOO! YISHOOOO!” Magnified by the shower enclosure, they seemed more enormous than ever and once again Greg marvelled at how much effort it must have cost Mycroft to stifle them before.

Over the water, he just about heard Sherlock say, in a surprisingly kind tone, “Here – take these. I’ll get you something to put on for when you come out.” There was a pause, as Mycroft obviously spoke – but it was too quiet for Greg to make anything out, and he finished with another violent “HHHHRRRRSHHHH!” that almost drowned out Sherlock’s answer of “I don’t know, I’ll ask him.”

Greg shuffled out of the way as Sherlock slipped out and closed the door on another volley of sneezes. “Living room,” he said, indicating for Greg to follow him, and took him into a room with sofas and a long, low coffee table. “I have to go and see if he owns any clothes that don’t button at the wrist. There’s a hot water bottle in the cupboard under the sink.” He stalked out of the room.

Greg went, filled the hot water bottle and made his way back upstairs as Sherlock exited what was apparently Mycroft’s bedroom holding a handful of cloth. He shoved some of them at Greg. “He thinks he got you wet in the car – you have the dubious pleasure of wearing pyjamas that probably cost more than your rent.”

“I’m not wet,” Greg said – holding Mycroft had made him slightly damp, but he had dried within minutes of entering the warm house.

“I know that,” Sherlock said irritably, “but he’s got a guilt complex wider than the Amazon River and a fever to boot, so humour him.”

He took the hot water bottle and slid it in between some of the layers; from the bathroom, they heard an explosive “ihhYISHOOO!” Sherlock pulled a face. “I need to find him a blanket. And a decongestant.”

“You’re being nice to him,” Greg accused him gleefully. He felt almost giddy now that they were safe, and inside, and Mycroft was in a hot shower and didn’t have a bullet wound.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “If he ends up in hospital, Mummy will make me go and visit him. It’s simple self-preservation.”

Greg bumped shoulders. “You’re being ni-ice,” he said in a singsong, and Sherlock clipped him over the head with one of Mycroft’s slippers and stalked back into the bathroom.

====

[cally]

Awwwww poor Mycroft. I hope he can get some additional cuddles soon.

[Wildwood]

Sherlock would refer to his mother as 'Mummy' I adore this! Thanks for starting back up again!

[ID2006]

So happy to see you back.

[Spoo]

YAY!! I'm so happy you've returned to us. Hehe.

Ouch,” he said, breathlessly, pressing a hand to his own chest as though it hurt.

... Omg, that broke my heart. The poor thing! And awwwww, when Mycroft wanted to give Greg clothes because he thought he'd gotten Greg wet. At least now Mycroft can get warm and cozy in his pajamas and slippers. It'll probably be the most "informal" Greg will ever see him.

[YouAreHawTCHEW!]

Sherlock saying Mummy... XD

I really like the way you write this!

[bangbang]

Awwwww poor Mycroft. I hope he can get some additional cuddles soon.

I'm sure he will...

Sherlock would refer to his mother as 'Mummy' I adore this! Thanks for starting back up again!

Haha! Both the Holmes Bros seem to have Mummy issues.

So happy to see you back.

I know! I am bad at juggling life and stuff.

YAY!! I'm so happy you've returned to us. Hehe.

Omg, that broke my heart. The poor thing! And awwwww, when Mycroft wanted to give Greg clothes because he thought he'd gotten Greg wet. At least now Mycroft can get warm and cozy in his pajamas and slippers. It'll probably be the most "informal" Greg will ever see him.

Mycroft Holmes doesn't lend his pjs to just anybody!

Sherlock saying Mummy... XD

I really like the way you write this!

Aww thank you!

WOW I AM SO BAD AT UPDATES.

Part 23 - In which stuff comes to the surface and Sherlock is a pest.

===

Mycroft and Sherlock emerged from the bathroom several minutes later in a cloud of fragrant steam. Mycroft was dressed in blue flannel pyjamas and a grey silk dressing gown and his hair looked like it had been roughly towel-dried, with an errant curl over his forehead. The tissues were tucked under his arm and it struck Greg that this was the first time he’d ever seen Mycroft out of a waistcoat or without his umbrella. He looked about twenty years younger and somehow smaller.

Greg had hastily gotten changed when he heard the water turn off – Mycroft’s pyjamas were soft and comfortable and he caught himself inhaling the smell of fabric softener and something expensive – probably special wardrobe-cologne imported from the south of France, knowing Mycroft. The smell gave him a little pang in his chest; he found himself wishing that he was wearing these too-long pyjamas under different circumstances. He imagined himself bringing Mycroft breakfast in bed or lounging on the sofa together, and forcibly put it out of his mind.

Sherlock half-shoved Mycroft onto the sofa opposite Greg, marched out, returned with a huge cashmere blanket, and flopped down beside his brother.

“Thank you for the tea.” Mycroft sounded horrendously congested, even after the shower, and Sherlock started opening packets of pills.

“Ibuprofen, Sudafed, and whatever disgusting cough syrup this is.” He poured a measure into a cup and Mycroft drank it obediently, then swallowed the pills with a sip of tea. Sherlock tossed the blanket onto his knee. “You can unfold it yourself; I’m not your nursemaid.” Which was really, Greg imagined, Sherlock’s way of saying I-love-you-and-you-worried-me-so-hurry-up-and-get-better.

Mycroft obviously understood this too; he gave Sherlock a weary twitch of a smile and a hoarse “Of course you’re not.” His breath spiked; Greg leaned forward and offered him the tissues.

“hhhhhISHOOO! ISCHhhhhh! Hhh-ISSSH! Hh!hh!SHOOOO!” Mycroft accepted the tissues gratefully, then sat back and shook out the blanket, clumsily unfolding it with fingers that were surely still stiff with cold.

Sherlock snorted in what he probably imagined sounded more like scorn than concern and snatched the blanket, spreading it out and roughly tucking it under Mycroft’s legs and around his shoulders until he looked like a makeshift cocoon.

“Where’s your phone? I need to call John; his date’s gone uninterrupted for far too long.”

Mycroft started a shrug but instead pulled the blanket tighter around himself and clapped a handful of tissues over his face. “ISH! HHHH-RRRRRSHH! Heh-RSSHHH! ISCH! ISCHOOO!”

“Bless you.” To Sherlock, Greg said, “It’s in my coat pocket. In the hall.”

Sherlock nodded and then, not looking at Mycroft, said “Drink your tea; it’ll help.” He glared at Greg and stormed out of the room.

Mycroft wrapped his hands around a cup and leaned back. “He does so hate the idea of doing anything as pedestrian as caring.” It took Greg a second to make out the word pedestrian – Mycroft’s voice was fraying.

“Runs in the family, does it?” Greg scoffed; Mycroft tapped the edge of his teacup and smiled faintly.

“Only us.” Greg had met both Holmes parents before and been shocked at their ordinariness. He wondered, not for the first time, what it must have been like for the odd little family. From snide remarks by Sherlock, he got the impression that their parents had been at a bit of a loss with what to do with them – Mycroft seemed to have raised himself, and later, Sherlock, and Greg felt a little sad for him. Both Mr and Mrs Holmes seemed kind and well-meaning but he imagined they’d passed over a lot of parental responsibility to their eldest son when their youngest turned out to be just as strangely brilliant.

“Look, I’m sorry for snapping. Earlier, in the car.” Greg pulled a face. “And for, you know, everything else.” Meaning – my inappropriate crush. The fact that I can’t stop thinking about you.

“Like pulling me out of the Thames, and chasing drug smugglers and giant rats and bombs through the night at my request? I’m sure I’ll forgive you somehow.” Mycroft said, sardonically, but there was no bite in his voice – possibly because he was losing it.

There was a short silence and then, quietly, Greg said, “You know what I mean. Don’t humiliate me by pretending you don’t.”

====

DUN DUN DUN!!

[cally]

Oh just make out already!

[ID2006]

Sooooo good.

[Wildwood]

OH SHIT!

Oh just make out already!

Agreed. Yaaass.

[Spoo]

Sherlock nodded and then, not looking at Mycroft, said “Drink your tea; it’ll help.” He glared at Greg and stormed out of the room.

This, as always, is amazing. Sherlock being a good brother and trying to cover his tracks by feigning indifference/annoyance, and Greg getting thrown some shade. Haha!

Greg had met both Holmes parents before and been shocked at their ordinariness. He wondered, not for the first time, what it must have been like for the odd little family. From snide remarks by Sherlock, he got the impression that their parents had been at a bit of a loss with what to do with them – Mycroft seemed to have raised himself, and later, Sherlock, and Greg felt a little sad for him. Both Mr and Mrs Holmes seemed kind and well-meaning but he imagined they’d passed over a lot of parental responsibility to their eldest son when their youngest turned out to be just as strangely brilliant.

Oh my God, yes. This makes so much sense to me!

“Like pulling me out of the Thames, and chasing drug smugglers and giant rats and bombs through the night at my request? I’m sure I’ll forgive you somehow.” Mycroft said, sardonically, but there was no bite in his voice – possibly because he was losing it.

There was a short silence and then, quietly, Greg said, “You know what I mean. Don’t humiliate me by pretending you don’t.”

We ALL know what you mean, Greg. I can't wait to read Mycroft's response!

[bangbang]

THANKS GUYS! I am so happy that some of you are still reading! (There's like 7 parts left... I may have a problem...) As an off-hand, Spoo, my feelings regarding Ma and Pa Holmes are many and varied - good people do not always necessarily make good parents. In the show, Mycroft is definitely given a parental role regarding Sherlock (far more prominently than his real parents - he's a mentor and a mother-father figure substitute but at the same time very much a bickering brother) and I essentially see them as being raised in a loving but dysfunctional household.

ANYWAY. I won't leave you (or Greg!) hanging for any longer.

Part 24 - In which Mycroft likes Jammy Dodgers, Sherlock is always right, and Greg doesn't write poetry.

====

Mycroft sighed, and closed his eyes. “I’d rather hoped you weren’t going to mention it. Not, of course, that you could avoid it, really; Sherlock was hardly being subtle.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and gave a damp sniffle. One long, well-kept hand reached for the tissues and he blotted a handful under his nose.

Greg’s stomach flipped. So he had been that obvious in his mooning over Mycroft; the other man had just been too polite to bring it up. And now he’d just had a dunk in a sub-zero river and Greg was still whining about how much he fancied him.

“Sorry,” he muttered, feeling smaller than he ever had done in his life, “I never meant to -”

“Not your fault,” Mycroft said, fingering the edge of the blanket – God, he couldn’t even look at Greg. “These things – I hope you understand that I won’t make our future interactions difficult. And of course, I’ll ensure they’re minimalized as much as possible.”

It was a better outcome than Greg could have hoped for; at least Mycroft wasn’t disgusted by him, or worse, laughed in his face. “Fair enough,” he said. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Before, I mean, in the car, with the…” he trailed off, not knowing what to call their odd embrace.

Mycroft was flushing; probably didn’t want to be reminded of how pathetic Greg’s attempts to get close to him were. “It’s not your fault – you were doing what you thought best, and I’m very grateful for everything you’ve done tonight.” He passed a hand over his eyes and leaned back. “You’ll have to forgive me. This has… developed at a bad time; I’ve not been terribly well, normally I would have been much less obvious with my affections. I di—ihhhh!HHH!GNSH! NGsh! NGSH! HhhGNSHHH!”

He stifled, forcefully, and then clutched his temple. Greg felt a tremendous wave of pity through his humiliation; and then replayed what Mycroft had said and stopped dead.

“Wait. Your affections?”

Mycroft looked up at him with tired, glassy eyes, like the disturbed surface of a pond. “Yes – Sherlock’s been quite obvious about it –

I’d rather hoped to hide it from you. It’s not as if-”

“Hold on,” Greg interrupted, “sorry, but Sherlock was making fun of me.”

Mycroft gave him a wary, weary glance. “What do you mean?”

“I thought - Sherlock’s been – I fancy you like mad,” Greg said, and almost regretted it; until he saw the slow revelation dawning on Mycroft’s face.

“I knew I was missing somethi-hhhh - something,” he said, and grabbed another handful of tissues. “hhhh-hh-HNCHSHOO! ISH! HehhhYISHOO! Hhhh-YISH! HHHH-RRRRSHOOOOOO!” He clutched the hot water bottle closer to his chest – he looked like one more sneeze would finish him off, but he gave Greg a wan little smile all the same. He was shivering again, the blanket having fallen off his shoulders during his last fit.

Greg walked around the coffee table, tentatively, and sat beside him. He took the blanket and wrapped it around Mycroft, a bit more gently than Sherlock had, and Mycroft didn’t flinch away.

“Bless you. So – before, with everything - you thought that I didn’t…” Greg trailed off. Mycroft nodded from behind a fresh batch of tissues, glancing at him sideways.

“I’m not particularly alluring in this state – and you said yourself, I’m hardly operating at my full mental capacity.”

There was a short silence. “Some genius you are,” Greg said. “If I’d been any more obvious I would’ve been writing you a sonnet.”

Mycroft gave a throaty little choke that was probably meant to be a chuckle. “I would enjoy reading your efforts.”

“Nah, you wouldn’t. I’ve got no imagination – it would just be “I like your suits and your fancy hair. Let’s get a drink.””

“I’ve always been a fan of post-modern verse.” Mycroft paused and looked down at the tea. “Would you like to?” he asked, quietly. “Perhaps not for a few days – I’d rather like to shake this off first, and I imagine there’s going to be an Everest of paperwork from tonight. But, if you’re sincere about -”

“I’ll pick you up,” Greg interrupted, “and this time, I get to choose the radio station.”

Mycroft gave a breathless little huff and then, in a shiver that was beyond weariness, immersed his nose in the tissues. “hhhISH! ISCHOOOO! HEH-TISHOOOOO! ISH! Hhh-RRRSSCHOOO!” The sneezes came in a frantic avalanche, but at least Mycroft wasn’t stifling them anymore. Greg put his arm around him, and with a final “HHHH-RRRSSSH!” Mycroft sighed and leaned against him.

“Bless you,” Greg said, rubbing Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft gave a quiet, exhausted cough. “Thank you.” He sounded almost asleep.

Greg sat there for a second, head skimming through the events of the night. He thought of all Sherlock’s snide remarks and sideways glances, and laughed. “Bloody Sherlock knew all along.”

“Knew what all along?” asked Sherlock, who’d just come back in. “Eurgh,” he said, taking in the pair’s position on the sofa, “that. One of the very few times in my life where I didn’t want to be right. I’m going home. Do try not to die, Mycroft, funerals bore me. Lestrade,” he said, pointedly, “come and see me off.”

====

Greg stood by the stairs as Sherlock looped his scarf around his neck. “You interrupted John’s date, then?” he asked, while waiting for the Holmesian version of you-break-his-heart-I’ll-break-your-legs.

“He’s staying at hers. “ Sherlock looked faintly disgusted.

“Ah well,” said Greg, cheerfully. “At least someone’s getting some tonight.”

“I assumed,” Sherlock said, rather snootily, “that that was your intention.”

Greg blew a puff of air out of his mouth. So Sherlock was worried about his brother’s honour. “Not likely. He hasn’t bought me dinner yet.”

There was a short silence, as Sherlock rewound his scarf needlessly. Greg folded his arms and leaned on the bannister, suppressing a grin. “Need help getting a cab?”

“He’s a pompous, irritating, arrogant sod.” Sherlock said, in reply. “He’s obsessive-compulsive – diagnosed, medicated, he used to be a lot worse - so don’t rearrange his bookshelves or you’ll find yourself deported to Siberia. He likes Jammy Dodgers although he’ll deny it because he doesn’t think they’re proper enough – whatever that means – and he doesn’t eat seafood because when I was five I asked him if a lobster was the ocean’s version of a cockroach and he’s never gotten over it." He glared at Greg's snort of laughter and continued.

"He has uncontrollable sneezing fits and always has done, I used to count them when I was a child and wanted to annoy him. I think the most I ever reached was a hundred and seventy six when he had a summer cold and hayfever at the same time. Stifling them gives him a terrible headache, and holding them back makes him sneeze even more, but he does both anyway because he’s completely repressed and inexplicably nervous about attention. He never admits he’s ill for the same reasons and he has no sense of self-preservation and, as I’ve said, a pathetic immune system, so he gets ill frequently, even though he hasn’t been seen in public without that umbrella since 1996. He will never be able to tell you about problems at work and he’s almost pathologically phobic of emotions, and-”

“Stop,” said Greg, “you’ll ruin all the mystery.”

Sherlock scowled at him. “You should know what you’re getting into. Because if you take it to another level and then back out he will be insufferable, and I will be the one who has to suffer him. Mycroft doesn’t do casual.”

Greg shrugged. “What makes you think I do?”

Sherlock looked at him suspiciously; then briskly fastened his coat and opened the door. “Make sure he takes some more cough syrup before you leave. A douse in the Thames would give anyone a chest infection. And hospitals are so terribly dull.”

“I will do.” Greg resisted the urge to clap Sherlock on the back, instead settling for his widest grin, which was always guaranteed to annoy. Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard Greg was surprised they didn’t fall out, and swept off into the night like a grumpier Batman.

Greg watched him for a second; then turned and sprinted back up the steps.

======

Don't you just feel all warm and fluffy inside?

[cally]

I literally have no words. Just wow.

[Spoo]

incoherent squealing noises

[NorthernLady]

Don't you just feel all warm and fluffy inside?

Got fluff coming out of my ears so yeah! What a wonderful ride it has been Can't wait to see what you'll write next!

[Garnet]

Aw I'm behind on comments again. Still greatly enjoying this, I love love love the slow burn, but of course the final payoff is satisfying too. That mutual misunderstanding where both parties are feeling embarrassing and moping over their "unrequited" affections is like my very favorite trope and you did a lovely job of it.

Also, I have to say that while the focus is on Greg and Mycroft, I think your Sherlock is one of the best-written ones I've seen. His mannerisms and speech patterns are perfect, and I love him just nipping around being a fussy, pushy brat, but totally taking care of his brother in his own way.

“You interrupted John’s date, then?” he asked, while waiting for the Holmesian version of you-break-his-heart-I’ll-break-your-legs.

That phrasing.

“I will do.” Greg resisted the urge to clap Sherlock on the back, instead settling for his widest grin, which was always guaranteed to annoy. Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard Greg was surprised they didn’t fall out, and swept off into the night like a grumpier Batman.

No, seriously, I'm dying.

[YouAreHawTCHEW!]

SQUEEEEEEE!!!! *faints from all the cuteness and fluffiness and warmth and AHHHH!!!*

Sherlock is being a great brother just now, and even in previous chapter he was being all like "I don't care about you." but he was acting so nice!

And the fact that Mycroft thought that HE was the one thinking inapropriate and having inapropriate feelings is just, just so unexpected. And now they finally understand eachother and AHHH!!! This is going to be best future chapters to come!!!

And the way you write Mycrofts sneezes it's just so beautifull!

I really hope Greg will stay and cuddle Mycroft and do all those cudly things!!!

I apologise for the rant, but this proves just how awesome this story is!

And yes I do feel warm and fluffy inside.

[ID2006]

Everything Garnet said... just with more squeeing, and if that's not a word it should be.

[Wildwood]

I wish I knew the appropriate words to express how SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE :wubsmiley:

[bangbang]

I literally have no words. Just wow.

Don't worry, I have plenty! Of words, that is.

incoherent squealing noises

Every time I get a voice comment from you I get so so happy, your enthusiasm is infectious and so flatttering. And yeah, Sherlock is basically making Greg sign on the dotted line - love the "terms and conditions of Mycroft Holmes"!!

Got fluff coming out of my ears so yeah! What a wonderful ride it has been Can't wait to see what you'll write next!

It's not over! There is so much fluff to come.

Aw I'm behind on comments again. Still greatly enjoying this, I love love love the slow burn, but of course the final payoff is satisfying too. That mutual misunderstanding where both parties are feeling embarrassing and moping over their "unrequited" affections is like my very favorite trope and you did a lovely job of it.

Also, I have to say that while the focus is on Greg and Mycroft, I think your Sherlock is one of the best-written ones I've seen. His mannerisms and speech patterns are perfect, and I love him just nipping around being a fussy, pushy brat, but totally taking care of his brother in his own way.

URGH so happy you like it! Yeah, Sherlock is a snappy little bugger but he does care.

And the way you write Mycrofts sneezes it's just so beautifull!

I really hope Greg will stay and cuddle Mycroft and do all those cudly things!!!

Yay! Really happy you're enjoying with it... and don't worry, cuddles will follow!

Everything Garnet said... just with more squeeing, and if that's not a word it should be.

Totally a word.

I wish I knew the appropriate words to express how SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

An emoji is worth a thousand words!

Part 25 - In which our star-crossed lovers finally get some time alone.

====

“What did Sherlock want?” Mycroft drained his teacup and cuddled closer into the blanket. His nose was tinged a violent shade of crimson and his voice was nothing more than a dry rasp; Greg shook his head.

“You sound like you’re feeling awful. I’m guessing that dip didn’t do you much good.”

“I’m guessing you may be right,” Mycroft croaked, and then crumbled in on himself in a coughing fit that made him clutch his side. Greg frowned.

“You want some more tea? And then get some more of that medicine down you.”

Mycroft, in lieu of answering, handed his cup to Greg.

As he went back up the stairs, clutching two steaming cups of tea, he heard Mycroft launch into what must be one of the sneezing fits Sherlock had described. He tutted as he entered the living room, put the tea down, and flopped down next to Mycroft.

Mycroft was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, face almost entirely hidden by an abundance of tissues. He edged away a little as Greg came in. The sneezes were coming in a steam-train-fast procession now, like the fit he'd had in the café bathroom. Greg shook his head in sympathy.

“ISHOOO! ISH!ISH!HHH-ISCHT! HEH-RRSH! Hh-ISSSSHHOOOO!” Mycroft took advantage of the momentary relief to blow his nose.

It didn’t seem to do much good, because he pitched forward with another set, even more violent than the last. “HH-ISH-OOO! HHHISH! ISCHT! ISCHhhht! hhhTISHOOO! HHH-RRRRSSHHHH!”

Greg frowned again – they were sounding heavier and wetter and stronger than before, and he wasn’t sure if his unexpected swim in the river had caused Mycroft more harm than anyone had realised.

Mycroft seemed caught in an endless cycle of quivering breaths; he swapped out his tissues and Greg briefly saw the tender rawness of his septum underneath fluttering nostrils before he whipped forward. “HEH-RSHHHHH!” The ending was long and muffled, as though it was an effort to fully expel the sneeze. They seemed to be slowing now; Mycroft was forced to endure at least twenty seconds of miserable, drawn-out inhalations before getting relief.

“heh!hhhh!AAHHHH!SSSHHHHHHHOOOO! uhh!hhheh!aauhhh! YISSSHHOOU!”

“Bless you,” Greg said, rubbing Mycroft’s back sympathetically.

“Thaahh! Thank –hhheh! UHHHH! AAhhh!HHHHYRRRRSSSSSHHHOOO!”

“Shh,” Greg commanded and pushed Mycroft’s hair back off his forehead.

Mycroft finally finished the fit – and if Greg was relieved, how must he have felt? – with a teasing, tickling few sneezes that made him collapse into the tissues like a marionette with cut strings.

“hhhh…hhhhh! – hh!HHH!HHH!RRRRSSSHOOOO! hh-h-hhh-hh….HHHISSSHHHHH! heh-hh!HEH-RRRSH!”

“Bless you. God, are you alright?” Greg pulled out a handful of tissues and Mycroft accepted them with a slow, measured movement, as though his head was spinning. He blew his nose (Greg winced at the hard, unproductive sound) and finally lowered the tissues. His eyes looked teary, and the edges of his nostrils were red-raw and chapped.

Greg reached out and put the back of his hand on Mycroft’s forehead. “You’re burning up again.” He was at a bit of a loss – he’d heard about icebaths but couldn’t imagine getting cold and wet again would do Mycroft much good.

“Ibuprofen will start working soon.” It sounded like the colossal sneezes had worn Mycroft’s throat down even more.

“Here – Sherlock said you should take some more of this.” Greg poured and handed Mycroft a measure of the cough syrup; he

downed it, eyes half-closed, and Greg carefully put his teacup in his hand. “Drink this and then get into bed. Try and sleep at least a bit of this off, yeah? How long’s it been since you got a good night’s rest?”

Mycroft gave a little splutter. “Roughly twenty years. I’m not terribly good at sleeping.” He looked completely worn out; headachey and feverish and sniffly. Greg impulsively pulled him into a sidehug.

“Well, hopefully you’ll sleep tonight – you should do, what with all the running about we’ve been doing. You’ll have to let me know when the debriefs are – I’m actually looking forward to untangling this mess.”

Mycroft slouched down on the sofa so he was slightly shorter, and Greg tipped his shoulder so Mycroft’s head rested upon it. They sat there for a while, both sipping their tea, Greg listening to Mycroft’s tight, wheezing breaths and feeling happier than he had in a long time. As Mycroft’s breathing started to even out, he shook himself into action.

“Come on. Into bed with you.” He helped Mycroft to his feet; he seemed weak-kneed and shivery, in stark contrast to his normal upright and firm posture. Greg shook his head and gathered the tissues, tea and hot water bottle. “This has really taken it out of you, hasn’t it?”

Mycroft gave a tiny shrug that he took as a concession, and Greg steered him gently to the room Sherlock had got the pyjamas from. It was cosier than he’d expected; however, it still had the air of a showhome. There was a stack of books in various languages and an anglepoise lamp shining by the side of a frankly enormous bed, which is where Greg directed Mycroft.

Mycroft kicked off his slippers with a tired, twitching gesture, and climbed in between the sheets, propping himself in a half-reclining position on the pillows. Greg pulled the covers up over him and handed him the hot water bottle. Mycroft clutched it like a life-vest, curling up around it. Greg sat on the side of the bed and checked his forehead again – it was still hot, but slightly cooler than before.

“D’you want another cuppa before I go?”

“You can stay, if you like.” Mycroft already looked half asleep and sounded more congested just from lying down. “There’s a room down the hall that Sherlock used, sometimes, before – sheets are fresh. I’d invite you to stay in here, but –” He coughed, shortly, and looked inexplicably guilty.

Greg sighed – Mycroft had apparently got the same wrong impression that Sherlock had – that he wanted that and nothing more. He wondered if Mycroft had had relationships like that – if that was the reason he flinched when touched, and had that strange, bruised vulnerability when caught off guard. Something in his chest twisted and he resolved to be better than whoever had been here in the past.

“Don’t be ridiculous; you’re obviously not well. Not doing anything until we’re both fully conscious and consenting. Plus,” he added, trying to bring a bit of levity to things, “like I said to Sherlock, you need to buy me dinner first.”

Mycroft gave a hoarse little laugh. “I was going to say that I’d probably disturb you.”

Greg leaned over and gave him a quick, chaste kiss on the forehead. “I’ll take Sherlock’s old digs. Come and get me, or give me a shout, if you need me in the night.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft snuffled, then sat up and reached for the tissues; Greg brushed his hair away as he buried his nose into them.

Thankfully, he stopped after four – he didn’t look like he could physically withstand another intense fit.

“hhhISH! Ishhh-OOOO! Hheh-RRRSSHHOOO! Hhh-hhh…YISHOOOO!”

“Bless you.” Greg reached round and rubbed his back. “Night. I’m just down the hall. Sleep well.”

Mycroft murmured something, but he was already half asleep. Greg tiptoed out of the room, turning off the lamp as he went, and collapsed in the spare room.

He lay there awake, hardly imagining that he could sleep, after everything that had happened that night – but that was his last thought, because he was out like a light minutes later.

====

[Spoo]

“You sound like you’re feeling awful. I’m guessing that dip didn’t do you much good.”

“I’m guessing you may be right,” Mycroft croaked, and then crumbled in on himself in a coughing fit that made him clutch his side. Greg frowned.

Ughhhh. Poor thing!

Mycroft seemed caught in an endless cycle of quivering breaths; he swapped out his tissues and Greg briefly saw the tender rawness of his septum underneath fluttering nostrils before he whipped forward.

Gorgeous description here. I do feel bad for him, yes, but this also presses some yummy fetishy buttons for me. ( )

“Bless you. God, are you alright?” Greg pulled out a handful of tissues and Mycroft accepted them with a slow, measured movement, as though his head was spinning. He blew his nose (Greg winced at the hard, unproductive sound) and finally lowered the tissues. His eyes looked teary, and the edges of his nostrils were red-raw and chapped.

JESUS. What a fit! And when he already felt like he was going to collapse beforehand. It breaks my heart!

Greg reached out and put the back of his hand on Mycroft’s forehead. “You’re burning up again.”

Ahhhh. I lovelovelove forehead feels. It's so sweet!

He wondered if Mycroft had had relationships like that – if that was the reason he flinched when touched, and had that strange, bruised vulnerability when caught off guard. Something in his chest twisted and he resolved to be better than whoever had been here in the past.

I love this bit. So much.

Greg leaned over and gave him a quick, chaste kiss on the forehead. “I’ll take Sherlock’s old digs. Come and get me, or give me a shout, if you need me in the night.”

Oh no. Oh NO. I...I can't. I REALLY, REALLY CAN'T. HE KISS--....OH GOD. THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!! Eeeeeee!!!

I can't wait to see what the next day brings. The poor boys! I'm hoping they'll get some nice rest and that Mycroft will slowly but surely start to feel better.

[ValkyriePleasant]

I’ve never seen Sherlock, but this is so well-written, I don’t think I need to.

On another note, MOAAARR.

-regains composure-

[Wildwood]

I think Moffat and Gatiss would enjoy this! you write the characters so weeeeeelllllll.

And poor dear Myc. I wonder if Greg would let me give him a hug...?

[YouAreHawTCHEW!]

Yay for cuddling and yay for Greg not dissapointing Mycroft! This must've benn his formal way of saying: Please don't leave me alone.