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

[cally]

Everything Spoo said b/c I can't words right now.

[SomethingClever]

headachey and feverish and sniffly

just this tiny snippit made my stomach do a happy little flippy thing.

my most favorite.

[bangbang]

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

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

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.

NOT A DRILL! NOT A DRILL! Contact has been established! Poor Mycroft's fits are so intense, and he's so powerless against them; he definitely needs a nap now!

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

Best compliment! So glad you're enjoying!

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

Greg might - Mycroft probably wouldn't...

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.

Totally; everyone needs a bit of company when they're poorly.

Everything Spoo said b/c I can't words right now.

My life is complete! Rendering someone speechless is such an amazing compliment, thank you.

this tiny snippit made my stomach do a happy little flippy thing.

my most favorite.

The happy flippy thing!! THANK YOU!

There's 30 parts now; I'm going to be genuinely sad when it's over.

Part 26 - The case is revealed, Mycroft soldiers on, and Anthea seriously needs to decide on a name.

=====

Greg was woken by the smell of frying bacon. He hazily checked the time on his phone – it was just past noon – momentarily forgetting where he was.

He remembered, in a flash – the rat, the bomb, the drug ring, the accountant, most of all Mycroft, returning his affection - and sprang out of bed, infuriated by the idea that Mycroft had dragged himself up to go and cook breakfast.

But when he got down to the kitchen, Sherlock was the one at the stove, whining about John’s new girlfriend over his shoulder to Mycroft, who was seated at the table.

He had raised a sardonic eyebrow over his teacup at Greg as he came in – he was still pale, with a box of tissues close at hand, but the dark circles under his eyes had lifted somewhat and he looked a little more alert. Sherlock slapped three plates of bacon

sandwiches onto the table.

“That’s my room, and my pillows you were drooling all over,” he told Greg. “And your hair’s a mess.”

Greg, too happy to care, dug into his sandwich. “Thanks,” he said, through a mouthful of meat and bread, and Sherlock snorted and turned to Mycroft.

“I spoke to your PA. All the information should be gathered and in your office by three. John’s new girlfriend has the worst taste in music I’ve ever heard…”

====

At ten past three they were sitting in Mycroft’s office; at least, Mycroft and Greg were sitting, as Sherlock paced the room.

All the tension from the previous evening seemed to have faded; Anthea (“Anastacia, actually,” she had informed them) looked positively jolly as she brought in the tea and handed Mycroft a manila folder as thick as Greg’s forearm. Even Mycroft didn’t seem as stressed anymore, flicking through the documents with a nod.

“So. The accountant was running the drug ring all along?” Greg stared, slightly bemused, at his own copy of the papers.

“Hmm. I suppose it’s not too much of a leap – from the exotic pet trade to drug smuggling, that is.” Mycroft dabbed the underside of his nose with a tissue.

“And then he – what? Made Mansfield’s sister-in-law take part as well?”

“No,” Sherlock said, looming over Greg’s shoulder, “she fell into that herself. Or, should I say, by influence of Mr Tickles, our cannibal clown. Some people will do anything when they’re in love.” He threw Mycroft and Greg a look of distaste.

“Mr Tickles, who is also a bomb expert.” Greg shook his head – how the man found time to be part of a drug ring, kill and eat people, and become an explosives technician while performing three shows a day, he had no idea. Greg could barely remember to tie his shoes in the morning.

“One could say that he brings the house down,” Mycroft said, drily. Greg snorted with laughter and Sherlock growled.

“Don’t laugh. He’s not funny. You’re not funny, Mycroft.” Mycroft shrugged, unfolding another tissue. His upper lip curled slightly and his eyes half-closed as he brought it up to his face.

“Bless you,” Greg said, as Mycroft’s breath skipped and he nuzzled into the tissue with a wet-sounding “ihhhhh-RRSCH!”

They all waited for a second, anticipating another sneeze – Mycroft lowered the tissue looking slightly baffled, then snapped forward with a delayed – “HHH-YISHOO! ISH! ISH! HhhRRRSH!”

“Done?” Sherlock inquired, tapping a statacco rhythm out on the desk. Mycroft nodded, giving his nose a final swipe and rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“For the meantime.”

“You said something about blackmail?” Greg prompted.

“Ah. Yes. That’s how she ended up with the rat. Yewan – our accountant – found out she was working for the drug ring instead of trying to prevent it and saw his opportunity to get rid of the beast before it mauled anyone else.” Mycroft coughed slightly in his throat.

“So he made her take the rat? So he could lie and say it had been put down?” Greg felt a bit sorry for the woman.

“Indeed. Which is how Mr Tickles got his hands on it.” Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “Incidentally, our animal control section caught up with it early this morning.”

“It’s not going to Baskerville,” said Sherlock, flatly. His fondness for all things furry was the first thing that had endeared him to Greg. He often thought about getting him a dog – at least it would keep him occupied in between cases.

“Animal sanctuary in Berlin.” They were all quiet for a second. Greg eyed Mycroft up; he looked wearier than he had that morning and he desperately wanted to sweep him back into a blanket.

As Greg watched, Mycroft squinted slightly and brushed the bridge of his nose with a knuckle as though to avoid a sneeze, but unfortunately it had the opposite effect. He didn’t even have time to reach for a tissue before being seized by a spasmodic, gunfire-esque sneeze that bent him at the waist, followed by two more.

“HHH-ISH! Hhh-HHYYYISSHHOO! hhhHH-RRSSSHH!” As he straightened, there was a glimmer of something in his eyes; a lurking fever or an incipient headache, perhaps. Greg felt a twinge of worry low in his stomach, but Mycroft shook his head and seemed to pull himself together with an effort, and he quickly looked back down at the papers.

======

[cally]

“Done?” Sherlock inquired, tapping a statacco rhythm out on the desk. Mycroft nodded, giving his nose a final swipe and rubbing his eyes tiredly.

Rude much, Sherlock?

Greg felt a twinge of worry low in his stomach, but Mycroft shook his head and seemed to pull himself together with an effort, and he quickly looked back down at the papers.

You can't just leave it like that! Poor Mycroft.

[Spoo]

“That’s my room, and my pillows you were drooling all over,” he told Greg. “And your hair’s a mess.”

“One could say that he brings the house down,” Mycroft said, drily. Greg snorted with laughter and Sherlock growled.

“Don’t laugh. He’s not funny. You’re not funny, Mycroft.”

!!

as Mycroft’s breath skipped and he nuzzled into the tissue

Omg. 'Nuzzling' into a tissue just may be my new favorite thing. Why is that so adorable and yet amazing??? Gah!!

They all waited for a second, anticipating another sneeze – Mycroft lowered the tissue looking slightly baffled

Hah! Because they all know that Mycroft can't sneeze just once. Never ever!

Mycroft seems better-ish, or at the very least more awake, but he's still feeling unwell and it's tugging my heartstrings! Poor thing.

[Wildwood]

“Done?” Sherlock inquired, tapping a statacco rhythm out on the desk. Mycroft nodded, giving his nose a final swipe and rubbing his eyes tiredly.

Rude much, Sherlock?

Greg felt a twinge of worry low in his stomach, but Mycroft shook his head and seemed to pull himself together with an effort, and he quickly looked back down at the papers.

You can't just leave it like that! Poor Mycroft.

My sentiments exactly!

Oh, and 'Anastacia?' Very cool name.

[matilda3948]

Usually I like to wait until a story is finished before reading through and commenting (I know, I'm weird like that) . I just couldn't stay away from this when I saw it was being commented on so frequently.

And I'm so glad I didn't wait any longer!

Wow. This would be an extraordinary piece if it wasn't a sneeze fic. I love the slow build and natural development of both the relationship and the case. It really lets the reader experience the growth right along with the characters. The description is rich and the characters are beautifully dynamic (including spot-on dialogue).

Now, since it is a sneeze fic...holy moly!! It pushes sooo many of the right buttons! Mycroft's health plummets as Greg's concern rises. The absolute helplessness of the sneezing fits, his insistence on pushing forward even as his gets more and more ill, and the chills/shivering (an absolute soft spot of mine). I love the way Sherlock remains snarky and sarcastic even as he becomes more and more concerned about his brother, gradually increasing his involvement and care taking.

It's not just that's it's packed with fetishy goodness (though it really, really is) but that the narrative is so well constructed and the writing is just wonderful. It's a joy to read! Thank you for all the effort that you've put into it.

[YouAreHawTCHEW!]

Oh Mycroft, you shouldn't go to work yet, you'll get sicker!

[coldcure08]

I am so loving this

[bangbang]

Rude much, Sherlock?

Ha! Sherlock's learnt from years of experience that even when you think Mycroft can't sneeze anymore, he invariably will.

Omg. 'Nuzzling' into a tissue just may be my new favorite thing. Why is that so adorable and yet amazing??? Gah!!

Mycroft would not take kindly to being called adorable (even though we all know he totally is!)

Oh, and 'Anastacia?' Very cool name.

Hahaha! She's still working her way through pop stars. She makes playlists and everything. It's kind of her hobby.

Usually I like to wait until a story is finished before reading through and commenting (I know, I'm weird like that) . I just couldn't stay away from this when I saw it was being commented on so frequently.

And I'm so glad I didn't wait any longer!

Wow. This would be an extraordinary piece if it wasn't a sneeze fic. I love the slow build and natural development of both the relationship and the case. It really lets the reader experience the growth right along with the characters. The description is rich and the characters are beautifully dynamic (including spot-on dialogue).

Now, since it is a sneeze fic...holy moly!! It pushes sooo many of the right buttons! Mycroft's health plummets as Greg's concern rises. The absolute helplessness of the sneezing fits, his insistence on pushing forward even as his gets more and more ill, and the chills/shivering (an absolute soft spot of mine). I love the way Sherlock remains snarky and sarcastic even as he becomes more and more concerned about his brother, gradually increasing his involvement and care taking.

It's not just that's it's packed with fetishy goodness (though it really, really is) but that the narrative is so well constructed and the writing is just wonderful. It's a joy to read! Thank you for all the effort that you've put into it.

GAHHHH I am so happy you read it and liked it! Yeah, I love it when characters valiantly deny their illness and then get SUPER ILL.

Oh Mycroft, you shouldn't go to work yet, you'll get sicker!

I know right!

I am so loving this

Yay! Thank you!

Part 27 - In which we finally learn how the case ties together, Sherlock's laziness knows no bounds, and Anthea gives Greg a push.

====

“So how was Mansfield involved? Did Mr Tickles try and -” Greg trailed off; they’d found four additional bodies in the flat building, and his stomach churned just thinking about what kind of activities the clowns had been up to.

“No,” Mycroft said, “that was an unfortunate coincidence.”

“It turns out that the universe sometimes is that lazy,” Sherlock said, and his brother’s mouth twitched almost invisibly.

“Indeed. He was having an affair; took her to a circus matinee while he was supposed to be at work.”

“Imagine his horror when he looks up and his wife’s sister is swinging off the trapeze,” Sherlock snorted. “Serves him right.”

“Peanuts,” Greg said, thinking of the anaphylactic shock that killed the man, “they have peanuts at circuses.”

“Very good.” Sherlock sounded like a particularly condescending teacher; Mycroft gave him an exasperated look and plucked a handful of tissues from the box.

“He went backstage to confront her; I imagine he passed the refreshments cart on his way. Being in such close quarters to an allergen can sometimes prompt a reaction even if it isn’t ingested.” Mycroft was slightly breathless by the end of the sentence; he gave a long, wracking cough and then dipped forward into the tissues. “HHHHH-RRRRSHHH! hhRRRSHHHOOOO! YISH! YI-ISHOOO!”

“Bless you,” said Greg, and the grateful look Mycroft cast him with red-rimmed, dark-circled eyes made his chest warm with blooming affection. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that Mycroft was far less recovered than he was trying to appear.

“So he died at the circus,” Sherlock said, “while begging her to stay quiet about his affair, and she enlisted the help of her clown suitor to help move his body. Which is how the rat fur got on his coat.”

“But he was in a locked room, on the fifth floor, how did she -” Greg paused. “Aerialist, right?”

“She apparently walked across the telephone wires after locking the door from the inside.” Sherlock looked vaguely impressed. “So I was right – it was her after all.”

“Not really,” Greg argued, “she didn’t kill him.”

“Technicality.” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in a gesture obviously borrowed from his elder brother.

“Was he involved with the drug smuggling? Because those were the apartments he was selling, that we went to last night, right?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft; he sounded as though someone had taken a handful of sandpaper to his throat. “But he wasn’t involved. The accountant was considering buying one of the flats, which was how he knew about the location.”

“So Mansfield was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Greg felt strangely morose; normally there was some satisfaction in solving a case, but this one seemed so pointless. It was just centred around greed and lust and for a second he was furious at everything.

His brooding was interrupted by a sniffle from Mycroft. He was attending to his nose, which was tinged with vivid shade of red, looking even worse in contrast to how pale his face was. He gave a barely audible sigh and tucked the tissue away; his nostrils and lips looked chapped and dry. He glanced at Greg.

“Please feel free to leave, now that we’ve gone over the events – I’m aware it’s your day off.”

“What about me?” Sherlock whined.

“Your entire life is a day off.” Mycroft looked at the stack of papers in front of him with more than a hint of misery. Sherlock made a grumbling noise, and swept out of the room, pulling on his coat, glaring at Greg as he left.

Greg shifted in his seat. “Hope John wasn’t planning on having a relaxing day.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft stifled a yawn against his wrist. “Please don’t feel obliged to stay on my behalf.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Greg looked at the mountain of forms and files, all filled with indecipherable and confidential information.

“Unfortunately not. Thank you anyway.” Mycroft bit his lip, looking almost shy. “I’ll endeavour to call you by the end of the week, if you’re still –”

“I would love to.” Greg interrupted, and there was a brief second of electricity in their eye contact before the phone rang, shrill, and Mycroft, squeezing his eyes shut, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do enjoy your day, Detec- Greg.”

It was a polite but clear dismissal and Greg trudged out, feeling guilty as hell for leaving Mycroft behind. This was only exacerbated by Anthea’s incredulous look as he came out.

“You’re leaving?”

He shrugged.

“Alone?” She sounded disapproving, and Greg didn’t blame her.

“Apparently. He’s -” Anthea’s phone beeped, but she ignored it.

“Trust me – I know what he’s like. And that’s why I’m telling you to take him home now before he collapses. I can handle the paperwork, if you can handle him.” Before Greg could answer, she swept the phone to her ear and answered in what sounded like German.

Greg stood, staring at his hand on the door for a second. Then he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and went back up the corridor to Mycroft’s office.

====

[Spoo]

I still think it's amazing how you worked out that case. It's SO clever!! Definitely realistic, too (in the 'Sherlock Universe' anyway). Watching everything come together throughout the story was fun, as was the final tying up of loose strings.

Please feel free to leave, now that we’ve gone over the events – I’m aware it’s your day off.”

“What about me?” Sherlock whined.

“Your entire life is a day off.”

:lmfao:

“Trust me – I know what he’s like. And that’s why I’m telling you to take him home now before he collapses. I can handle the paperwork, if you can handle him.”

Omg, Anthea totally ships Mycroft and Greg. Hardcore! She also wants Mycroft to get proper rest and feel better, but you can totally tell she's on that Mystrade train.

I'm so sad we're nearing the end, but that doesn't take away from how GOOD this fic is!

[cally]

Mycroft, you don't have to prove yourself to anyone. Please go home and recover. And by recover, I mean snuggle with Gregory.

[YouAreHawTCHEW!]

Thank you Anthea, Greg needed that push! Now dear Gregory, get your honey and go home!

[Wildwood]

Woo! Go Anthea!

[AngelEyes]

Wow. I've been away for a week and this story has erupted! And can I just say, EPIC! The characterizations are perfect, the storyline is fascinating, and Mycroft's fits! Epic! I think I need a cold shower!

[bangbang]

I still think it's amazing how you worked out that case. It's SO clever!!

THANK YOU! The case was so fun to write, even if I did have to keep a separate word doc full of notes on who knew what!

Omg, Anthea totally ships Mycroft and Greg. Hardcore!

SHE SO DOES!

Mycroft, you don't have to prove yourself to anyone. Please go home and recover. And by recover, I mean snuggle with Gregory

We may have finally reached the cuddly bit of the story...

Thank you Anthea, Greg needed that push!

Woo! Go Anthea!

Anthea is just great isn't she? Glad you're both enjoying!

Wow. I've been away for a week and this story has erupted! And can I just say, EPIC! The characterizations are perfect, the storyline is fascinating, and Mycroft's fits! Epic! I think I need a cold shower!

Poor Mycroft - I have put him through the ringer a bit! Those ticklish, snuffly sneezes are just too fun to write.

Part 28 - In which the Ice Man melts and Greg is the best.

====

He walked in without knocking, expecting a chastisement – but it never came. Instead, Mycroft was bowed over his desk, ever-present tissues at the ready, and he barely had time to look up at Greg before he was seized by the convulsions of his fit.

“HEH-ISHOOO! HHHH-RRRRSH! YIISSSHHHOOOO! HEH-ISH! ISH! Hhh!hheh!YYRSSHOOO!”

The sneezes were hard and wet and sounded like they were unearthed from somewhere sore in his throat, and Greg cursed himself for not listening to his earlier instinct that Mycroft’s plunge in the Thames had caused his cold to worsen.

“Bless you,” he said, and made his way over to Mycroft, who looked dazed and miserable. It was now painfully obvious that he had been keeping up a façade all morning, and was now suffering even more for it.

“Did you forget somethiii –hhh! Something?” Mycroft’s breath hitched and he pressed the back of a wrist against the bridge of his nose as if to quell it. He blinked, as though the touch only served to irritate his sinuses even more, and his throat bobbed with the effort of keeping the sneezes at bay.

“Yeah. You. Come on, let’s get you home to bed.”

“I really can’t -”

“Yes you can. You’re going to end up with pneumonia. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a chest or sinus infection on the way, you sound that bad. Stand up, get your coat on.”

“I – YISHOOO! Hhhh-RRRRRSSSH! HehhSHOoo! Heh-AHHHTNGSH!” Mycroft finally gave in to his nose’s demands, and each furious sneeze shuddered through his shoulders as though it was sapping the very last of his strength.

“Bless you.” Greg waited until Mycroft had finished snuffling into his tissues and then pulled his coat over him. “I’ll make you soup. We’ll watch shit daytime TV and you can use me as a pillow.”

Mycroft stood up; he was a few inches taller than Greg, but his exhausted slouch made them almost level. “You don’t have to,” he said, weakly, and Greg suspected the quaver in his voice wasn’t entirely due to his cold.

Greg put a hand on his arm, tentatively, and then squeezed. “Come on. You deserve a break. You don’t have to be so hard on yourself all the time.”

Mycroft took a shaky breath and then sagged slightly and put a hand over his eyes. He bit his lip, and made an odd, harsh little noise in his throat. Greg put his arm around his shoulder and pulled him into a sidehug. Mycroft swallowed hard – he felt much too hot under Greg’s hand.

“I’m terribly sorry.” He sounded like he didn’t quite trust his voice; there was a threat of a whimper in it.

“You’re not a bit well. Come on. Let’s get you home.” Mycroft stiffened under his arm, and Greg thought he’d said something wrong, until he scrambled for the desk and seized the tissues.

Despite his initial haste, the fit lingered in his sinuses, as his sneezes seemed wont to do, nostrils palpating and widening from their usual narrow elegance into needy, quaking misery until it finally gave him relief.

“ISHOOO! HHH-Heh!RSHHOOOO! YISH!HH-ISH! Hhh!hhh!RRRSHHOOOO!” Mycroft took a second to come out of the aftermath, shaking his head slightly and shivering; Greg took advantage by helping him into his coat and gently propelled him towards the door while he was still compliant.

Anthea nodded at him as he passed – she looked like the cat who’d got the cream, even with a trace of concern around her eyes as she took in Mycroft’s limp goodbye wave to her.

Greg led Mycroft out to his car, and opened the passenger door and held his elbow as he climbed in; he seemed barely able to stand unassisted. He rounded the car and got in the driver’s seat but didn’t start the engine. Mycroft hadn’t spoken since they left the office and was sitting, huddled in a feverish sort of slackness, hand still over his eyes.

“You alright?” he asked, quietly.

Mycroft let out a long, shuddery breath and nodded; Greg, sensing that that wasn’t quite the end of it, reached out and touched his knee gently.

That seemed to do it. Mycroft leaned forward, and, covering his entire face, let out a choked sob that shook his shoulders.

“Hey, hey.” Greg rubbed his back. “You’re OK.”

“Sorry,” Mycroft whispered, and then made a little keening noise that made Greg’s chest tighten in sympathetic misery.

“Don’t. You’re fine – it’s fine.” Mycroft gave another little jumpy sob; he sounded like he was desperately trying to contain them but couldn’t. “You’re fine,” Greg repeated, and carried on rubbing slow circles on his back. “Are you alright?”

“I just feel so awful,” Mycroft managed to say, and then started sobbing in earnest, resting his head in his hands and breathing in choking little gasps that made Greg slightly anxious.

“I know. I know.” Greg pulled Mycroft into a proper hug and felt him shiver spasmodically against him. He held him, tracing his fingers over Mycroft’s spine, until he stopped crying. It seemed to take an age – he wondered when the last time Mycroft let himself go was, and just how terrible he must be feeling to do so now.

Once the worst of it seemed to be over, he leaned away slowly. “Come on. Let’s get you back home.”

Mycroft swiped at his eyes; then his face seemed to freeze and Greg, knowing what was coming, pressed a fistful of tissues into his hand. Mycroft held them a few inches below his face and his lips drew apart in a rictus of sneezy intensity. His eyes were clenched tightly shut, and the crow’s feet spreading from them gave Greg a pang; they spoke of too much stress and too many long nights.

He sighed and resolved to make sure Mycroft had some sleep tonight at least as the other man was overcome by a tidal wave of miserable, exhausting sneezes.

“HHHHRRRSHOO! HHHAH-YISHOOO! IHHH-SHHH! ISH! ISH! Hhh!HHH!ISH! hhh…RRRRRSHHOOO!”

“Bless you. Christ, you’re ill,” Greg said softly, and rubbed Mycroft’s back; he was cold and trembly and looked like he was ready to keel over. Then, as Mycroft fastened his seatbelt, he turned on the car and started to drive.

====

[cally]

Mycroft swiped at his eyes; then his face seemed to freeze and Greg, knowing what was coming, pressed a fistful of tissues into his hand. Mycroft held them a few inches below his face and his lips drew apart in a rictus of sneezy intensity. His eyes were clenched tightly shut, and the crow’s feet spreading from them gave Greg a pang; they spoke of too much stress and too many long nights.

*whimpers* My heart is breaking here. Poor, poor lamb.

[Wildwood]

Mycrooooooft... My God, that poor, poor man! Good on Greg for admitting his love for Myc at the absolute perfect time, eh?

[Spoo]

Mycroft took a shaky breath and then sagged slightly and put a hand over his eyes. He bit his lip, and made an odd, harsh little noise in his throat. Greg put his arm around his shoulder and pulled him into a sidehug. Mycroft swallowed hard – he felt much too hot under Greg’s hand.

“I’m terribly sorry.” He sounded like he didn’t quite trust his voice; there was a threat of a whimper in it.

Oh no. No. Don't you dare.

Mycroft let out a long, shuddery breath and nodded; Greg, sensing that that wasn’t quite the end of it, reached out and touched his knee gently.

Mycroft...I-I'm warning you!

“I just feel so awful,” Mycroft managed to say, and then started sobbing in earnest, resting his head in his hands and breathing in choking little gasps that made Greg slightly anxious.

...... !!!! OH MY GOD, THE POOR BABY!

Greg pulled Mycroft into a proper hug and felt him shiver spasmodically against him. He held him, tracing his fingers over Mycroft’s spine, until he stopped crying. It seemed to take an age – he wondered when the last time Mycroft let himself go was, and just how terrible he must be feeling to do so now.

Because who knows the last time Mycroft had a proper cry? It's probably been over a decade (possibly longer). I'm so glad Greg was there for him (not that he wouldn't be, but that he was PHYSICALLY there when Mycroft broke down).

Mycroft admitting how awful he felt did me in; I feel such a heavy ache in my heart. You're a master at conveying strong emotions, bangbang. I swear it.

[coldcure08]

I just can't form words for the beauty of this...

[AdrianMarx]

Oh lord. I knew that breakdown was coming for the whole of this chapter and oh my gosh I am so done. I can't- I. God damn it. I can't form words help I'm too sad. Help. Drowning.

[YouAreHawTCHEW!]

Mycroft stood up; he was a few inches taller than Greg, but his exhausted slouch made them almost level. “You don’t have to,” he said, weakly, and Greg suspected the quaver in his voice wasn’t entirely due to his cold.

Greg put a hand on his arm, tentatively, and then squeezed. “Come on. You deserve a break. You don’t have to be so hard on yourself all the time.”

Mycroft took a shaky breath and then sagged slightly and put a hand over his eyes. He bit his lip, and made an odd, harsh little noise in his throat. Greg put his arm around his shoulder and pulled him into a sidehug. Mycroft swallowed hard – he felt much too hot under Greg’s hand.

“I’m terribly sorry.” He sounded like he didn’t quite trust his voice; there was a threat of a whimper in it.

Mycroft...

Mycroft hadn’t spoken since they left the office and was sitting, huddled in a feverish sort of slackness, hand still over his eyes.

“You alright?” he asked, quietly.

Mycroft let out a long, shuddery breath and nodded; Greg, sensing that that wasn’t quite the end of it, reached out and touched his knee gently.

That seemed to do it. Mycroft leaned forward, and, covering his entire face, let out a choked sob that shook his shoulders.

I'm not going to cry, I'm not going to cry-

“I just feel so awful,” Mycroft managed to say, and then started sobbing in earnest, resting his head in his hands and breathing in choking little gasps that made Greg slightly anxious.

Poor Mycroft! It really is a wonder how long he must've held those walls up.

Now excuse me as I cry from the feels!

[bangbang]

*whimpers* My heart is breaking here. Poor, poor lamb.

As I was writing it I was like, "Are you really going to do this to poor Mycroft? REALLY? After all he's been through?" and then I did.

Mycrooooooft... My God, that poor, poor man! Good on Greg for admitting his love for Myc at the absolute perfect time, eh?

Greg is a master of the perfectly-timed cuddle patrol.

...... !!!! OH MY GOD, THE POOR BABY!

Because who knows the last time Mycroft had a proper cry? It's probably been over a decade (possibly longer). I'm so glad Greg was there for him (not that he wouldn't be, but that he was PHYSICALLY there when Mycroft broke down).

Mycroft admitting how awful he felt did me in; I feel such a heavy ache in my heart. You're a master at conveying strong emotions, bangbang. I swear it.

Don't be sad! He has Greg to make him feel better now! And yeah, Mycroft doesn't really realise that keeping all your feelings bottled up means that when you do let them out, there's going to be tears. Especially when he's just SO ill.

I just can't form words for the beauty of this...

HAHAHA! You're so welcome.

Oh lord. I knew that breakdown was coming for the whole of this chapter and oh my gosh I am so done. I can't- I. God damn it. I can't form words help I'm too sad. Help. Drowning.

Mycroft breaks my heart in a million different ways.

Poor Mycroft! It really is a wonder how long he must've held those walls up.

Now excuse me as I cry from the feels!

If Mycroft ever needs another career, he should think about bricklaying - those walls he's building could last for DECADES. (Even if they do collapse at the vaguest hint of a hug.)

We're nearly at the end, guys. I'm going to be legitimately sad when this is over.

Part 29 - In which Greg shows Mycroft some much-needed affection.

====

They got to Mycroft’s townhouse in record time; Greg suspected Anthea of arranging for them to hit every green light. Mycroft unlocked the door and they went in, Greg making a beeline for the kettle.

“Go and get into something cosy and sit down,” he said, over his shoulder, “and I’ll bring you up some tea and a hot water bottle, alright?”

Mycroft hovered anxiously. “You don’t have to -”

“I know I don’t have to. But I want to. Go on. Pyjamas.” Mycroft ghosted away, and his steps on the stairs sounded weary and uncertain.

While Greg made tea he hunted around for the things they’d used last night, and also managed to find a thermometer. He put them all on a tray and carried them up to the living room, only to find it empty. Biting his lip, he went to Mycroft’s bedroom door and knocked softly.

“Can I come in?” He waited a second and then, hearing a snuffle and a cough from inside, said, “I’m coming in.”

Mycroft was sitting on the bed, still fully dressed. He looked up as Greg came in; his eyes were damp and his face crumpled slightly before he bent double in a long, crackly coughing fit.

Greg went over and sat down on the edge of the bed beside him, slinging an arm over Mycroft's shaking back. Mycroft’s coughing subsided after a few minutes, but his breathing came in sharp wheezes.

There was a pair of pyjamas on the bed, folded neatly, and Greg shook them out and, without asking, gently worked off Mycroft’s jacket, tie and waistcoat. He left him to undo his own shirt buttons, long fingers not as elegant as usual, and helped him feed his arms through the sleeves. Mycroft fastened the top, slightly clumsy in his movements, and Greg bit his lip again.

“I’m going to go and fetch the tea and then take your temperature, OK?” He left the room to give Mycroft some privacy as he changed into the pyjama bottoms. He went back into the living room and fiddled with the blanket from the night before. It had that same woody scent as the pyjamas and Mycroft. He inhaled the soft fabric before folding it.

The pad of footsteps behind him made him swivel round. “I was going to bring this in,” he said, as Mycroft, clad in a dressing gown and slippers, eased himself onto the sofa.

Mycroft shook his head slightly. “It’s fine,” he said, hoarseness scraping through his vocal cords.

“Are you sure?” Greg didn’t want to press the issue, and he supposed it didn’t really make a difference so long as Mycroft was relaxing.

He draped the blanket over him and Mycroft burrowed into it limply. Greg passed him the hot water bottle and Mycroft curled around it with a grateful sigh.

“Thank you,” he said, tucking the blanket tighter around his shoulders; then, as Greg hovered, raised a weary eyebrow. “Do sit down; my hosting skills aren’t really up to par at the moment, I’m afraid.” He finished with a cough directed into a loosely clenched fist, and Greg snorted, then sat down beside him. He hid a smile as Mycroft edged almost imperceptibly closer to him, but shifted so that his body heat was more accessible.

“Medicine,” he said, passing Mycroft the tiny cup of sticky liquid.

Mycroft swallowed it with a slight grimace and a splutter as it caught in his throat. They sipped tea in companionable silence for a minute or two. Greg wondered whether he was brave enough to wrap an arm around Mycroft, and had moved a fraction of a muscle towards that aim when the other man whipped away from him.

Greg opened his mouth to apologise, thinking he’d startled, or worse, offended him, but he needn’t have worried. Mycroft was leaning forwards, fingers steepled together over his nose, a tissue gripped loosely in between them. He seemed caught on the edge of the sneeze, tipping over the brink only to be pulled back seconds later.

“hhhh….heehHHH! hhhheh! Ehh! Uhhhh!hhhh! HHHH!” His inhalations were almost vocal in their intensity but he still didn’t seem able to get any relief. Greg felt terrible for him.

“hhheh… hehhh! AAAHHH!” Mycroft’s eyebrows quirked inwards and finally, blessedly, he pitched forward. “HAAA-SSSSHSHH! HEH-AAAHSSSHHH! IIISSSHHH! ISH! HEH-ISSSSHHOOO!” He paused, catching his breath, and then exhaled with faintly audible moan.

“Bless you.” Greg desperately wished he could wave a magic wand and make Mycroft feel better. He settled for handing him the tissue box and preparing the thermometer.

He waited while Mycroft tended to his nose; he was snuffling quite badly after the last attack but seemed done for the meantime, thankfully. There was a certain dampness at the corner of his eyes that had obviously caused by the sneezes tearing their way out, and Mycroft dabbed it with the heel of his hand impatiently. He lowered the tissue and sighed; but there was still the slightest sheen of moisture edging his patrician nostrils, and he quickly swiped it away with an unhappy blush.

“Excuse me,” he said, obviously embarrassed. Greg shook his head.

“Don’t be daft,” he said, reached over and placed the back of his hand against Mycroft’s forehead to test the heat. Mycroft swallowed.

“Sorry, are my hands freezing?”

“No; just cool. I think I may be running a bit of a temperature.” Greg smoothed his hand over Mycroft’s brow – it was warm to the touch and there was a half-squint of pain in Mycroft’s eyes.

“I think you’re right. Any headache?”

“Yes - a little. I feel a bit -” Mycroft waved a languid hand, “fuzzy.”

Greg finished preparing the thermometer and Mycroft, eyes glazed, allowed Greg to place it in his mouth. He was shivering slightly and they sat in silence until the instrument beeped. Mycroft wordlessly handed it back for Greg to check.

“Shit,” said Greg, looking at the number, which was still too high, and popped two ibuprofen out of the blister pack. “Here – these should help with the headache too.”

Mycroft swallowed them obediently and then drew his long legs up onto the sofa and leaned his head on Greg’s shoulder.

The gesture made something flutter in Greg’s chest; there was a kind of openness and trust about it that he didn’t think Mycroft managed to express very often. He ran a hand through Mycroft’s hair and murmured, softly so as not to hurt his head, “Are you sure you don’t want to pop into bed?”

“’d prefer to stay here,” Mycroft said blearily – he already sounded half asleep. He stretched out against Greg’s torso. “I don’t often…”

He trailed off and Greg realised that he was clutching the cloth of Greg’s sleeve as though afraid he would go away. Maybe all Mycroft’s flinching and steely exterior wasn’t caused by an aversion to physical contact – it was because he was touch-starved. Greg swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat.

He would have almost said something; something comforting or romantic that would prove his worth; but Mycroft was already nodding off. So instead he settled for draping an arm around thin shoulders and pulling him tighter into an embrace. He watched him as his eyes slowly closed and he drifted off to sleep.

=====

Altogether now - AWWWW.

[Wildwood]

ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME? BECAUSE IT'S WORKING.

[Spoo]

He went back into the living room and fiddled with the blanket from the night before. It had that same woody scent as the pyjamas and Mycroft. He inhaled the soft fabric before folding it.

Buhhh. This gave me major feels.

“Thank you,” he said, tucking the blanket tighter around his shoulders; then, as Greg hovered, raised a weary eyebrow. “Do sit down; my hosting skills aren’t really up to par at the moment, I’m afraid.”

He trailed off and Greg realised that he was clutching the cloth of Greg’s sleeve as though afraid he would go away. Maybe all Mycroft’s flinching and steely exterior wasn’t caused by an aversion to physical contact – it was because he was touch-starved. Greg swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat.

He would have almost said something; something comforting or romantic that would prove his worth; but Mycroft was already nodding off. So instead he settled for draping an arm around thin shoulders and pulling him tighter into an embrace. He watched him as his eyes slowly closed and he drifted off to sleep.

Oh, Mycroft. Poor thing. I'm so happy he's finally getting the cuddles he deserves, though. Greg is a pro at snuggling! He'll make sure Mycroft is nice and cozy throughout the duration of his illness.

I'm devastated this is nearly over! Such a good story. But, at the same time, I'm looking forward to what the future may bring~