Crash (bbc sherlock: mycroft) part 3/3

[matilda3948]

Another TAB-based story and this one is for the Mystrade lovers out there 

 

 

hehIHNGshh!

Anthea startled at the brutal sounding sneeze that just erupted from her boss’ office. She paused to see if there was going to be another one or fit of coughing that sometimes followed the first sneeze, but it remained quiet so she got back to work. Now was not the time to interrupt Mycroft Holmes, even if it was to see if he needed tea or another round of cold meds. Their office was in lockdown and he would notify her if he wanted anything. It had been three days since Moriarty had made his bizarre reappearance, thwarting Sherlock’s exile. Three days of near nonstop paperwork, recognizance, coordinating law enforcement, and diplomatic conversations to find out who was behind the television message and how to get Sherlock pardoned. Anthea didn’t know what had transpired on the plane after his 10 minute exile, but she knew it wasn’t good. Mycroft came back to the office looking like he was split between smashing his decanter of scotch or guzzling it. He settled for the next best thing—he planted himself at his desk and started barking orders. None of them had been home in over 72 hours, just grabbing bits of sleep when and where they could. Anthea wasn’t sure if Mycroft had even done that.

hhNGtshh!

Which was probably one reason why he was sitting in his office sniffling and sneezing. She was contemplating what she could do for him when her phone rang. Two minutes on the phone and she finally had some good news to take her boss. Anthea knocked on the door and waited. She heard a muffled sneeze before Mycroft told her to come in.

“Good evening, sir. The ‘Miss Me’ video was sent from a hardwired terminal in Quito.”

“Ecuador?”

“Is there another one?” she asked. Based on the look he gave her, she wouldn’t be attempting another joke any time soon. “I’ve reached out to our contacts in South America and they’ll begin their investigation shortly.”

“Good,” he said, turning back to his computer but Anthea didn’t turn to leave. “Was there something else?” he asked. She almost second guessed herself but when he pulled a tissue from the box on his desk and wiped his nose, she changed her mind.

“Sir, now that we know that the video wasn’t sent from within London, not even within Europe, perhaps it’s time for you to go home for the evening. It will be at least 24 hours before we get an update from our team in Ecuador.”

hehNGTshh!

“Bless you, sir.”

“Thank you. Excuse me.” He turned away from her and blew his nose. After clearing his throat several times he finally turned his attention back to her. “Tell everyone they can go home for the night. There’s nothing more we can do at the moment. I’m going to stay but there’s no need for the entire office to—”

“Mister Holmes, I think you should reconsider.”

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion.” Most people would have shrunk from the room with their tail between their legs, but Anthea knew a Holmes defense mechanism when she saw one. She also knew her opportunity was about to present itself. She could tell by the way Mycroft kept rubbing a finger against his pink nostrils, the way they flared slightly on each inhale, and how his eyes narrowed more with each second. He quickly grabbed two tissues and angled away from her.

hehTSCHH! Ntschh! SNTschh! heh—AHHntschhoo!

“Bless you, sir. I’m going to call for the car.”

“Anthea—”

“I’m sure Scotland Yard will be sending their people home for the first time in three days as well,” she added.

“If I had the energy, I’d reprimand you for being impertinent,” he said, reaching for more tissues.

“Perhaps tomorrow, sir.” Anthea closed the office door behind her and pulled out her mobile.

He’ll be home in 20. You? —A

Leaving soon. –GL

Once notified that the car was waiting, she went to notify her boss. A quick rap on the door and she came in to find an alarming sight. Mycroft was standing with his hands on the desk bracing himself. His eyes were closed and he was taking deliberate, slow breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth.

“Sir?”

He raised a hand to silence her but, concerned that he might pass out, she came into the office and eased him back into his office chair. Mycroft made a tight sound in his throat and Anthea crouched down in front of him and pressed a hand to his forehead. He wasn’t running a fever and when she studied his face she realized she’d misread the situation. Wordlessly, she reached up and loosened his tie, then unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. She squeezed his shoulder and stood up.

“The car is here whenever you’re ready. Take your time, Mister Holmes,” she said.

He’s crashing. Hard. –A

Damn. I’ll keep an eye on him. Thanks for letting me know. –GL

When he emerged from his office Mycroft looked pale and exhausted. He hadn’t tightened his tie so Anthea knew he was still feeling panicky. She handed him a bottle of water and put on her coat so they could finally leave the office and, while she did her best, Anthea couldn’t help but yawn.

“Sorry,” she said when she realized he’d seen. Mycroft shook his head, dismissing her apology.

“It’s been a long few days,” he said.

They both relaxed into the soft leather seats of the car and they fell into a comfortable silence for several minutes. Anthea leaned her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes for a moment. When the car came to a stop she realized she’d dozed off for a few minutes and they were now in front of Mycroft’s home.

“Mister Holmes? Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” he said. Just before closing the car door, he stuck his head back in. “Thank you, Anthea.”

He was pleased to make it home before Gregory; he desperately needed a few minutes to try and calm down. Anxiety was still gnawing at him and his head was throbbing. A quick stop in the kitchen for cold medicine and a glass of water and he made his way to the study. Mycroft was scrolling through the emails on his mobile just to make sure nothing new had happened when he felt a prickling sensation in the back of his nose. Since he finally had the luxury of a few minute’s privacy, he sat down on the sofa and took his handkerchief from his pocket, simply letting the sensation build. He tilted his head back and sniffed a few times, feeling the tickle swell and spread down the bridge of his nose. It wouldn’t be long now. He could feel his eyes fluttering shut, breath hitch, and finally—

huhhKTSHHoo! Ktschhooo! Hehh…huhhAHHTISHHOOO!!

He immediately blew his nose and felt his head swim. The final sneeze had left him doubled over and dizzy but it felt strangely satisfying to not try and hold back or minimize his sneezing for once—to let at least one thing be out of control with no terrible consequences.

Mycroft pulled out the small journal, looking at the torn up list he’d taped back together. His hands shook as he turned the pages, cataloguing so many of his brother’s mistakes but it was this most recent page that really frightened him. His pulse was thundering in his temples as he read the list over and over.

“Mycroft?”

He jumped—startled by Gregory’s unexpected voice. He hadn’t heard his partner come in or call out until the man was a few feet in front of him. He shoved the book back into his pocket.

“Apologies. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Yeah, gathered that much,” Lestrade said. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Mycroft said, standing. “How are you? You look tired.”

“Christ, I’m way past tired. Been chasing one crazy lead after another since the moment that lunatic hijacked every television in London.” He paused and looked Mycroft up and down trying to figure out what was going on with him. He reached up and cupped the younger man’s face. “We’re all okay for now though, right?” he asked.

“For now,” Mycroft agreed.

“Good.” Greg pulled Mycroft to him and took a slow, deep breath. He was worn out, on edge, and worried about his partner. He felt Mycroft’s forehead come to rest in the crook of his neck—something he only did when he really needed some extra TLC. Greg rubbed the back of Mycroft’s neck, slowly kneading the mass of knots and tense muscles. He could tell Mycroft was trying to calm down and keep himself under control—it wasn’t hard to see how anxious he was. Greg would have noticed the moment he laid eyes on him even without Anthea’s preemptive text. The fact that he was able to stand in the doorway of the study unnoticed for two minutes was a testament to how bad Mycroft was feeling. Add that to the way his hands were shaking, his shallow breathing, and restless way his eyes kept darting around the room and Greg knew what he was dealing with. Mycroft pulled back suddenly.

hhAhhNGSHH! hhNTschhoo!

“Bless you,” Greg said, putting a steadying hand on Mycroft’s back. He nodded and got his handkerchief, blew his nose, then cleared his throat a couple times.

“Apologies.”

“It’s fine. Did you take cold medicine when you got home?” Greg was too tired to play the traditional game of trying to get Mycroft to admit he was sick; he just skipped straight to the acknowledgement. Apparently Mycroft was too tired to play as well.

“I did. It’s not bad yet, but I’d understand if you’d like me to sleep in one of the guest rooms. It’s not a convenient time to be ill and I’d hate for you to c—Ahh…hehh AhhKTSHHoo! ehh…hhTISHHOOO!!”

“Bless you! Haven’t seen you in three days, Mycroft—no way I’m sleeping anywhere other than right next to you.” This did actually get the younger man to smile slightly. He walked over to where he kept the scotch and grabbed two glasses.

“Nightcap?”

“Twelve year old single malt on an empty stomach?” Greg asked. “Count me in.” Mycroft poured a small amount for each of them and handed one to his partner. It was little more than a few sips for each of them but Greg loved the way it warmed him from the inside out. He frowned as he watched Mycroft raise the glass to his lips with a shaky hand.

“You sure you’re okay? You seem…” he trailed off hoping Mycroft would fill in an adjective or two of his own.

“Just tired. It’s been a very long few days as you well know.”

Greg gave his partner a sad half-smile, then leaned in and placed a long, soft kiss on his forehead. He tilted his head so his lips were near Mycroft’s ear and whispered,

“It’s more than that and when you’re ready, I’ll be right here.” Another quick kiss on the forehead and he turned towards the door. “Come on. We’re both knackered and it’s already nearly midnight. Let’s go to bed.” He didn’t comment on his partner’s stunned, wide-eyed expression, or the fact that they stood there in silence for another ten seconds before Mycroft finally convinced his feet to move—just waited until the younger man joined him at the threshold of the office and then lead them upstairs.

TBC...

[darkness-is-the-light]

Matilda, you continue to pull my heartstrings and I love every minute of it. I always enjoy Greg's persistence of taking care of Mycroft. Especially when Mycroft is being stubborn and doesn't want to seem vulnerable. Wonderful job as always. I'm looking forward to seeing the next installment. 

[cally]

Awwwww.  Poor Mycroft.   My heart.

I always enjoy your writing and look forward to more.

 

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Oh happy day!! This was lovely. Care giving from Anthea and Greg! Poor sneezy, anxious Mycroft, I just love him!

[AngelEyes]

OMG! I have so many feelings about this! I love this so much! 

 

On February 13, 2016 at 4:24 PM, matilda3948 said:

Anthea didn’t know what had transpired on the plane after his 10 minute exile, but she knew it wasn’t good. Mycroft came back to the office looking like he was split between smashing his decanter of scotch or guzzling it. He settled for the next best thing—he planted himself at his desk and started barking orders.

Way to be Mycroft.

 

On February 13, 2016 at 4:24 PM, matilda3948 said:

“If I had the energy, I’d reprimand you for being impertinent,” he said, reaching for more tissues.

 

 

“Perhaps tomorrow, sir.” Anthea closed the office door behind her and pulled out her mobile.

Love Anthea!

 

On February 13, 2016 at 4:24 PM, matilda3948 said:

The final sneeze had left him doubled over and dizzy but it felt strangely satisfying to not try and hold back or minimize his sneezing for once—to let at least one thing be out of control with no terrible consequences.

This is just so....poignant?

 

On February 13, 2016 at 4:24 PM, matilda3948 said:

Mycroft pulled out the small journal, looking at the torn up list he’d taped back together. His hands shook as he turned the pages, cataloguing so many of his brother’s mistakes but it was this most recent page that really frightened him. His pulse was thundering in his temples as he read the list over and over.

 

 

 

My heart breaks over this!

 

On February 13, 2016 at 4:24 PM, matilda3948 said:

Greg was too tired to play the traditional game of trying to get Mycroft to admit he was sick; he just skipped straight to the acknowledgement.

Smart!

 

On February 13, 2016 at 4:24 PM, matilda3948 said:

Greg gave his partner a sad half-smile, then leaned in and placed a long, soft kiss on his forehead. He tilted his head so his lips were near Mycroft’s ear and whispered,

 

 

“It’s more than that and when you’re ready, I’ll be right here.” Another quick kiss on the forehead and he turned towards the door.

Awwwwww!!!!!! So much love!!!!

[matilda3948]

On 2/13/2016 at 6:06 PM, Sophie83540 said:

Matilda, you continue to pull my heartstrings and I love every minute of it. I always enjoy Greg's persistence of taking care of Mycroft. Especially when Mycroft is being stubborn and doesn't want to seem vulnerable. Wonderful job as always. I'm looking forward to seeing the next installment. 

Thank you!! Took me a few weeks but I finally figured out what I wanted to do next. I do love some angsty, heartbreaking vulnerability.

On 2/13/2016 at 6:24 PM, cally said:

Awwwww.  Poor Mycroft.   My heart.

I always enjoy your writing and look forward to more.

 

 Thank you, sugar.

On 2/14/2016 at 7:37 PM, Seeking Clarity + Wisdom said:

Oh happy day!! This was lovely. Care giving from Anthea and Greg! Poor sneezy, anxious Mycroft, I just love him!

Anxious Mycroft is one of my favorite things. I take him waaaay overboard in this next bit.

On 2/15/2016 at 10:20 PM, AngelEyes said:

Awwwwww!!!!!! So much love!!!!

Thank you! I'm really glad you liked it

 

Okay, so here's the next piece of this. I'm not sure if I'm done or if I want to write a section with Sherlock. Trigger warning for mentioning suicide. While I don't think that was the plan in TAB, I think there's at least some undercurrent of Sherlock's self-destructiveness that could be seen that way. This part of the story is unapologetically angsty, emotional, and borders on melodramatic. Whatever. I drama.  

**

Greg rolled over and reached out for Mycroft in the dark. He opened his eyes when all he got was a handful of cool sheets. He groaned and glanced at the clock, seeing it was just after three in the morning. Despite the fact that every cell in his body was crying out for sleep, he needed to make sure Mycroft was okay—well, as okay as possible given the circumstances. Greg made it halfway down the stairs when he heard sneezing coming from the living room and it didn’t stop until he reached the entryway. Briefly Greg wondered if Mycroft was really feeling that much worse or if he was just allowing him mask to slip while he thought he was alone. He leaned against the doorframe and tilted his head, worry creeping into every inch of his face. Mycroft was tucked into the corner of the sofa with one blanket wrapped around his shoulders and another spread across his lap. There was a box of tissues on the cushion next to him and he kept several pressed to his nose as he leafed through that leather journal from earlier. The small trash bin from his office was near his feet and it was close to overflowing with used tissues. Even from several feet away Greg could see that Mycroft’s hands were still visibly shaking and he was pale as a sheet. This was not good.

Greg very softly cleared his throat but it startled Mycroft nonetheless. When those sharp eyes shot up at him Greg smiled and raised his hands.

“Just me,” he said.

“Apologies. Did I wake you?”

“Nah. But when I found myself alone up there I decided to see what was so urgent it was keeping you up on the first night home you’ve had all week.” Greg sat down on the sofa but was careful to give Mycroft his space. This was not the time to make him feel trapped—physically or mentally. Mycroft grabbed a handful of fresh tissues, bringing them to his red, angry nose.

Hehh…huhhAHHTISHHOOO!! Heh Ehh…huhhKTSHHoo!

“Bless you, Mycroft.”

“Thag you.” He grimaced and blew his nose but it did little to help clear his head. When he didn’t make any attempt to answer Greg’s earlier question, the older man nudged him as gently as possible.

“Myc? What’s keeping you up tonight?”

“I…I can’t…” Mycroft sighed and ran a hand over his face. It wasn’t often that words failed him. Right now it seemed that everything was failing him—words, his health, his mind, his emotions, everything. Well, almost everything, he thought when he felt his partner squeeze his hand. Greg rested his head against the back of the sofa but tilted it so he could keep Mycroft in his sights. He didn’t prod, but occasionally brushed his thumb across Mycroft’s hand while the younger man decided if he was going to speak or just sit and try and relax into the silence. The house was still in the predawn hours—still and warm and safe. He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried again. “You know…you know that I insist he always make a list.”

“MmHmm.” Greg had, more than once, been the first person to find Sherlock after a binge. He hadn’t been working with Sherlock long before the mysterious older brother showed up at Scotland Yard with a list of requirements for associating with Sherlock Holmes. One of these requirements was to always look for the list if he found Sherlock using. Mycroft cleared his throat and Greg wondered if it would hold out long enough for him to get through the story.

“Did hihh—ehh…did you know I keep them?” he managed to ask before sneezing again.

Ehh…hehTSCHHoo! NKTschh! SNTschh! heh—AHHntschhoo!

“Bless you. You keep the lists?” Greg asked. Mycroft nodded and handed over the journal, his hands trembling. Greg took it and flipped through the pages looking at the dirty receipts, scraps of paper, and occasional pieces of fine stationary that had drugs and doses listed in Sherlock’s neat penmanship. His partner provided a worrying soundtrack of coughing and sniffling as Greg took it all in. Mycroft spoke up when he reached the last page.

“That’s the list he gave me on the plane.”

Greg read through the exhaustive list of illegal substances. It wasn’t just what he took, or the quantities, but the way he had mixed so many dangerous drugs.

“Christ, this is ridiculous! He could have died! He should know better,” Greg said.

“He does know better.”

Greg felt like someone poured ice water into the pit of his stomach. He looked at Mycroft and wasn’t altogether surprised to see tears in his eyes. Greg felt a bit like crying himself.

“You think…you think he did this on purpose?” Greg asked.

“He clearly did it on purpose. I’m just not sure…not sure if…”

Hehh…ehhAHHTISHHOOO!!

“Bless you.”

It was as though neither man wanted to be the first one to say it out loud, but it was Greg who caved first.

“Mycroft, do you think Sherlock tried to kill himself?” Greg finally asked, his voice nearly in a whisper. The younger man was visibly shaking now and his breathing was shallow and rapid. He mumbled something that might have been “I don’t know” before a ragged sob choked him. “Okay. It’s okay,” Greg said. “We’ll sort it out, but right now you need to breathe.” He placed one hand on Mycroft’s back and one in the middle of his chest; he could feel the rapid beating of his heart. Greg made slow circles in the center of Mycroft’s chest. “Stop fighting it, love,” he said quietly. “Just let it come and get it over with.”

Mycroft couldn’t have stopped the panic attack if he’d wanted to. Finally hearing that terrible fear verbalized was the final straw. He was hardly aware of Greg’s voice in his ear—everything being drowned out by the rushing sound of his pounding heart. He felt his mind shut down, detaching from adrenalin-fueled terror racing through his body. He heard himself sobbing and registered Greg’s voice somewhere off in the distance trying to help him slow his breathing, but black spots were crowding out his vision and Mycroft wondered if passing out wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

Thankfully, Greg saw it coming too and was able to keep Mycroft from falling onto the floor. He thought they might have had a chance at avoiding it, but then Mycroft started sneezing on top of it all. After the first four, Greg could tell his head was swimming. After another five rapid, punishing sneezes he saw Mycroft’s eyes roll back and his body suddenly went slack.

“S’pose that was inevitable,” Greg grunted as he gently lowered his partner so he was laying on his side on the sofa. Mycroft’s eyes fluttered open and Greg made sure he was in his line of sight. “Hi there. You checked out on me for a minute.” Mycroft tried to talk but Greg cut him off. “Shh. Give yourself a moment to recover, okay? That was a nasty panic attack. Just get your bearings.” He stayed crouched next to the head of the sofa and ran his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. After a few minutes the younger man nodded and Greg helped ease him up into a sitting position.

“I’m going to get you some cold medicine and a xanax, okay?” He got no argument about either and made a quick trip upstairs to get the pills. He came back to find his partner sneezing. Again. Greg winced in sympathy as he watched Mycroft shiver with each one.

hehNTSCHH! hhAhhKTschhoo! hehh EhhNTSHHoo! NKTschh-NTschh! AhhKTSHHOO!

“Christ! Bless you, Mycroft!”

Greg handed him a glass of water and then the medicine. After taking the pills and finishing most of the water, Mycroft glanced up hesitantly, obviously embarrassed about his breakdown.

“It’s fine,” Greg said. “Seriously, Mycroft, it’s all fine. You can’t help it. You’ve been fighting it for days and now I know why. We’ll deal with him when we’ve both had some decent sleep. I can’t even begin to wrap my head around it right now and neither can you. Okay?”

“Okay,” Mycroft agreed.

“Good. Now let’s get back to bed before those meds kick in and you’re too out of it to make your way upstairs. I’m too old to carry you.”

Mycroft smiled at that and accepted Greg’s hand to help him off the sofa. Once they’d settled into bed, Mycroft curled up against his partner, resting his head against his chest.

“Thank you for staying with me tonight,” he whispered.

“I was right where I was supposed to be,” Greg said, giving Mycroft a squeeze. “Sleep well.”

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Oh, yes, you do take him waaaay overboard. Tsk, Mycroft, you should not wait so long to get the xanax. Either that or go back for more biofeedback training. 

I would love to quote my favorite bits, but I haven't quite figured out how to do that yet. But Greg's comment as Mycroft passes out was brilliant. Love that he has clearly been through this too many times before (and knows where Mycroft keeps his controlleds). 

BTW, I think Sherlock was trying to OD on the plane. I mean, he was basically being sent to his death. It was his last chance to piss off Mycroft. The notebook filled with lists just breaks my heart. 

This was marvelous Matilda. I am eagerly awaiting your next chapter. 

[AngelEyes]

Wow. Just. Wow. So much emotion. I want to cry. And to hug Mycroft tight. Very tight. Your descriptions were amazing. Really drew me into the scene. It hurts so much and I love it! I'd quote but I'm not sure what I like best, all of it.

[cally]

*whimpers*  Oh Mycroft.  

I'm still not 100% sure about Sherlock's actions on that plane.  I think that if he was doing it purposefully, it may have had more to do with never seeing John again, rather than taking a last stab at Mycroft.  I think at the point that they were at, all choices had been abolished, and that was no one's fault but Sherlock's.   Not that I'm not sympathetic to the issues, I think there was a lot more going on than we know yet and well, now I'm way off topic here.

Matilda, this was so very well done.  I would love to see an additional chapter with Mycroft and Sherlock, or even Greg and Sherlock.  

 

[matilda3948]

On 3/1/2016 at 10:12 PM, Seeking Clarity + Wisdom said:

Oh, yes, you do take him waaaay overboard. Tsk, Mycroft, you should not wait so long to get the xanax. Either that or go back for more biofeedback training. 

I would love to quote my favorite bits, but I haven't quite figured out how to do that yet. But Greg's comment as Mycroft passes out was brilliant. Love that he has clearly been through this too many times before (and knows where Mycroft keeps his controlleds). 

BTW, I think Sherlock was trying to OD on the plane. I mean, he was basically being sent to his death. It was his last chance to piss off Mycroft. The notebook filled with lists just breaks my heart. 

This was marvelous Matilda. I am eagerly awaiting your next chapter. 

Thank you!! You know me--the more angst the better  

On 3/1/2016 at 11:14 PM, AngelEyes said:

Wow. Just. Wow. So much emotion. I want to cry. And to hug Mycroft tight. Very tight. Your descriptions were amazing. Really drew me into the scene. It hurts so much and I love it! I'd quote but I'm not sure what I like best, all of it.

Thanks AngelEyes! That whole episode made me want to hug Mycroft. So sad.

 

On 3/1/2016 at 6:37 AM, cally said:

*whimpers*  Oh Mycroft.  

I'm still not 100% sure about Sherlock's actions on that plane.  I think that if he was doing it purposefully, it may have had more to do with never seeing John again, rather than taking a last stab at Mycroft.  I think at the point that they were at, all choices had been abolished, and that was no one's fault but Sherlock's.   Not that I'm not sympathetic to the issues, I think there was a lot more going on than we know yet and well, now I'm way off topic here.

Matilda, this was so very well done.  I would love to see an additional chapter with Mycroft and Sherlock, or even Greg and Sherlock.  

 

Thanks! One of the reasons that took me so long to post was that I was trying to figure out what I thought of the drugs. I still feel a little ambiguous but this is the best I could come up with.

Okay, so here's the final piece. It took me a really long time to write and I haven't proofread it yet because every time I reread it, I decide I don't like it and just delete big pieces. Time to just call it done.  Hope you all like it.

Obviously still a trigger warning for suicide.

**

“Good morning. I’ll take three croissants and two large coffees. The first with cream and the second no cream, two sugars.” Greg placed his order at the busy coffee shop, paid, and then stepped to the left to wait for his order. Morning had come much sooner than he would have preferred and he was going to Baker Street armed. As soon as he’d woken up Greg texted Anthea and she assured him that there had been no new developments overnight. He’d let Mycroft know, convinced him to take more cold medicine and another Xanax, and made sure he had fallen back to sleep before cleaning up and leaving the house. The previous night’s revelations were weighing heavily in the pit of his stomach and he hadn’t slept well despite being completely exhausted.

He had a cup of coffee in each hand and a bag of pastries tucked under his arm and was walking towards his car when he felt his nose prickle. He sniffed and walked a little faster, desperate to get to his car before he sneezed—at least have a chance to set the drinks down on the hood first. When he was still five feet from the car he ducked his head and did his best to smother an explosive sneeze into his shoulder.

huhhRuhhSSHHHMF!

No hot coffee scalding his hands and he didn’t drop the pastry so he considered it a win. He hastily set everything down on the roof of the car just and barely managed to raise his arm, catching another sneeze in his elbow.

huh huhhRahhhSHHHoo!

Well that didn’t take long, he thought as he dug out his keys. He would have been surprised if he hadn’t caught Mycroft’s cold. All the more reason to deal with this situation with Sherlock while he still felt well enough to do it.

**

“Lestrade, in case you haven’t noticed, I have more pressing concerns than some mundane London homicide,” Sherlock said when the older man came into the flat.

“Yeah I can see you’re hard at work. Your violin full of leads, is it?” Greg asked. Sherlock spun around.

“I’m thinking,” he hissed.

“Right. Well it can wait a few minutes. I need to talk to you.” Sherlock pried open the lip of the paper bag with his violin bow and inspected the pastry.

“Did my brother send you?” he asked.

“No as a matter of fact. Your brother is home in bed laid up with a bad cold.”

“Which you’ve also managed to contract and are now contaminating my flat with.” Sherlock took his coffee, snatched a croissant, and flopped into his chair. Greg sat in John’s chair and took a sip of coffee.

“Look, I’m not leaving until we discuss what I came here to talk to you about. The alternative is you discuss it with Mycroft but huhihh…” His breath tapered off and Greg realized he didn’t have any tissues. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stomped towards the kitchen, coming back with a roll of paper towels. He tore off several and held them in front of Lestrade.

huhRahhSHHooo! HahhSHHHooo!

“ThahhUhh…thanks Sherlock. HahhRSHHMF!” He caught the final sneeze into his makeshift Kleenex and blew his nose. “Sorry,” he sniffed.

“But?”

“But what?” Greg asked. Sherlock huffed.

“The alternative is I discuss it with Mycroft but…”

“Right,” Greg said. “But he gets a bit… panicky when the subject comes up.” Sherlock straightened up slightly.

“Define panicky.” He tried to sound nonchalant but Greg didn’t miss the edge in his voice.

“He had a pretty bad anxiety attack last night. Needed a Xanax to get any sleep and he took another one without argument this morning. Anthea said he’d been bad at the office earlier as well.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock sipped his coffee. “All this because of Moriarty?”

“It’s got nothing to do with Moriarty,” Lestrade said. “This is about you, Sherlock.”

“Me? What on earth could he—”

“Did you try and kill yourself when you were sent on that mission?” Greg was too tired and the situation was too serious to continue dancing around the topic.

“And deprive the world of my genius?”

“I’m not joking around, Sherlock! This is serious.”

Sherlock got up and paced the length of the room, his left hand twitching slightly. When he turned back Greg could see some kind of conflict written on the genius’ face.

“Of course I didn’t try to kill myself,” he said. “That’s what Mycroft thinks?”

“Sit back down, Sherlock. We’re just talking here.” Greg tore another paper towel off the roll from the kitchen and folded it over his nose. Hehh…ehh huhhEHHNGSHHHF! “Ow. Christ,” he mumbled rubbing his throat. “Please, Sherlock. Just sit down and talk to me.” Greg took a couple swallows of coffee and nodded his head towards Sherlock’s chair. He’d obviously hit a nerve and needed to proceed with caution. Once the detective (reluctantly) sat back down, Greg coughed into his fist before trying to restart the conversation. “He keeps the lists, you know.” He took Sherlock’s silence as an indicator to keep going. “He kept rereading them all night last night. I couldn’t figure out why until he finally handed it over. Sherlock, you took an incredibly dangerous mix of drugs.”

“Wasn’t that bad,” Sherlock mumbled.

“It was that bad!” Greg immediately regretted raising his voice. The painful catch in his throat made him cough. He really was starting to feel ill. Sherlock at least waited until Greg had drained the last of his coffee and managed to regain his composure.

“I knew exactly what I was doing,” he said. Greg sighed and leaned forward in his chair.

“That’s what worries me, Sherlock,” he said. “You always know exactly what you’re doing and I have no doubt this time was any different. It wasn’t just the amounts; you mixed things you know are dangerous—things you’ve never mixed in the past.”

“Is that what Mycroft told you?”

“He’s not the only one who keeps an eye on you, you know. Not the only one who worries,” Greg said. Sherlock made a noise akin to a growl and stormed into the kitchen where he started banging through the cupboards. When Greg followed him in there he saw Sherlock was getting ready to make tea.

“What else did my brother tell you?” he demanded.

“What do you mean?” Greg asked.

“Did he tell you about my mission?

“Just that it would be over in six months. Seemed like a pretty good trade considering the alternative.”

“Oh Lestrade, you are an idiot,” Sherlock said, but there wasn’t much heat in the insult. In fact, he sounded more sad than anything else. Greg was confused—something had shifted in the conversation and he’d missed it. “Did My—” Sherlock stopped when he saw the distant look on Greg’s face—eyes out of focus, head tilted back slightly, and lips parted as he built up for another sneeze.

Huhh…hehh huhhAHHSHHHoo! HuhhSHHHooo! hhNKSSHHHOO!

He was nearly doubled over from the heady triple sneeze, his hands still cupped over his nose and mouth. Any attempt at apologizing was immediately caught off by more sneezes.

huhRahhSHHooo! HahhSHHHooo! huhhAHHSHHOOO!

“Christ! Sorry, Sherlock.” Greg went to the kitchen sink to wash his hands.

“Bless you. If you sound this bad Mycroft must be miserable.”

“Yeah he felt pretty bad last night. You don’t happen to have any proper tissues do you?”

“I’m sure Mrs. Hudson does. Make the tea when the water boils.”

Greg dug through the cupboards and found the tea. He also found a bottle of ibuprofen and put everything on the kitchen table. He almost swallowed the pills, but he remembered where he was and decided to double check and make sure that the pills he found actually matched what the bottle advertised. The water came to a boil and he filled the teapot Sherlock had put out just as he heard him coming back up the stairs.

“Can I take these?” Greg asked, rattling the bottle. Sherlock glanced at it and nodded. He put a box of tissues on the table and dropped into one of the chairs. “Thanks for these,” Greg said, giving his nose a much needed blow before sitting down across from the younger man. “Alright then. What did I miss?” he asked.

“What did think was going to happen at the end of my six month mission?” Sherlock asked.

“Assumed you’d earn a pardon and come back.”

“Just like that?” Sherlock challenged.

“Look, Sherlock, in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about here. If you want me to understand you’re going to have to explain it to me.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said. After a minute of silence, Greg sighed.

“What are you waiting heh Huhh—for?” He quickly grabbed a handful of tissues. hehuhhSSCHHMF! HuhhRahhSSHHMF!

“Bless you. I was waiting for that,” Sherlock said. He gave Greg a moment to recover then started to explain—only it wasn’t in his normal, manic, animated way of explaining what Lestrade had missed. He seemed almost detached, keeping his eyes trained on the table just in front of Greg’s hands. “It was a terminal mission, Lestrade. I was never meant to survive it. When Mycroft said it would only last six months it’s because he estimated that’s how long it would be before I was killed. I suppose it was a better deal than I had a right to hope for—God knows what Mycroft had to promise in order to get it. Six months. And Mycroft is never wrong.” Only after he’d finished did Sherlock risk looking up and he regretted it when he saw the look on Greg’s face. Instead of the anger or disbelief he’d been hoping for, Sherlock saw only sadness and pity.

“Jesus, Sherlock. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“So…on the plane then…the drugs?” Greg prodded.

“Wasn’t a suicide attempt,” Sherlock said. “But I suppose I wasn’t very careful,” he added quietly.

“You were reckless.”

“I was going to die, Lestrade. What difference did six months make?”

“Turns out ten minutes made a huge difference,” Greg said.

“Yes well how was I supposed to know that?”

“You couldn’t. That’s the point.” This time it was Sherlock’s turn to be confused. Greg smiled a little. “You don’t get to control everything, Sherlock. No matter how brilliant you are, you can’t control every outcome. Been trying to get your brother to understand that very same concept. Seems you Holmes men are resistant to the idea. But—heh hang on…” Greg’s voice trailed off as his nose refused to cooperate any longer. He was very glad he had the tissues—his head was starting to feel incredibly full and heavy. HuhhSHHHmff! hhNKSSHHHMF!

“Bless you. You’re disgusting,” Sherlock said. Greg laughed.

“Agreed,” he said, sniffling. “Look at me,” he said and he waited until Sherlock raised his eyes. “I don’t care if you think you only have five minutes left—you do not play Russian Roulette with your life.” When Sherlock spoke his voice was very quiet.

“I knew there was a chance that I wouldn’t wake up. I most likely would but there was a small chance and I just…”

“It’s okay. Finish,” Greg prodded.

“I just thought since I was going to die anyway, it wouldn’t be that terrible to simply close my eyes and drift away in my Mind Palace and if I didn’t wake up again then I simply accelerated the process.”

They sat quietly for a moment, perhaps both taken aback by the honesty of the last half hour of conversation. Greg was surprised when Sherlock spoke first.

“I understand now,” he said.

“Do you?” Greg asked. He needed to be sure. Sherlock nodded and Greg believed him. “Okay then.” He stood up and Sherlock followed suit. When they got to the door of the flat Greg stopped and took Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Listen to me, Sherlock Holmes. Your life is too precious to gamble with like that.” He watched a half dozen emotions pass over the young man’s face before he finally spoke,

“Get out of here. You’re running a fever and should be in bed, not playing amateur psychologist.”

Greg gave the back of his neck an affectionate squeeze and let himself out.

**

Mycroft was still debating whether he wanted to fight to wake up or just roll over and go back to sleep. It had to be nearly 11 in the morning but he was still exhausted.

hehTSCHH! Ntschh! SNTschh! heh—AHHntschhoo!

And ill so it seemed. He was reaching for the tissues when he heard his mobile chimed. He picked it up expecting a text from either Anthea or Gregory. His eyebrows rose in surprise when he saw it was actually from his brother. He was even more surprised when he read it:

I promise I will never. –SH

Mycroft smiled and swallowed past the lump in his throat.

Thank you, brother mine. –MH

He rolled over and closed his eyes, feeling genuinely calm for the first time in weeks.

 

[cally]

I have a lot of feelings about this and I'm not sure I can be articulate about them.  This was so brilliantly well done.

I like how Sherlock finally had to be detached from the matter to discuss it all with Greg, if for completely understanding the mindset that one has to have when discussing such an issue.  I was also very glad of the ending text message.

And not to make light of the subject matter, but poor (delicious) unwell Greg.  Poor thing.

 

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

This was an excellent story, all of it from beginning to end. I loved anxious, stressed, sniffly, sneezy Mycroft, who was so worried about his brother he could barely articulate his fears. But your Greg, just stole the show. He is so sanguine in the face of all the Holmes's drama. I think you wrote everyone, from Anthea to Sherlock, in character and managed to show how Greg provides needed ballast for these two men. 

I wholeheartedly agree with your interpretation of why Sherlock OD'd as he did. The last bit with text to Mycroft was sweet and appropriate. 

And as @cally said unwell Greg was just delicious, and divine. Kudos to you!

[AngelEyes]

This is absolutely wonderful. So deep and moving. As @Seeking Clarity + Wisdom said, I like how Greg is the strong, sane, rock for the Holmes brothers. I like your interpretation of the events. Not necessarily intentional suicide attempt, just reckless not really caring, gambling. Unwell Greg is definitely Delicious! And the texts at the end. Perfect. So much love for this piece!

[Seeker]

On 3/18/2016 at 1:59 AM, matilda3948 said:

 

I promise I will never. –SH

 

I'm sorry for bumping up an older story, but this line just really got me. I love that you explored the different possible reasons, or what Mycroft thought it might be and how Sherlock explained his thoughts on why he did it. I would believe Mycroft kept the lists, easily. Very well done

[Shamaël]

@ReidSeeker: I'll never thank you enough for bringing back this topic, because without you, I would never have read this story and I DON'T KNOW HOW I CAN HAVE MISSED IT!!! @matilda3948 this is one of your best stories. You know that I really like your writing, but this... this was... sweet and angsty and completely in character and I think I may have died during the conversation between Sherlock and Lestrade. And that last text...  You are such a gret writer! Thank you for this.

[Seeker]

3 hours ago, Aliena H. said:

ReidSeeker: I'll never thank you enough for bringing back this topic, because without you, I would never have read this story and I DON'T KNOW HOW I CAN HAVE MISSED IT!!!

 I'm so glad! I haven't been here long so I am reading all sorts of old stories and it's so hard not to comment because, I believe, you're not supposed to bump up old ones. So many stories deserve a comment from me and I feel mean not doing so. This one I really had to tell the author how touching and well-written 

[lsbn]

Wow. That was a LOT...I never considered the possibility that he would overdose on the plane! OMG