Jump to content
Sneeze Fetish Forum

More Important (Mystrade; BBC'S Sherlock)

frolicking periwinkle

Recommended Posts

This is my first Mystrade.  Greg is sick, and Mycroft is sneezy and distracted.  What could go wrong?

Part 1

The tension in the air was thick, as both Greg and Mycroft got ready for work.  While they typically had  a decent dialogue going on, Mycroft was stressed about a very important meeting that he had that day.  He was busy trying to weigh the arguments and counterarguments.  Playing mental chess in person was only feasible if he knew his options going in.  

“Mycroft?” Greg against.  He had woken up feeling tired and a bit unwell.  He couldn’t quite put his finger on the issue, but he knew that Mycroft would figure it out in a minute.  If he could get a minute.

“Not right now, Gregory,” Mycroft responded, firmly but politely.  He opened his wardrobe, and pulled open a drawer which was filled with fine handkerchiefs.  He plucked one out as he sucked in a desperate breath.  “Heffsshoo!  Essshhoo!  Issshaaaa!” he sneezed into it.

Pushing his concerns aside, he put the needs of the free world ahead of his own.  It didn’t matter. He would take a few pills and dull the symptoms until they either pushed through or took over.  Either way, his focus had to be on Mycroft; the younger man had been so stressed and there was many lives that hung in the balance on if a temporary peace could be negotiated, or if there would be open war. 

“Blessings, love.  You going to be okay?” he muttered, his deep baritone rumbling gently.  He pressed on his chest, trying to figure out why it felt like he couldn’t quite pull in a deep breath.  He drew in a breath to ask Mycroft, but watching the focused look in his partner’s face, he knew better.  This was not the time.  There were more important things.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, pulling out another handkerchief and putting it in his pocket.  He cleared his throat.  “I’m fine, Gregory.  Don’t be so worried.  You’ve been undercover when you’re not quite at your best.  You focus it away – I’ll do the same.”

Greg burped, and excused himself.  “Of course you will, love.  I just wish I could help.”

Mycroft closed his eyes with a frustrated sigh.  “Not being here would help,” he stated coldly. 

Greg knew Mycroft too well to be hurt by such a statement.  He knew that Mycroft needed to focus, and having another person there caused him to war with himself to try to figure out if he should remain introverted with his thoughts, or provide some sort of engagement with Greg.  “You wouldn’t mind if I headed off to work early, would you?”

Mycroft saw the offer for what it was and smiled at him.  “I would appreciate it.  Anthea is going to fax over some last minute paperwork, and I just… I want to be prepared for this.  It’s a big deal.  He sniffed and dabbed at his nose.

“I know,” Greg said.  “Go save the free world, love.  I’m so proud of you.”  He leaned in for a kiss, and couldn’t help feeling a little rejected when Mycroft turned his head slightly.  He pressed a kiss to the side of Mycroft’s head.  “Be brilliant,” he whispered, before leaving.

Mycroft was so focused on setting his mental game that he hardly noticed.

Link to comment

Sometimes the people you love know you love them... sometimes they are not cognizant enough to know. 

Part 2

Greg huffed as he and Sally ran after the perp.  He hated runners, and he felt like he was getting too old for the younger criminal.  He wondered, idly, if his colleagues thought that he was too old for the game anymore.  He wasn’t anywhere near old enough to retire.   

He huffed in a ragged breath, having let Sally continue the chase.  He coughed roughly, his smokers lungs hating every second of the harsh breaths that felt like they were filled with shards of glass.  He pulled in again harsh breath, coughing it out, as he tried desperately to pull in a clear breath.  It wasn’t happening.

“Sorry, sir.  He got away.  But, we have some identifiers to go on now,” Sally said, huffing as she came up to him. 

“Sorry,” he gasped out.  “I just couldn’t keep up there.  Good job…” he thought about her name – her last name.  He was vaguely aware that it started with a ‘D’.  But, he knew that he couldn’t call her by her first name.  He thoughts swirled around him, and he felt lightheaded.

“Sir?” Sally asked, taking a step towards him.

Greg blinked hard, as he felt as though his chest was cramping.  Gasping out a breath, he was only vaguely aware when he fell forward.  Unable to breath clearly, his fear level spiked as he wished that Mycroft was there.  He didn’t know what was happening, exactly, but he had a guess.  Unfortunately, all he could do was struggle to pull in ragged breaths until the sounds around him became hollow and he lost consciousness.


Mycroft had been in his meeting for three hours so far, and very little had been negotiated.  Nobody wanted to give up anything, even though if everyone would give up a little, they could get out of the meeting sooner and walk away happier.  But, if the people involved could share well, there wouldn’t be a need for him.  And so, the arguments, demands, and negotiations continued. 


“Somebody call Mycroft,” Sally stated, as she got into the ambulance with her boss.  She did not like his chosen partner, especially since he seemed to enjoy taking cases away from New Scotland Yard, as though they were incapable of doing their jobs.  But, he seemed to make her boss happy enough.  And, after that bitch of a wife had taken Lestrade for his time, his love, and his money, she knew that her boss deserved all of the happiness that he could gather. 

When they arrived at the hospital and Mycroft wasn’t there, Sally became angry and defensive.  There was no reason that Mycroft should not have come, and she followed with Greg as long as she was allowed.  She watched as he slid in and out of consciousness, and the medical professionals worked diligently to bring him back to the land of the conscious. 

Her heart thudded hard in hear chest, as she called Mycroft herself.  She frowned, angrily, when she was pushed immediately to voicemail.  “Look,” she snapped, leaving an angry message.  “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you had best get yourself here as soon as you can.  Greg needs you.  And if you love him, you should be here.  Nothing else should be more important. Nothing, Mr. Holmes.”   After angrily turning off her phone, she thought about what else she could do.  There had to be something.  With an angry sigh, she pressed her auto-dial to Dr. John Watson.


As soon as John received the call about Greg, he hailed a cab to join Sally at the hospital.  He left a note for Sherlock, but did not want to wait for him.  John knew from experience that there was nothing better than having someone who knew what was going on, to act as a liaison between the medical professionals providing care, and the patient and family.  Sometimes there were questions that laymen didn’t know to ask.  Sometimes there were answers that they didn’t understand.  Besides, John liked Greg, and he didn’t like the story that Sally had weaved. 

Judging by her story, it sounded like Greg had a heart attack.  John’s thoughts drifted to the symptoms of a heart attack, and wondered how long Greg had been feeling poorly.  He put his phone to his ear and dialed Mycroft.  When he went directly to voicemail, he dialed Anthea.

“Dr. Watson, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Anthea asked, her tone far more friendly than it had ever been in the past.

“I need to speak to Mycroft,” he answered, directly.

“I’m afraid he is indisposed, and is likely to remain so for several more hours.  No one can enter the meeting, not even me.” There was a bit of a tightness to her voice on this point.

“Well, I’m certain that he is doing something very important. But, when he is able, please tell him to go to St. Barts.  We believe that Greg has had a heart attack.  I’m on my way now to confirm.  If you’d like to see the CCTV video, I understand that he went down by the Wakefield House.”

Even as he spoke, Anthea’s fingers flew over her keyboard, making the necessary requests for the footage.  She would capture the right time sequence to show her boss when he emerged.  “Thank you for that.  Mycroft will be made aware as soon as his meeting breaks.”

John felt like he was at a loss of what to do.  He wanted to demand that she take the footage to Mycroft immediately, and chastise Mycroft for not being there when Greg needed him.  But, he also knew that Mycroft had the difficult task of being a pivotal point of the British government, and the misfortune of being Sherlock’s brother.  There were going to be times when he had to put his work above all else.  Until then, John would do what he had to in order to make certain that Greg was not alone.


Three hours later, the negotiations were finally peaceably arranged, and Mycroft took solace in his office.  Finally, he didn’t have to focus on not allowing himself to feel as wretched as the cold settling upon him.  “Hih-Ettscchh!  EgaiaihhCCHOOooo!”  Essffresssh!”  Harsh and wet, the sneezes practically rocked him off of his feet.

Sitting at his desk with an audible groan, he turned his phone on.  The first ding was a text from Greg wishing him luck. He smiled, and knew that he would have to make it up to Greg for being to kind to him during the morning.  His partner’s awareness to Mycroft’s need to concentrate was so very appreciated. 

Then there was a call from New Scotland Yard… from a number that was not Greg’s phone, or even his office.  Then there was a call from Sally Donovan, with a message.  Then there was a call from John Watson, without a message. A feeling of cold dread washing over him, although that could also have been the temperature that he was beginning to run. 

“Sir?” Anthea said, coming in.  She knew that she should be asking how his meeting went.  But, right now there were more pressing matters. She walked in with her laptop open, and the CCTV footage ready to roll. She was about to hit play, when she paused, taking in the sneezy expression on his face. 

Mycroft’s lips had parted, and his well defined nose started to draw an invisible line up to the ceiling as he drew his head back.  “Heh-Kusshooo!  Ehsshhoo!  AiguSSCHHH!”  he sneezed, stuffily into his handkerchief, which was rapidly becoming useless. 

“Bless you, sir,” she said, pressing play after he blew his nose.

She wasn’t worried about him hearing anything, as there wasn’t a sound recording.  But, it was abundantly clear what they were watching, as Lestrade huffed, painfully out of breath, until passing out and being taken to the hospital. “Your car has been called, sir, and is waiting for you outside.”

Mycroft stood slowly, dread filling the shallow area where his heart used to be.  He recalled the statement that he had made as they got ready – that he would be happy to see Gregory go.  He had meant to work, of course, not forever.  As he got into his car, the image of Gregory falling to the ground played in his mind, and he whispered a small wish that Gregory knew that the had not meant that he didn’t want him in his life.  He hoped the older man knew that his distraction that morning had nothing to do with their relationship.  And yet… here he was wondering, not knowing, if the man he loved knew that he was loved. 


Link to comment

I expect there to be a follow up - but when... I don't know.  

Part 3

Mycroft was out of breath by the time he made it to the front desk of the Cardiac Care Unit.   The call from Sgt. Donovan had basically been useless, but John had left him a message explaining precisely where to go.  His anxiety caused a prickling under his skin and a buzzing in his head.  But, that could also have been the cold which seemed to be getting impatient in having its day in the sun.

“I’m here to see Gregory Lestrade.  I understand he was brought in with… with…” A tickle prickled at his sinuses and he drew in a frantic breath.  Clearing his throat, he continued on, focusing on not allowing the tickle to come to fruition.  “He came in with … signs of a heart attack.”

The woman at the desk asked for his identification, and then nodded as she printed out a visitor’s badge.

The tickle in his sinuses finally overcame him, and he turned to suppress two sneezes into his wrist.  “Etitch!  Igsshtt!”  Swallowing, he let out a breath of relief.  “Do pardon me,” he said, giving her a not quite pleasant smile.

“You won’t be allowed back to see him if you’re sick.  Even a cold could cause complications.”

“It’s not a cold,” Mycroft lied easily.  “It’s just the stress and the dryness of the hospital.”  He made the mental note to get a face mask before seeing Gregory.  He could not keep away from his partner, but he wouldn’t take unnecessary risks either.

The woman rolled her eyes and gave him the badge, which he took with a fake smile and a thank you.

Halfway to Gregory’s room, his was overcome with another harsh wet sneeze.  Barely able to pull his handkerchief out in time, he found himself paused as the feeling receded. 

“Oh no.  You can’t be here,” a female’s voice told him. 

Panic rose up in his chest, but he kept his features impassive.  He regarded the…. physician with a polite smile.  “My partner is in there,” he said, pointing to Gregory’s door.  “I must see him.”

“No,” she said.  “If you care about him, you will not go in as you are.”  She looked him over: a middle aged man, well dressed, presenting with sneezing.  His cheeks did not appear to be flushed, but she wasn’t taking a risk.

He blinked at her, unused to being told no.  “He is my partner.  Even were I ill, he would have already been exposed.”

The argument won him no favors, and he found himself being escorted back into the waiting area. 

“This is intolerable!” he retorted angrily.  “I must see Gregory.”

“You’re in no fit state, sir,” the doctor said, standing her ground. “Now, I understand that you’re concerned, and I’ll get his chart to see what we can tell you.”

The obtuse nature of what she wasn’t telling him caused Mycroft’s heart to hammer against his chest.  Logically, he understood, but he was not thinking with the most logical reasoning at present, and wanted nothing more than to bull rush the doctor and force his way in.  Of course, he knew that it would not be the most beneficial way of handling the situation.  So, he sat down and shot off a text to John.

** I can’t get to his room.  I’ll wait until I can go in. Mycroft **

 John had been sitting at Greg’s bedside.  The prognosis was good, and it wasn’t a attack – as far as heart attacks went.  The medical staff believed that Greg would be released to go home within the week.  He had been in and out of consciousness a few times since being admitted, each time being a little more aware than the last. 

When his mobile buzzed, John took a quick look.  He glared at the message, and misunderstood the message as he wondered what kind of heartless berk would actively not come when his partner was in such a state.  Perhaps this was why he was so detested by his family.  As much as Sherlock claimed to be a sociopath, perhaps Mycroft actually was one.

Greg groaned a bit as his eyes pulled back open. “Mycroft?” he whispered, looking over at John. 

John shook his head with a sigh.  “Not yet.  I’m sorry, Greg.”

Greg raised a shoulder in a weak shrug. “The meeting’s more important,” he whispered, exhausted.

Rage filled John almost instantly.  Certainly, he understood that Mycroft’s position was important… as a soldier, especially, he understood both the importance and the infuriation of bureaucracy.  But, Greg should rank somewhere in there…  Frustrated, he zipped off a text, demanding that Sherlock help wrangle his brother.

Both men turned towards the door, when a young female physician entered.  “Mr. Lestrade, it’s took to see you cognizant,” she complimented.  “How are you feeling?”

He huffed at the distance between the word she had used to describe his awake state from how he was actually feeling. 

“Has anyone arrived to see him?” John asked, unable to accept that Mycroft truly wasn’t coming.

“A Holmes,” she stated, walking over to the machines beeping at Greg’s bedside.  She started notating the numbers into his chart.

John’s eyebrows raised up.  “Which one?  Was he foreboding or annoying?”

“Definitely annoying,” she answered, not looking up.

“No!  No!” Greg demanded.  He did not have the strength to deal with Sherlock right now. 

“It’s all right.  He’s in no fit state to come in,” she responded absently. 

“It’s okay, Greg.  I sent him to find Mycroft.  He won’t barge in here or anything,” John soothed, placing a firm, but comforting hand on his friend’s arm.

Comforted by the doctor and his friend, he nodded and let himself drift off again.  He was so tired.


When Sherlock arrived at the Cabinet Office, however, he was shocked to see that Mycroft was not there.  And, judging by the surprised look on his assistant’s face, had not been there for quite some time. 

Calling John, he inquired, “He’s not at the office.  Has he not contacted you at all?”  Anxiety that he wouldn’t admit to if asked tumbled around his stomach. 

“Yes, he texted and said that he couldn’t get in and that he would wait to come,” John responded, quietly as to not disturb Greg’s sleep.  Goodness knew he needed it.

“Okay, John, I need you to read it to me.  I need to know exactly what the text said.  Put me on speaker and read it verbatim,” Sherlock demanded as he left the Cabinet Office. 

He closed his eyes, processing the obvious clues that John so obliviously missed.  “I know where he is,” he responded, hailing a cab to take him to Barts.  He really wondered how average people made it through their day missing communication that was so painfully obvious to him.

Walking into the waiting area of the CCU area, he looked around, and frowned when he saw Mycroft sitting miserably in the corner.  The man’s eyes were red, and his stare could freeze the sun.  It was obvious that he needed to be with Greg, but if they had relegated him out to the waiting area there had to have been a reason.  Not that he was going to abide by it.  “What the hell are you doing here?” Sherlock asked coming up to his brother?

Cold eyes shifted up him, and he knew that he could not relax his face otherwise he would sneeze again.  He had stayed his symptoms for hours, trying to prove that he was not ill, and he was not about to blow his cover now.  “Apparently, I’m in no fit state to see Gregory,” he hissed.  The idea that he could not use his influence to get where he wanted to go had him feeling powerless.  It was not a feeling that he had any interest in getting used to. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.  They knew that he could make some comment about how an ill person around someone who’d just had a heart attack was not helpful, but he also knew that whatever Mycroft was fighting, Greg had already been exposed to. 

“I demand to see Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade,” Sherlock said, loudly and with an air of petulance.  When he did not get the immediate reaction that he craved, he went up to the front desk and made a pest of himself, demanding to see his friend. 

As attentions turned to Sherlock, Mycroft swiped a face mask out of one of the boxes in the waiting room and walked down the hallway confidently.  He knew, from ample experience, if one looked like they were supposed to be somewhere, it was expected that they were supposed to be there.

Walking into Gregory’s room, he sighed out a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding.  He coughed a few times, causing John to look at him.

“Mycroft, what on God’s green earth took you so long?” John snapped, standing up and moving to the end of Greg’s bed.

Ignoring the question that he didn’t feel that he had to answer, he looked down at his sleeping partner.  “What’s the prognosis?” he asked, softly. 

“It’s good actually.  They’ll put him on some medications to keep his blood pressure and cholesterol in check.  It was mild as far as these things go…”  He chanced a look over at Mycroft, who just looked down at his partner with a deep sadness.   “I’ll let you be,” John said, deciding to focus on venting out to Sherlock rather than to Mycroft – whom he believed had really earned his ire.

“Thank you, John.  For everything,” Mycroft said, sitting down where John had been.  He didn’t look up as he took Greg’s hand in his own. 

“Yea,” John mumbled, leaving the two of them to be alone.



Link to comment

Nothing is ever simple with the Holmes brothers! Mycroft really must have been in shock to just allow himself to be locked out!

Link to comment

Ugh! Poor misunderstood Mycroft. Nobody cuts him a break. :nosad:

I'm glad Greg didn't have a heart attack, rather unstable angina. Well, off to the cath lab he goes. :stretcher: 

I hope there will be more to come. :) 

Link to comment

Final installment:

By the end of the week, they were back at home.  Mycroft opted to have his meetings as conference calls from his home office so that he could keep an eye on Gregory.  Between paperwork and meetings, he tortured himself with the CCTV recording of Gregory’s angina – as it turned out.  Each time that the man fell forward, Mycroft wept. 

They were middle aged men, no longer in their prime.  They had issues – goodness knew that Mycroft had a slew of them: high blood pressure, weight disorder, anxiety, allergies …  He had thought that Gregory was healthy, besides a few aches and pains that came with leg work. 

Snuffling thickly into his handkerchief, he felt inordinarily lucky that his cold was short lived and he hadn’t passed it on to Gregory.  “Essxxxccht!” he sneezed wetly, feeling the congestion in his sinuses shift slightly.  He knew that the cold was making him more emotional than usual.  But, so was the fact that Gregory hadn’t been feeling well for some time and chose to forgo telling him.

With a sigh, he went into the living room, where Gregory had been napping on the couch.  Mycroft took a seat in his wingback chair and watched Gregory sleep.  He hadn’t been eating much during the last few weeks, so he looked thinner to Mycroft’s eyes.  He closed his eyes and his mind replayed the footage of Gregory’s heart attack.  It didn’t matter that it was mild… Gregory had a heart attack.  And Mycroft couldn’t even go to visit him.  This… this was a circle of hell Mycroft never knew existed.  It was different than with Sherlock.

He wondered how much he should help Gregory.  He knew that any help he tried to give to Sherlock was seen as meddling.  He also knew that Gregory was all but helpless, and his instinct told him to show the man the affection that he so desperately wanted to.

“Shilling for your thoughts love?” Gregory’s tired voice broke him out of his reverie.

“Oh, there are so many.  Which would you like to pay me for first?” Mycroft teased, in a calm, but exhausted voice.  He settled back in his chair slightly.

“My wallet is upstairs, but you’re welcome to what’s in it,” Gregory said, his kind eyes betraying the concern he felt for his partner.

Mycroft sighed.  Rivers of anxiety coursed through his veins and he tried to keep his emotional thoughts away from the logical ones, and his logical thoughts at the forefront.  “I do wish you had told me that you were feeling unwell.”  It wasn’t the thought he wanted to lead with, but he knew that they would get through all of them in time. 

“You had more important things.  That meeting for one.  I knew that if you focused on me, then you would be focused on me.  And if you need to put the world first, I need to let you,” Gregory responded, softly.

“I apologize.  I can’t change that,” Mycroft stated.  Guilt warred with his anxiety and he knew that he would hold some mixture for his part in this horrid affair for the rest of his life. 

“I wouldn’t want you to.  I love you for who you are and what you do.  Sometimes that means I need to figure thing out on my own.” He yawned widely. 

Mycroft got up and joined Gregory on the couch.  “You’re a very good man.  And I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“You almost got that wish… well the rest of my life with you anyway,” Gregory teased.  His smile fell when he saw the hurt look on Mycroft’s face.  “I was only teasing.”

“Tease when you’re better.  I need you here, Gregory.”  He pulled in a stuttering breath.  “I know there are signs.  What signs did I miss?”  He wanted to log away the signs so that he could identify them in the future.

“I was tired, felt worn for a week or so.  I thought I was coming down with a cold.  That morning I had what I thought was indigestion.  There was nothing you could have done,” Greg tried to assure him.

“I will remember not to take you for granted.  I apologize – so deeply.  I can’t make amends for what I did…” He snorted, and suppressed a sneeze with a squeak. 

“Don’t do that, love,” Gregory admonished gently.  “I’m all right.  I’ll be all right.  We’ll be all right.  I love you, and I love that you didn’t level the hospital when they wouldn’t let you get to me.”

“Those fools,” Mycroft hissed.  He was about to go on about how he wanted the lot of them fired, again, when he realized that Gregory was smiling.  “I love you,” stated.

Gregory smiled in return.  Mycroft showed his love with touches and gifts.  But, he very rarely said it. “I know Gregory, responded.  I love you too.”

Link to comment
  • 2 weeks later...


This topic is now archived and is closed to further replies.

  • Create New...