Everyone Needs Help Sometimes (BBC Sherlock- Mystrade)

[RemedyBane]

 

Chapter 1: Distractions

 

Mycroft never wanted to hurt anyone; at least not physically. It wasn't in his nature to cause physical pain. If he was being completely honest with himself, he only hurt people emotionally because he couldn't stand being close to another person. To care about someone else. Caring for one person was tearing him apart. No amount of Xanax and scotch got rid of that crushing feeling in his chest. Now, of course, he's come to be fond of John Watson, and much to his chagrin, a Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. He felt utterly sick to his stomach. His migraines had become more frequent as of late, and no matter how many deep breathing exercises he tried, his anxiety level just kept growing until he had another panic attack. This was not good for his health.

At the moment, he was nursing the tail end of a migraine when his phone chimed. It was a text message, and he found he was thrilled he didn't need to speak just yet.

-Can we talk? - Greg

The brightness of the phone stung, and he had just enough time to read it before the pain became too much. He set the phone down and laid back against the bed, cold cloth back on his eyes. If he were anyone else, this peace and quiet would do wonders, but he wasn't like everyone else. There was no such thing as peace. Even as he closed his eyes, his mind swam with all his regrets as of late. He flashed back to his interrogations with Jim Moriarty, and all that had led up to Sherlock faking his death. Of course, John was still non-the wiser. He should have known the key was a bluff; how could he be so stupid. How could he let himself be fooled by one man. What if Sherlock hadn't figured out the endgame and found a way to fake his death? What if Sherlock had really died?

the scotch was coming up now, acid burning his throat. He got up quickly made his way to the toilet before it all came back up. He knelt there coughing until his stomach sat still again.

Another chime came from the other room, and Mycroft let out a soft groan. When a second chime sounded, he forced himself to get up and splash some water on his face. He needed a distraction. Slowly, he made his way towards the bed, picking up the discarded phone.

-I'll be at your place in 10-

"Bugger," Mycroft dropped the phone and went to make himself appear put together. It took him almost the full ten minutes, but he made it downstairs just as there came a knock on the door. He cleared his throat and straightened his posture before opening the door.

Greg stood there, small smile on his face, carrying what appeared to be 'take-away', "Figured you hadn't eaten lunch yet."

Mycroft raised a brow, "Samosas?"

"There are green bits in there," Greg knew Mycroft was forcing himself on some insane diet, and he clearly didn't agree with it, "I also brought butter chicken."

"Forgive me," Mycroft stepped aside, "please come in. I shall start the kettle-"

"Nope," Greg walked in and closed the door, "you are going to sit down in the ridiculously comfortable couch, and rest."

"Rest? I am not ill, Gregory." 

"I may not be a Holmes, but I know that look. You've got a migraine. I don't want you dealing with a screaming kettle when you look about to keel over, Myc."

"It's the tale end, and I am more than-"

"I said sit down," Greg came closer and kissed him, "don't make me get out the handcuffs."

"Oh please," Mycroft rolled his eyes, but winced and held his head.

Greg chuckled, "that's what you get for being a wanker."

"I admit, it was not in my best interest," his thumb and pointer finger rubbed across his eyes, slightly pinching between.

"I'll get you a cold compress too, yeah?" Greg put his arm around Mycroft and led him to the sofa, "I had a feeling you were peaky."

"It has come on suddenly, how could you have possibly guessed I'd have a migraine?"

"You were stressed," Greg called from the kitchen, "extra stressed. I could see the exhaustion in your eyes."

Mycroft was a tad impressed, but mostly embarrassed. Was he slipping?

"Stop thinking," Greg came back with an icepack, "I can see the gears rotating in your head."

"How amusing," Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed as the compress touched his skin.

"I think you might have a fever, love."

"They tend to accompany my migraines."

"You did say this was the tail end?"

"Yes, I am not in as much pain as I was."

"You took your meds?"

"Yes, Doctor," Mycroft teased, "wasn't there something you came here to discuss with me."

Greg huffed, "I guess not."

Mycroft put the pack down and raised a brow, waiting for Greg to explain.

"You're in pain, Myc. We can talk after your head isn't full of jack hammers and you have some food in ya."

Greg saw how Mycroft looked at the food. Just looking at his forehead he would swear he could see the war etched there, "You'll feel better, love. Please."

"It would improve my head..."

"Exactly," Greg smiled and kissed the top of his head when he took a bite, "I'll be back with the tea."

-------

After they had eaten, and Mycroft's head felt calm again, that was when Greg asked him, "You gonna tell me what's going on with you?" 

Mycroft was slowly sipping his tea, not making eye contact.

"Come on, Myc," Greg put a hand on his thigh, "I haven't heard from you since..." he moved his head side to side, not saying it, but expecting Mycroft to get it.

The genuine concern in Greg's eyes brought back the tightness in Mycroft's chest, making the taller man wince, "Gregory..."

"You need to talk to me. You've clearly had a panic attack today."

Mycroft pressed hard on his chest, "Had?" 

"Having?!" Greg moved closer and took the cup from him and put it on the table, "are you having trouble breathing?" 

"No," Mycroft took some deep breaths, "It's nothing."

"Nothing, my ass," Greg got up and ran to Mycroft's briefcase, that was neatly placed by his desk. He opened it up and found Mycroft's anxiety medication and came back, "Darling, you need to take this."

"I've ta..taken.. it," Mycroft pushed the bottle away, "just need to..." He tried to stand up, but once he was nearly straight, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he fainted.

Greg saw this coming and caught him from behind, holding him to his chest while slowly lowering him to the cough, not letting go of him just yet, "Ok, love. Come back to me." He gently patted his face, then rubbed circles along Myc's chest, slowly waiting for him to regain consciousness.

It never did take long, perhaps 15 seconds, but to Greg it felt like forever.

"That's it, love. Open your eyes," Greg continued to rub his chest, "You just had a bit of an episode. Everything's alright, you just rest here."

"I am... aware..." 

Greg took Mycroft's hand and kissed the back of it, "I know you are. Please just, stay down and let your body catch up with your mind."

"Forgive me," Mycroft coughed slightly, "I have not been very forthcoming."

"You could have called me," Greg kissed his hand again, "I would have been here in a tik."

"I didn’t... want you to see me... so undone."

"Mycroft," Greg whispered, "I want to take care of you. You're sick, love. You're not eating, you're fainting, and if you keep this up, the next pain in your chest is going to be a heart attack."

Mycroft closed his eyes, pain shown on his face, "I don't know how..."

"How to let me help you?"

"How to turn it off."

"Turn what off, love?" 

"My mind," Mycroft opened his eyes and a rare sincerity shown through, giving Greg full view of just how vulnerable, lonely, and scared Mycroft truly was.

"I may not be smart like you, but I do know a thing or two about how to relax."

"The silence..."

"It's deafening, I know," Greg got up and turned on the tv, "have you ever seen reality tv?" 

"If I want to see 'reality' I have access to every camera in Great Britain," Mycroft deadpanned.

"Would be nice if you could send me some videos about my cases, but that's not for now," Greg sat back down, "come over here." He opened his arms and pulled Mycroft to his chest, "I know you can't turn off the smart thing," Greg kissed the top of his head, "you just need to focus it elsewhere."

"On these 'reality' stars?" 

"Yeah," Greg held him tight, "People seem to like this Ashley person, but truly, I can't stand her."

"She's sleeping with the women in the pink bikini," Mycroft raise a brow, "Who is also sleeping with the handsome gentleman with the tattoos."

"No! Shut up!" Greg's mouth was wide open, clearly thrilled.

"Yes," Mycroft chuckled softly, "and he is married."

"Married?!"

"There is a tan line where his wedding band should be. Clearly they forced him to remove it for the show, but he wears it when they stop shooting."

"How do you know that?" 

"HIs finger is slightly red with constantly taking it off and on throughout the day."

"But he cheats on his wife? With co-stars?" 

"He feels guilty," Mycroft relaxed against Greg, "The wife knows too."

"Tell me you're joking."

"He's far too guilty and stupid for her not to know. She's given him an ultimatum, and he doesn't know what to do."

"OH! This is so much better than the show."

Mycroft buried his face in Greg's neck and savored his scent: Mahogany, stale coffee, garlic, and gun smoke, "You shot your gun recently."

"Oi," Greg affectionately nudged him, "you're supposed to be focusing on the telly."

"Practice is good, Greg."

"It could have been on the job."

"No, it isn't."

"Yeah, thought i'd try."

"Never bet against the house, Gregory," He kissed the nape of his neck, "thank you."

Greg smiled and squeezed him lightly, "Anything for you, love."

 

 

 

[frolicking periwinkle]

Awww this is sweet!

[AntheaHolmes]

Oh my, I'm living for a good Mystrade fic! This is perfect. The caretaking from Greg. The angst. The stubbornness from Mycroft. Amazingly written. 

Please let there be more. Been waiting patiently for some allergy sneezes from Mycroft. His nose is just so perfect!