Caring For Your Government - BBC!Sherlock (Mystrade)

[AdrianMarx]

Since I don't have another exam until Tuesday (and I'd rather not think about integration or quadratic inequations) I thought I'd start a proper story. I just like Mystrade a lot okay. Though I don't think there will be any actual Mystrade until the part after next. Gosh, I'm really nervous about this. Yeah. Anyway. Rambling. I hope you like it

-

Mycroft had always prided himself on his impeccable immune system. His numerous awards for perfect attendance during his school years were testament to just how rare an occurrence illness was in his mind. In reality, the things proven by such awards were his stubbornness and complete disregard for his personal health.

However, even he had to admit that three sniffly colds in as many weeks was a worrying sign.

He swiped his sodden handkerchief beneath his nose yet again, risking a slight sniffle which he hoped would go undetected by his PA. She didn't look up so he looked back down to his papers and signed his name for what must have been the hundredth time that day.

On the hundred and first time, his pen paused in the middle. His nose twitched tellingly and he yanked his top drawer open in search of a fresh handkerchief. He was not fond of the squelching sound which came hand in hand with sneezing into a damp handkerchief. The tickle intensified and Mycroft felt his breathe hitching, hitching...

"Hhheh'NNnnnngch!"

"God bless you, Sir," Anthea said, never once tearing her eyes from the computer screen to look at him. He cleared his throat.

"Thank you," he said pleasantly, scrubbing at his nose with more vigor than before. This particular cold was worse than previous ones. It didn't often allow for much relief without a torturous minute or so of hitching and sniffling. It was also the first not to be contained as a headcold and so he could feel himself burning with what could only be a mild fever.

When he looked up from his files again, Anthea's eyes were upon him in scrutiny. She spoke up before he could say anything.

"Would you like me to clear your schedule for the day, Mr. Holmes?"

Her tone remained neutral but Mycroft didn't miss the undercurrent of sentiment in the gesture. All the same he refused.

"I am afraid I cannot spare the time," he said. Anthea looked unconvinced. He continued. "As you are already aware, this afternoon's meeting with Mr. Stoker is-"

"Absolutely vital, Sir. I know," she interrupted.

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow in surprise. "Yes, quite. It cannot be pushed back for something so trivial as a minor ailment."

Anthea nodded and returned her gaze to her computer screen. Mycroft hesitated.

"Thank you, my dear, for considering my health. I can assure you I am quite well."

The soft smile Anthea offered in return was worth the awkward feeling in the pit of his stomach having expressed his emotions so openly, so bluntly. He couldn't say it was a common occurrence.

He excused himself a minute later and headed to the bathroom where he promptly emptied his nose into his handkerchief. He pulled a face at the sound and the unpleasant feeling of the wet cloth against his nose. He was going through those things at a rate of knots today. This would be his third and it had only just gone ten o'clock.

"Hhhh'nnnnnngch! Hhhh'nnnngkhxt! Hhhhhh'ngcht! Hh'ngh! Hehhh'nnnnngch! Hhhh'nnnnnngch!"

In his solitude, he allowed a soft moan to pass his lips. His entire body felt weak, his limbs heavy as though their weight had doubled in the past minute. He could not recall a time when he had ever felt so lethargic. His body naturally ran on little sleep but he seemed to be needing double, sometimes triple, his usual amount in order to achieve minimum functioning and even then he needed endless cups of strong, black coffee with two sugars (though he knew Anthea always gave him three because he liked it better that way despite his insistence that he didn't.)

He stuffed the used handkerchief into his pocket and took much longer washing his hands than was perhaps necessary while he mentally steeled himself to maintain a facade of good health. The tickle had returned again. He willed it to stop.

His planned stride down the corridor became something of a distressed scurry when he realised his nose was threatening another fit. By the time he made it to his office, he could barely keep his eyes open for more reasons than one.

He bent at the waist, wrist pressed against his nose.

"Hhhhh'nnnnnnkghct! Hhhhhhnnnnnngch! Hhh'NNnngch!"

It still tickled. His eyelids fluttered impatiently and he placed a hand on the edge of his desk to steady himself.

"Hhhh'nnnnnnngch! Hhhh'NNNght!"

Mycroft opened his teary eyes to find Anthea holding out a fresh handkerchief with concern lacing her features in the most obvious of ways. Her Blackberry lay forgotten at her own desk - a sign of extreme distraction in itself - and Mycroft thought wryly that she may as well have had her worry written in luminous pink marker all over her face.

"Bless you, Sir," she murmured, averting her eyes as he accepted the offer gratefully and blew his nose again.

There was no use in hiding it from her any longer. It would do no good. When he was finished, he thanked her quietly and folded the cloth carefully so the embroidered 'A' was visible. He ran his fingers over it and made a mental note to have it laundered for her as soon as he got the chance. He noted that it was mostly plain aside from this detail and a dark shade of grey, only slightly lighter than his own. There was white stitching around the edges but he deduced that was for the more practical use of holding several layers of cloth together rather than for show. Simple and practical - very much Anthea's style. And his own.

“Well, back to work if you don’t mind,” he said, his voice authoritative once more. Anthea nodded once and took up her seat at her desk again.

Mycroft suppressed a sigh and glanced to the clock as he took off his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair. Was it hot in here? With a soft sigh, he picked up his pen again and went back to signing his name over and over and over. It was a slow day.

So, could anybody really blame him for propping his head up with his other hand? And was it really so difficult to condone his drooping eyes? Though, he would have thought as his head slipped from his fist and landed on his arm, falling asleep was definitely frowned upon.

Anthea glanced up from her computer screen as she did once every half hour on the dot and bit her lip at the sight which greeted her. It wasn’t proper to think of her employer – and the British Government no less – as adorable but, in that moment, it was the only accurate word to describe his appearance. She opted immediately to keep her observations to herself and stood, almost tiptoeing to his desk and sighing. While it was out of character, she wasn’t surprised. He’d been pushing himself to the limit with his work recently and he’d been so under the weather too. She took pity on him.

Slowly, she eased what papers she could from beneath his arms and set them on her own desk. She plucked his pen from his hand too and set it back into the holder in the corner of his desk. After only a moment’s hesitation, she tucked his jacket around him gently. He didn’t stir.

She nodded, satisfied with her handiwork, and set about forging her employer’s signature on many an important document. She could update him on the information in due course.

When Mycroft finally stirred, it had been almost two hours. He blinked blearily and gave a soft, involuntary cough.

“Good afternoon, Sir,” Anthea didn’t look up. “Sleep well?”

Mycroft could only blink at her. Sensing his discomfort, she stood and spoke again.

“The Harrison files, Sir,” she said, handing them to him as he sat up. She watched as he pulled his jacket from his shoulders wearily and offered a soft smile. “And I believe lunch time is almost upon us.”

Mycroft shook his head and sniffled. “I have work to catch up on.”

“Already done, Sir,” she added firmly and her tone suggested there would be no further discussion of the matter. “You have an hour before your meeting. Shall we relocate to the cafeteria or would you rather I brought you something?”

At the twinge in his nose, Mycroft made up his mind. “That would be most appreciated, my dear.”

“Very well, Sir,” she smiled and her shoes were clip-clopping down the corridor before Mycroft could think of a single thing to say.

[Seniorstatus14]

Awww so cute!!! Anthea is such a wonderful assistant!

[AdrianMarx]

Awww so cute!!! Anthea is such a wonderful assistant!

Eek, thank you! I totally love her to pieces omg.

[cally]

Awwwwww poor Mycroft. Hopefully he will be continued to be so well looked after.

[Spoo]

Oooh! I'm very excited at the prospect of a full-length fic! This is looking great so far; you've captured Mycroft's discomfort perfectly.

[ID2006]

Definitely looking forward to more of this

[AdrianMarx]

Awwwwww poor Mycroft. Hopefully he will be continued to be so well looked after.

Lucky he has plenty of people around him to care

Oooh! I'm very excited at the prospect of a full-length fic! This is looking great so far; you've captured Mycroft's discomfort perfectly.

So am I, actually. Ahh I hope it goes well. Gosh, thank you!

Definitely looking forward to more of this

<3

[squealofapproval]

Adrian, I ADOOORE your writing dear. Thats word-sex right there.

[AngelEyes]

Gah! Where even to begin? It's just so much wonderful! I love it all! And a full length story? OMG! Yay!!!

[AdrianMarx]

Adrian, I ADOOORE your writing dear. Thats word-sex right there.

Awh thank you!

Gah! Where even to begin? It's just so much wonderful! I love it all! And a full length story? OMG! Yay!!!

Eeek, thank you!! I'm actually quite excited ahh.

[AdrianMarx]

There is definitely Mystrade in the next part but I have to go and deal with real life things so I'm not sure how quickly I can write it. D:

-

Mycroft picked at his food, much to Anthea’s obvious dismay, and ultimately ended up feeling like he’d eaten nothing but had simultaneously swallowed a beach ball. He downed the painkillers Anthea brought him without a word and made a point of reading over the Harrison files despite his headache. It was rare for him not to remember a word of what he’d been reading but, in fairness, he was rather distracted by the horrid tickle in his nose. He hadn’t sneezed at all since waking but the itch still managed to grow steadily worse until he was quite sure he couldn’t take it anymore.

But still nothing.

As the time to head off to the conference room drew closer, Mycroft couldn’t stem the feelings of dread in the pit of his stomach. He was not looking forward to this. Not one bit.

But the time did arrive as time always does and he pulled his suit jacket back on somewhat reluctantly. Anthea tucked a spare handkerchief or two into his pocket discreetly as they walked and said, “It shouldn’t last longer than eighty minutes, Sir. If so, I’m sure I can organise a national crisis.”

Mycroft nodded but couldn’t find it in himself to tell her that her words were little comfort. Eighty minutes could and would seem like a lifetime, he had no doubt. Still, it was necessary. It was all very necessary.

Mycroft took up his usual seat closest to the door with Anthea on his right and lifted a finger to rub delicately at his nose. He considered brushing the tip lightly in the hopes of teasing a sneeze out but decided against it. If he let himself go now, it was unlikely he’d stop.

Before long, the room was near full and Mycroft found himself sweating rather unpleasantly in the sudden heat from too many bodies and no windows. Anthea’s cool fingertips on his wrist were welcome. As Mr. Stoker took his seat, Mycroft glanced at the open notebooks of those around him. He never bothered with such things and was never questioned. Everybody knew his memory capacity was quite extensive. That being the case, however, he did find it somewhat difficult to concentrate.

“Hhhnngch!”

His first stifled sneeze went seemingly unnoticed and Mycroft dabbed at his runny nose gratefully. How he was managing to be both stuffed up and drippy was beyond his understanding. He was not a medical man – not by any stretch of the imagination. The second sneeze appeared to ruffle a few feathers.

“Hhhnngch!”

When he dropped his handkerchief to his lap again, he had to will himself not to flush red with embarrassment. Mycroft Holmes did not blush and most certainly not in public!

Mycroft was grateful when the tickle was finally satisfied, at least for the time being. Still, he had to blink a lot to keep his eyes open. He glanced to the clock and would perhaps sighed audibly had he not been so conscious of ettiquette. He could only will himself not to look again for fear mere seconds would have passed in what felt like minutes and instead tuned in and out of the babbling and murmuring going on around him.

"Opinions, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft started and found himself locked in a staring match with Mr. Stoker's steely eyes. He blinked. And he blinked again. And he turned his head away and felt his breath hitching and his nostrils flaring and-

"Hhh'mmptish! Hh'nnnngchh! Hhh..."

The stifles felt more desperate than usual. He wrinkled his nose minutely, politely wiping the visible dampness away before removing his handkerchief for only a moment. His nose wasn't quite finished with him yet.

"Hhh...hih...hhh'nnnnnngch! Hh'ngkhxt! Hih'ISHhoo!"

Mycroft blinked in surprise at himself and allowed his cheeks to tinge a faint shade of pink. It was merely a courteous gesture to convey his embarrassment at his lack of control at such a time. He still wasn't blushing.

"My apologies, Mr. Stoker," he said with a forced smile. He would not sniffle. It would be unbecoming. "You were saying?"

Mr. Stoker's eyes only hardened. "Do you consider yourself competent, Mr. Holmes?"

Mycroft blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Because if you do consider yourself competent, and I am certain you do, then you should be well aware of the sensitivity of the matters we are discussing," Mr. Stoker went on, his eyes never leaving Mycroft's. "In your impaired state, how can you consider yourself capable of making competent decisions?"

Before Mycroft could respond, Anthea did something she had never done before and it made his heart physically clench which it had never done before. She defended him. Openly. In front of people far more powerful than herself. And it was perhaps the most touching thing he had ever heard.

"If I may speak in defence of my employer, Mr. Holmes has dedication beyond anything I have ever seen and he maintains his competence regardless of any physical ailment," she said firmly. The silence which hung in the air afterwards was oddly satisfying.

Mr. Stoker looked dumbfounded. Eventually, after many openings and closings of his mouth in a manner which rather resembled a goldfish, he managed to splutter, "Mr. Holmes. Control your PA!"

Anthea was unfazed by this. Clearly she had been expecting such a response. All the same, Mycroft shot her a glare for show which was countered the moment Mr. Stoker looked away with a softer gaze which conveyed everything he could not say in a public forum. She did not need to show her understanding though Mycroft could tell that she knew he was yet again in her debt.

Mycroft risked a sniffle and another glance at the clock. He was pleasantly surprised to find that the meeting had reached the fifty minute mark. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad after all.

~

He was wrong. While Anthea did not have to falsify any national crises, he did have a terrible time containing his sneezes. Only one escaped him though it was stifled almost silently. Mr. Stoker's hard stare told him it had not gone unnoticed.

Once he was safely back in his office, he really just had to let go.

"Heh'ISHooo! Heh'YIShoo! Heh'shoo! Hhh'nnnngch! Hh'nnnnnngchh! Hh'nnnngch! Hh'ESHhooo!"

"Goodness. God bless you, Sir," Anthea said worriedly while he tugged his current handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose harshly. He would have pulled a disgusted face at the sound had he not been so exhausted. Anthea went on, "DI Lestrade's shift finishes in twelve minutes."

Mycroft knew very well what she was getting at but his infantile pride prevented him from accepting the offer quite so readily. "Anthea, you are my PA. Please do not feel an obligation to babysit me. I am quite capable of taking care of myself."

Anthea chose not to comment upon his final statement though her expression made it clear she did not agree.

"I feel no such obligation, Sir," she said with a small smirk. "I simply do not wish to catch your cold. I have a rather important social gathering to attend this evening."

At that, Mycroft had to chuckle.

"Well, in that case, I think it's time to call it a day," he said. Anthea couldn't agree more.

"We'll have missed the DI by now," she said needlessly as though Mycroft did not already know.

They spent the journey in silence which was punctuated only by Mycroft's occasional sniffling and stifling and Anthea's murmured blessings.

[cally]

"Because if you do consider yourself competent, and I am certain you do, then you should be well aware of the sensitivity of the matters we are discussing," Mr. Stoker went on, his eyes never leaving Mycroft's. "In your impaired state, how can you consider yourself capable of making competent decisions?"

This guy's a jerk! In what world is he living in where having a cold makes you incompetent? He doesn't have the plague! LOL! Good thing Anthea set him right!

Poor, poor Mycroft. I hope Gregory is ready to take excellent care of him.

[AdrianMarx]

This guy's a jerk! In what world is he living in where having a cold makes you incompetent? He doesn't have the plague! LOL! Good thing Anthea set him right!

Poor, poor Mycroft. I hope Gregory is ready to take excellent care of him.

He is. He's all of the bad words. I'm sure Anthea would arrange an accident for him if Mycroft let her.

Here's hoping!

[Spoo]

OMG. Poor Mycroft! I felt his humiliation just reading that. Guh. I'm glad he has Anthea, though. She's got this!

[AdrianMarx]

OMG. Poor Mycroft! I felt his humiliation just reading that. Guh. I'm glad he has Anthea, though. She's got this!

I don't know what he'd do without her, sometimes

[AdrianMarx]

Before he even pulled out his key, Mycroft gave his nose several harsh blows until his handkerchief was useless and he was fairly certain he could mask the congestion effectively. He did hope they still had some cold medicine in the bathroom.

He didn't remember there being so many stairs before but maybe that was just the fatigue talking. Despite the stairs and the neighbours and the space, he did enjoy living in Greg's modest flat. Their modest flat. It felt more like home than his house had ever done. It was cosier and friendlier and it didn't feel too big to exist in. It felt, in many ways, safe.

(Though, that could have to do with the security Mycroft had installed on the front door which required all entrants to wipe their feet on the mat. Right first and then left. He wasn't paranoid but one could never be too careful.)

Greg's face broke into a grin when he spotted Mycroft coming through the door and it made him smile despite himself. He'd never experienced this before - coming home to someone who actually wanted him around. It was still a somewhat foreign idea but he adored it and he thought to himself, and not for the first time, that he had definitely given in to sentiment.

Greg practically bounced over to him and wrapped him up in a bear hug. Mycroft wound his arms around his husband in return. It was most certainly not fair. Detective Inspectors at New Scotland Yard simply were not permitted to be so adorable. And yet...

"Missed you," Greg muttered, pressing a kiss to Mycroft's lips before he could stop him.

"And I you, Gregory," he smiled and allowed himself to be dragged over to the couch where Greg was watching God only knew what. Five minutes told him it was the mother but he'd learned that spoiling the ending was, in John's words, a bit not good.

He felt the tickle flare up again and covered his sniffle with a stretch. "Please excuse me, my dear," he smiled and pushed himself to his feet. Once safely in the bathroom, he pulled a clump of toilet paper from the roll and clamped it around his nose. His eyelids fluttered shut.

"Hhh'nnnnngch! Hhh'nnnch! Hhh'NNgch! Hh'nnnnnngshhh!"

He blew his nose as quietly as he could and tossed the used paper into the toilet. The feeling of the paper on his skin had reminded him of precisely why he did not enjoy using tissues. He glanced at himself in the mirror and sighed, banding over the sink to splash cold water on his face in the hopes of relieving some of the redness in his cheeks.

He'd never been more relieved to find cold medicine in the bathroom cabinet. Greg had a habit of leaving things all over the place so Mycroft could never find anything. It was infuriating but, sometimes, it was nice to feel a break in the order he so often craved. It was nice to know that disorganisation wouldn't actually lead to disaster. But, in this instance, he was very glad he'd taken the liberty of putting it back last time he'd used it.

He downed two pills.

When he headed back out to the living room, Greg was just turning off the telly, the noise of which had clearly drowned him out. Thankfully.

"I'm off to bed," he said, slipping his hand into Mycroft's and giving it a squeeze. "Care to join me?"

Mycroft hesitated. He really didn't feel up to-

His thoughts were interrupted by Greg's hearty laugh.

"Not like that, you muppet!" He chuckled. "I don't know about you but I'm bloody knackered."

Mycroft allowed himself a relieved smile. "I was not made aware that I resembled a children's puppet show character, Gregory," he smirked.

"Of course you do," Greg shot back. He pressed a kiss to Mycroft's cheek. "That's why I married you."

"Naturally."

Before long, they were both changed and washed and lying in bed with sleepy bodies curled up next to each other. Mycroft fell asleep not a minute after his head hit the pillow. Greg followed soon after. It had been a long day for the both of them and this - this was nice.

~

The niceness didn’t last and Mycroft woke sometime in the night feeling, quite honestly, awful. The bed clothes seemed to cling to him and suddenly Greg’s body heat was stifling. Mycroft pushed himself to sit and shuffle further away, immediately regretting it. Jesus. He didn’t remember the last time he’d been dizzy. (Vague memories of swinging Sherlock round and round in endless circles in the garden sprung to mind but he lost touch with them again when his nose started to bother him.)

The tickle was as intense as ever and he ended up hunched into himself with his wrist pressed desperately against his nose to muffle the sound.

“Hhh’nnnnngh! Hhh’NNnnngh!”

Greg stirred beside him. Mycroft held his breath but Greg didn’t wake. Thankfully. But the tickle had begun building again and Mycroft made the panicked decision to get out.

He stumbled to the bathroom and locked the door behind him, flicking the light on for only a moment before deciding to remain in the dark when it only aggravated the pounding in his head. And he was still so hot.

He clutched at the edge of the bath to steady himself and ended up perched on the edge with his hands poised and ready in front of his face until he eventually succumbed to what proved to be a rather nasty fit.

“Hhh’nnnnngch! Hhh’NNNgch! Heh’INNngh! Hih’NNNgch! Heh’ISHhoo! Heh’INNngch! Hhh’nnnngch! Heh’nnnngCHoo!”

Each sneeze through him forward into his cupped hands and he could only pray he couldn’t fall over and cause a crash. It could have been his imagination, but he felt like they got more and more intense each time. As it seemed his eyes simply refused to adjust to the dark, Mycroft felt his way along the wall until he found the toilet roll holder and tore off more sheets than was really necessary. He couldn’t find it in himself to care and set about blowing his nose softly, quietly.

He felt a little less dizzy now. But still exhausted.

After flushing the used paper and washing his hands, he slipped back into bed next to his husband and tried not to care about the heat.

“M’croft?” Greg’s sleepy voice was rough but it calmed Mycroft somewhat. Greg shifted next to him and Mycroft quickly kissed his cheek.

“Just using the facilities, my dear. Go back to sleep,” he muttered and flopped back down with his back to Greg.

Greg made a soft, contented sound and soon enough his chest was pressed against Mycroft’s back, one arm draped comfortingly around his waist. Mycroft didn’t have time to consider how nice it was before he fell asleep again.

[cally]

Oh poor, poor Mycroft. He sounds so miserable. I hope that Gregory notices his illness soon, especially if he's that fevered and sneezy.

[squealofapproval]

A MUPPET?

That's HILARIOUS! You wouldn't believe the noise that came out of me when I read that.

[AngelEyes]

Love their dialogue. Totally could hear their voices, That's why I married you. Naturally. Lol! Perfect. Poor dear Mycroft.

[AdrianMarx]

Oh poor, poor Mycroft. He sounds so miserable. I hope that Gregory notices his illness soon, especially if he's that fevered and sneezy.

I'm sure he will do soon but I enjoy prolonging the agony

A MUPPET?

That's HILARIOUS! You wouldn't believe the noise that came out of me when I read that.

Hehe, it's what my friends call each other when we're being silly/oblivious ^-^

Love their dialogue. Totally could hear their voices, That's why I married you. Naturally. Lol! Perfect. Poor dear Mycroft.

Thank you

[AdrianMarx]

We are finally getting to the hurt/comfort. Woop.

-

When Mycroft woke the following morning, he was surprised to find himself alone. The headache was still present and he allowed himself what could only be described as an undignified whimper while he shut off his alarm. He thanked God for blackout blinds. Sunlight with this throbbing headache would have been the end of him.

Never had he been so reluctant to get out of bed. He felt drained.

He lifted a hand to scrub at his itchy nose and was mortified to find it running. He reached into the drawer by his bedside and pulled out a fresh handkerchief to blow his nose. The pile was diminishing extremely quickly.

Mycroft wasn't stupid. He knew he was sick with what he decided must be a bad cold. But he'd convinced himself long ago that he shouldn't stop functioning for something like this. It was simply an issue of mind over matter. Before long, the symptoms would alleviate. He just had to push through it.

Gregory would never allow such "nonsense" and would most likely insist on Mycroft getting some rest, a luxury he most certainly did not have time for with the current state of foreign relations. A runny nose shouldn't prevent him from doing his job.

"Hhh'nnngch!"

Nor should a sneeze.

"Hh'nnngch! Hh'nnngshoo!"

...or three.

When Mycroft was finally clad in his suit of choice - the buttons had been difficult for his sleepy fingers to navigate - he decided on a glass of water for breakfast. His throat hurt too much to even consider eating anything proper. As he was sipping carefully at his drink, he discovered from a note on the table that Gregory had been called out at 6am (he winced in sympathy as he read that) to help with some big break in the case they'd been working on. Mycroft was generally a light sleeper so he was surprised not to have been woken up by Gregory's blundering around in the dark.

Not wishing for a repeat of the horrendous stomach ache he'd experienced last time he took cold medicine before eating, he forced down half a slice of dry bread and took twice the recommended dosage in the hopes it would at least quash the headache.

(it didn't.)

It only occurred to him to take his remaining handkerchiefs with him moments before the car was due to arrive and he was still shoving them into the pockets of his suit trousers as he shut the door behind him. He slipped into the car without a word to find Anthea already there, texting as usual.

"Good morning, Sir," she said absently. Mycroft could tell she had glanced up from her mobile when she grimaced audibly at the redness of his nostrils. Before he could respond, however, he curled forwards into a handkerchief.

"Hhh'nnnngch! Hhh'nnnnnngch! Hhh'nnnntish! Hhh'nnnngsh!"

Anthea's customary, "God bless you, Sir," came after a slight delay. Had he been up to it, Mycroft might have deduced that she was already planning several ways in which to make his day easier. But he wasn't. So he didn't.

Anthea, on the other hand, had already determined that her employer was feeling the worst she'd ever seen him. He'd forgotten his umbrella.

~

Before Anthea could ask any questions, Mycroft buried himself under a mountain of paperwork and absolutely refused to be disturbed. He knew she was worried about him and he knew that, by extension, he was being unfair by failing to take care of himself. Thus, the morning consisted mainly of silence and the occasional stifled sneeze against his wrist (Hhh'nnnghx!") and blessing from Anthea whose voice had begun to lose its neutral tone and had adopted one of quiet concern.

Mycroft was so tired. The dizziness hadn't made a reappearance, thankfully, but he was constantly blinking rapidly to keep his eyes open. Even paperwork was becoming troublesome. He couldn't make hide nor hair of the information printed in black and white right before his eyes. Black and white - the white background made his eyes hurt and worsened the headache which was bad enough on its own. His head felt like a balloon blown up too far. The pressure in his temples was almost unbearable and his frequent attempts to massage them did nothing of substance.

Every sneeze made him feel like his head would burst.

When he started to droop, Anthea promptly left the room with a promise of returning with coffee. Upon her return, she found him asleep at his desk for the second time in as many days, a handkerchief clutched loosely in his hand. It had not been an uncommon occurance over the past month but it had never happened on two consecutive days. She could not, in good conscience, allow him to remain at work any longer and cleared his schedule without bothering to consult him.

On closer inspection, she noticed his upper lip was glistening and frowned. Even in sleep, Mycroft would never have allowed himself to be so improper had he been in a state of good health. Sometimes, she felt more like his mother than his assistant. This was one of those times.

She shook him awake gently, murmuring generic comforting phrases while he gradually came to and began to shift. His glassy eyes didn't focus on her immediately. He looked distant. Definitely fevered. Cautious of startling him, she touched his shoulder and finally got his attention.

"Sir?" She said, searching him with her eyes. "Sir, can you hear me?"

Mycroft nodded minutely but that was all she got out of him before he raised his watering eyes to the ceiling and let out a fit of unstifled sneezes.

"Heh'ISHooo! Hehh'YISHhoo! Hih'YISHooo! ISHooo! Heh'ISHchoo! ISHhooo!"

In the stunned silence that followed, she watched the tips of his ears flush pink with embarrassment. He started to mumble an apology but she silenced him with a wave of her hand and practically dragged him to his feet. Ignoring his protests, she locked one hand around his wrist and strode from the room so he would have no choice but to follow.

By the time she'd herded him into the car, he'd gone alarmingly pale. She fired off one quick text as she told the driver where to go and Mycroft closed his eyes in defeat.

Your home address. Come at once, if convenient. -A

After merely a moment, she sent another.

If inconvenient, come anyway. -A

[Spoo]

I've read both of the new installments, but I only have time to comment on the former one, so:

Despite the stairs and the neighbours and the space, he did enjoy living in Greg's modest flat. Their modest flat. It felt more like home than his house had ever done. It was cosier and friendlier and it didn't feel too big to exist in. It felt, in many ways, safe.

I really love this concept. Usually it's Greg who moves in with Mycroft, since he's got the space and would probably suggest it, but I really adore the idea of Mycroft moving in with Greg.

He'd never experienced this before - coming home to someone who actually wanted him around.

Mycroooooft. Awwwwww...

Greg had a habit of leaving things all over the place so Mycroft could never find anything. It was infuriating but, sometimes, it was nice to feel a break in the order he so often craved.

I'm sure his OCD goes absolutely mental sometimes with Greg's untidiness. Hahaha.

[cally]

Mycroft nodded minutely but that was all she got out of him before he raised his watering eyes to the ceiling and let out a fit of unstifled sneezes.

He must be absolutely mortified. Poor, poor lamb.

Your home address. Come at once, if convenient. -A

After merely a moment, she sent another.

If inconvenient, come anyway. -A

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I won't lie and say I didn't laugh hysterically at this. Because I did. Loudly.

[AdrianMarx]

I've read both of the new installments, but I only have time to comment on the former one, so:

Despite the stairs and the neighbours and the space, he did enjoy living in Greg's modest flat. Their modest flat. It felt more like home than his house had ever done. It was cosier and friendlier and it didn't feel too big to exist in. It felt, in many ways, safe.

I really love this concept. Usually it's Greg who moves in with Mycroft, since he's got the space and would probably suggest it, but I really adore the idea of Mycroft moving in with Greg.

He'd never experienced this before - coming home to someone who actually wanted him around.

Mycroooooft. Awwwwww...

Greg had a habit of leaving things all over the place so Mycroft could never find anything. It was infuriating but, sometimes, it was nice to feel a break in the order he so often craved.

I'm sure his OCD goes absolutely mental sometimes with Greg's untidiness. Hahaha.

I can't imagine Greg living wherever Mycroft did before. He's more of a flat kind of guy in my head c: Haha, I'm sure it does and I'm sure Greg does his best to meet him halfway and at least occasionally put things back. Occasionally.

Mycroft nodded minutely but that was all she got out of him before he raised his watering eyes to the ceiling and let out a fit of unstifled sneezes.

He must be absolutely mortified. Poor, poor lamb.

Your home address. Come at once, if convenient. -A

After merely a moment, she sent another.

If inconvenient, come anyway. -A

I won't lie and say I didn't laugh hysterically at this. Because I did. Loudly.

I was far too proud of myself for thinking to put that in, I won't deny it.

[AdrianMarx]

I should have left ten minutes ago. I'm gonna be so late. Oops.

-

On my way. –GL

Mycroft wouldn’t allow Anthea to support him on his way upstairs but she walked behind him on high alert should he change his mind. He managed to make it without incident. As expected, the flat was empty. Greg wouldn’t arrive for another ten minutes or so. So she left Mycroft to get changed into something more comfortable – if he even owned something more comfortable – and busied herself in the kitchen making tea.

He all but stumbled back into the living room in his striped pyjamas as she was pouring the boiled water into a cup. (She’d chosen one of Greg’s with a silly cartoon on it in the hopes of perhaps drawing a snide remark out of Mycroft.) He looked much younger when he pulled his legs up in front of him, much more vulnerable. It was rare for the resemblance between the Holmes brothers to be so obvious but he did look remarkably like Sherlock in that moment.

She fished the teabag out and stirred in two spoonfuls of sugar before handing it to him.

“Here you are, Sir,” she said, checking the time on her mobile. Greg would be here any minute.

Mycroft offered her a weak smile and took only one sip before his expression changed and she took the mug from him again to prevent him from spilling it on himself. He pressed his wrist to his nose.

“Hh’nnngtsh! Hh’nnngtsh!”

“Bless you, Sir,” she said while she handed him his tea again. It was difficult to resist the urge to tell him how adorable he looked in his pyjamas but the threat of being disappeared was a major factor in her success.

“Thank you,” he murmured. She nodded. There was a pause. “Anthea, I’m sorry for my rudeness earlier, I-“

“Nothing to apologise for, Sir,” she assured him, guessing he was referring to his lack of stifling. “It happens.”

They sat in silence for a short time after that until Anthea heard the door open and left Mycroft curled up on the sofa while she went to greet Greg. He looked distraught but her calm demeanour seemed to soothe his worry somewhat.

“What’s going on?” He asked, throwing a concerned glance over her shoulder and bouncing on his heels in agitation.

“Mr. Holmes has been under the weather for several days,” she informed him calmly. “But he has neglected to take proper care of himself.”

Greg looked stunned. “Several days?” He repeated. “And I didn’t know? How is he? Is he okay?”

“Do not blame yourself,” she said, ignoring his other questions . “Mr. Holmes is very skilled at masking these things.”

Anthea’s words did little to convince Greg otherwise but he let it drop all the same and she stepped aside to let him pass. Before he even set one foot on the stairs, she went on.

“I’ve rearranged his schedule for the next few days. Should you think it best he take a longer leave of absence, let me know and it can be arranged.”

Greg nodded his thanks and Anthea took her leave. He took the stairs two at a time and faltered in the doorway when he spotted Mycroft on the couch, gearing up for a sneeze.

“Hh’nnnntish! Hh’nnnntish! Hhh…hh’nnntsh!”

“Oh, lovey, bless you,” Greg frowned and took a seat next to Mycroft on the sofa and offered his own handkerchief. It was crumpled and white, though it was steadily fading to grey with washing. “It’s clean,” he added quickly.

Mycroft took it gratefully and blew his nose. The steam from the tea had loosened the congestion a little but he still sounded terrible. Greg wrapped an arm around his shoulders and gave him a squeeze.

“Thangk you, Gregory,” Mycroft said quietly as he leaned into Greg’s side.

Greg took a moment to get a better look at Mycroft and caught himself frowning again. He forgot Anthea’s words and wondered how he hadn’t noticed. Mycroft really did look dreadful – teary eyes, reddened nose, rosy cheeks. Poor thing. Greg tucked two fingers under the neck of Mycroft’s pyjamas and sighed. He was way too hot.

“How does a film and a nice, lazy day sound?” He asked with a smile. Mycroft smiled back and nodded. “Any particular requests?”

Greg crossed the room and crouched in front of the DVD rack which had been meticulously alphabetised. While Greg often teased him about it good-naturedly, he did actually find the organisation quite helpful.

Mycroft sniffled. “A Beautiful Mind?”

Greg rolled his eyes. God, he’d cried his eyes out at that film. “Do you enjoy seeing me in pain or something?”

Mycroft didn’t respond. Greg tactfully returned to searching through the stack while Mycroft’s breath hitched behind him. It took him a long time to remember that ‘A’ wasn’t counted as a word in this system.

“Hh’nnntsh! Hh’nnnngch! Hh’nnnngtsh! Hh’nnngch!”

“Bless you,” he mumbled before slotting the DVD into the player and beginning the usual search for the remote. When he turned to Mycroft again, he found him holding it up and rubbing his itchy nose with the handkerchief which triggered another sneeze.

“Hh’NNnngch!”

“Oh, bless,” Greg said, voice practically dripping with sympathy. He pressed a kiss to the top of Mycroft’s head on his way to the bedroom.

His phone buzzed.

One more thing, Mr. Lestrade. Do keep me updated, if only for my own peace of mind. –A

Greg smiled to himself. Mycroft was surrounded by people who cared about him. He was never really without someone. He just didn’t see it. He tapped out a reply and pocketed his phone.

Of course. And, Anthea? It’s Greg. -GL

He returned with the duvet trailing along behind him and half a box of tissues. “You were out of hankies,” he explained.

Mycroft nodded. He knew. Greg turned off the light.

Once he was settled, Greg gently guided Mycroft’s head to rest in his lap so he could stretch out on the sofa. He didn’t quite fit but it was comfortable enough. Greg threads Mycroft’s hair through his fingers smoothly and he falls asleep not half an hour into the film.

He’s asleep. Anything I should be worried about? –GL

Anthea’s response was almost immediate. Greg couldn’t help but wonder what she did without Mycroft around. Probably his work.

He has taken to falling asleep at his desk recently. It has happened seven times in the past month. –A

Since before he took ill? –GL

This time, yes. This will be his third cold this month though the others were fairly minor. –A

Greg bit his lip and told her he’d keep an eye on him. It bothered him that Anthea knew more about his own husband’s health than he did. True, Mycroft was very secretive about these things. But if Anthea could see it, Greg should have been able to as well. But all things aside, Mycroft was really ill. Clearly there was something else going on for him to catch so many colds in quick succession.

He called John, just to be safe.

“Greg?” John sounded hopeful. “Please tell me you’re coming back. I think this other DI is on the verge of punching Sherlock’s teeth in and I don’t think I want to stop her.”

Greg couldn’t resist a smile. “Sorry, mate. Looks like I’ll be out of action for a couple of days.”

“You alright?” John’s frown was obvious in his voice though Greg couldn’t tell if that was due to concern or because Sherlock had done something inappropriate. Probably the latter.

“It’s not me. Mycroft’s sick,” he admitted. He glanced down to where Mycroft was sleeping soundly and brushed his thumb over his temple. “That’s why I called, actually.”

“That bad?” This time, it was definitely a concerned frown.

“He’s got a pretty bad cold. But Anthea says he’s been tired and falling asleep at work for about a month now. And his immune system is pretty much shot.”

John was silent for a bit. “If he’s up to it, bring him to Baker Street in the morning and I’ll have a look at him. I’d come over but, Sherlock-“

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. Greg was well aware of Sherlock’s self-neglect when in the midst of a big case. Another way in which the Holmes’ were similar – they were both fairly capable of working themselves to the brink of illness. The only difference being that Mycroft had to push for it whereas Sherlock just forgot to stop. The outcome, however, was the same.

“Oh, God, looks like we’re off again,” John grumbled and Greg could hear his heavy footfalls as he raced after Sherlock. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah. Thanks, John,” Greg ended the call so John could get back to running willy-nilly round the streets of London. Greg certainly didn’t envy him.

Eventually, he slept too, having made a mental note to buy whoever had been landed with Sherlock a doughnut by way of apology.