You Know It's Love Because Of The Mugs (BBC Sherlock - Mystrade)

[bangbang]

Are you guys sick of me yet? I just can't keep away from these two.

This is for Spoo; for her fandom flailings, introducing Mystrade to the forum, and the HOTTEST drabbles imaginable. You truly are the MystradeMeister.

====

CHAPTER ONE

“Greg?” Mycroft warily closed the front door behind him with a click.

The police officer hadn’t shown up at their arranged meeting place, which was unusual and therefore unsettling, especially since he hadn’t answered his phone when Mycroft had called. Greg was generally punctual; and Mycroft knew that he made an extra effort to be a few minutes early when meeting him because of Mycroft’s dislike of disruption to his routine. So when Mycroft had been left standing outside the restaurant for more than fifteen minutes, reaching Greg’s voicemail every time, he knew something was amiss.

His car had already left, so he’d been forced to take a cab, a hot snake of worry twisting in his stomach, to Greg’s flat. He couldn’t prevent himself from running through a menu of dire scenarios in his head; perhaps Greg was injured, or unable to reach his phone, or in hospital, or maybe he had grown tired of Mycroft and decided to end the relationship abruptly. Despite knowing that Greg would never do such a thing, he couldn’t avoid thinking about it. And if that wasn’t the case, well, it simply increased the likelihood that something terrible had happened.

He’d picked the lock, feeling slightly guilty as he did so, and tiptoed down the hall. There was no sign of a struggle, although there was a rather pungent, minty smell throughout the flat that made him wrinkle his nose and swipe at it with one elegant finger in irritation.

The door to the living room was ajar, and Mycroft pushed it open, every nerve on edge – and then nearly jumped out of his skin as a figure lurched towards him from the sofa.

“Crap,” said Greg, in a voice like gravel, “what time is it?”

“It’s twenty three minutes past eight. Greg, are you quite alright? Are you hurt?” Mycroft was slightly horrified at his partner’s appearance. Greg was rumpled, stubble scattering his jaw and his silver hair sticking out in odd angles, and he was clutching a blanket around his shoulders.

Mycroft took in his disorientation, the sleepy look in his eyes, the lowered octave of his voice, and finally, the telltale crimson of his nose. “Oh, dear.”

“’ve got a cold,” Greg croaked, confirming what Mycroft had already deduced, “been going round the Yard. Meant to call you, but…”

“Please don’t trouble yourself; I’m sorry I woke you.” Mycroft tutted. “I do hope you haven’t been at work in this condition.”

“Not since Thu-uuh! HUHRUUSHHOOOOO!”

“Bless you,” said Mycroft, trying not to display the fact that he had almost leapt out of his skin at Greg’s simply enormous, totally unexpected sneeze.

“Thanks.” Greg blew his nose with abandon into a crumpled tissue and Mycroft frowned at how congested he sounded.

“Do sit down, Gregory, before you fall.” Greg collapsed back onto the sofa - it creaked loudly in protest. Mycroft perched down beside him and fussed with the blanket. “If you’ve been unwell for two days – assuming you only became ill on Thursday, that is – then why on earth didn’t you call me sooner?”

Greg muttered something, but he was so stuffed up that Mycroft could hardly make it out.

“I beg your pardon?”

Greg cleared his throat. “Didn’t want you to catch it too.”

Mycroft sighed – his immune system was notoriously poor at the best of times, and when he was stressed or tired it took a nosedive into oblivion. He had spent most of his first few years in office (before Anthea’s hiring) snuffling miserable into a tissue from an almost permanent head cold. The only reason he wasn’t constantly ailing from some virus or other was because he avoided the general populace and took an umbrella everywhere. Greg, on the other hand, was practically bulletproof – any infection that had managed to fell him would be almost guaranteed to put Mycroft out of commission for a week or more.

He thought of the stacks of paperwork piled on his desk; the back-to-back meetings he had until next July; the fact that he really could not afford to be away from the office right now.

And then he thought of Greg, suffering in his flat alone, feeling unable to call him for comfort. He looked at his ill partner, miserably blowing his nose, avoiding Mycroft’s eyes, and made up his mind.

“Don’t be ridiculous; now, put your feet up and I’ll make a pot of tea. I hope you have some Twining’s left; I refuse to drink whatever floor sweepings they put in PG Tips.”

Greg looked up at him with such wide brown eyes that Mycroft felt himself melt slightly with a vast wave of sympathy. Greg did look terribly ill. Instead, he had to resist the urge to squeak as Greg was thrown almost head over heels by another wrenching, throat-rising sneeze.

“HUH-RRAASHHHHOOOO!”

“Bless you,” said Mycroft, crisply, and made his way to the kitchen to put on the kettle.

====

[cally]

Greg looked up at him with such wide brown eyes that Mycroft felt himself melt slightly with a vast wave of sympathy. Greg did look terribly ill. Instead, he had to resist the urge to squeak as Greg was thrown almost head over heels by another wrenching, throat-rising sneeze.

Awwwwwwwwww poor Gregory suffering alone. That's so heartbreaking.

I hope Mycroft can do a good of a job of caretaking as Gregory did for him.

[24Me]

This is so good! I love your stories-I am by no means "sick" of them!

[Garnet]

Aww yis, Lestrade's turn This was unexpected but a very happy surprise to find. Have some commentary!

He couldn’t prevent himself from running through a menu of dire scenarios in his head; perhaps Greg was injured, or unable to reach his phone, or in hospital, or maybe he had grown tired of Mycroft and decided to end the relationship abruptly.

Small thing, but I really like the use of the word "menu" here, it just seems like a good word choice.

Greg, on the other hand, was practically bulletproof – any infection that had managed to fell him would be almost guaranteed to put Mycroft out of commission for a week or more.

This is my favorite trope ever: the typically healthy, boisterous, seemingly immune individual felled by an illness (and usually catastrophically). It's such a delicious indulgence, but on the other hand I can never write it too much or it loses that edge of rarity. Basically, I am looking forward to this.

And then he thought of Greg, suffering in his flat alone, feeling unable to call him for comfort. He looked at his ill partner, miserably blowing his nose, avoiding Mycroft’s eyes, and made up his mind.

UGH BABIES. Self-imposed exile due to fear of contagion is my OTHER favorite thing.

Also, while there seems to be a forum-wide headcanon about Greg having huge, loud sneezes, I think you painted the picture especially well, with Mycroft nearly jumping out of his skin at each one. Like a startled cat. I love that he almost "squeaked". So cute.

"I hope you have some Twining’s left; I refuse to drink whatever floor sweepings they put in PG Tips.”

Edited August 31, 2014 by Garnet

[Spoo]

You know how I feel about this. But allow me to summarize: I LOVE IT!!! I can't wait to see how Mycroft takes care of his poor, sick boyfriend.

[ID2006]

Yes! *dances up and down singing "sick Greg sick Greg la la la la la"

[ellwren]

I am grinning with delight to see you writing more!

[matilda3948]

Oh...you're writing a sick Greg story??? YAY!!

[bangbang]

Awwwwwwwwww poor Gregory suffering alone. That's so heartbreaking.

I hope Mycroft can do a good of a job of caretaking as Gregory did for him.

I know right? Mycroft has gotta step up his game.

This is so good! I love your stories-I am by no means "sick" of them!

Haha! Thank you!

Aww yis, Lestrade's turn

This is my favorite trope ever: the typically healthy, boisterous, seemingly immune individual felled by an illness (and usually catastrophically). It's such a delicious indulgence, but on the other hand I can never write it too much or it loses that edge of rarity. Basically, I am looking forward to this.

UGH BABIES. Self-imposed exile due to fear of contagion is my OTHER favorite thing.

Also, while there seems to be a forum-wide headcanon about Greg having huge, loud sneezes, I think you painted the picture especially well, with Mycroft nearly jumping out of his skin at each one. Like a startled cat. I love that he almost "squeaked". So cute.

Blushing so hard right now - glad this is ticking so many boxes for you! What's not to love about poor, sneezy Greg? He's normally so robustly healthy, like a coal miner; Mycroft is kind of like a sickly Victorian child compared to him. And yeah - Mycroft isn't a fan of loud, sudden noises so he's in for a few more scares.

You know how I feel about this. But allow me to summarize: I LOVE IT!!! I can't wait to see how Mycroft takes care of his poor, sick boyfriend.

YAY! I'm glad you like it - it is for you, after all!

Yes! *dances up and down singing "sick Greg sick Greg la la la la la"

I am grinning with delight to see you writing more!

Oh...you're writing a sick Greg story??? YAY!!

Thanks guys! I am excited for the challenge.

CHAPTER TWO

===

Mycroft, as it turned out, was not good at using other people’s electrical appliances. He finally, moodily, boiled water in a saucepan, glaring at Greg’s kettle and resolving to replace it with his preferred model as soon as decently possible.

Greg also did not believe in tea sets, much to Mycroft’s initial display. The first morning after he had stayed over, he had sipped horrendous lukewarm leaf water from a chipped mug with what he hoped was a cheerful expression. The next time, Greg had awkwardly presented him with a shiny new mug, in red and white stripes, and Mycroft had been more touched than he would have liked to admit by the gesture.

He almost poured boiling water over his hand and bit back a stream of swearwords as, in the other room, Greg let loose with another tremendous sneeze.

"HUHHRRSSDDHHhhhhhh!"

Although it was hidden from his view by the separating wall, he could practically hear the dampness of it, despite Greg's obvious attempts to muffle it.

"Bless you," he called, mopping up the water he'd spilled in his shock.

"Tha-ahh! huhh!uhhh!hahhRRRSSSDCHHOOO!"

The only benefit to Greg's long, audible build up of breaths, he mused, was that it meant the sneeze didn't take him quite so by surprise.

"And again!" He heard Greg blow his nose viciously and mumble a heady thanks.

He sniffed the milk in Greg’s fridge distrustfully, and opted to add a spoonful of honey to Greg’s mug (blue and white striped to match his own) instead. He left his own plain and carried them through to the living room.

“Thank you,” Greg said snuffily as he accepted the tea.

“It’s nothing,” Mycroft said, politely, and took a sip. He realised, with a sinking feeling, that last time he had taken care of anyone who could be categorised as ill was when Sherlock was going through withdrawals. On the plus side, he didn’t imagine Greg was going to break his arm in a violent rage (it had been an unpleasant six weeks; it was terribly hard to wear a suit over a cast); on the downside, he had no idea how to treat a cold.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, in what he hoped was a conscientious and sympathetic way.

“’M fine.” Greg wiped his nose on a tissue and gave a chesty cough. “Really,” he added, as Mycroft raised an incredulous eyebrow. “It sounds worse than it is.”

“Hmmm.” Mycroft took another sip of his tea, whipping through his head everything Greg had done for him while he was ill. “Perhaps you should take some medicine.”

“Already took some this afternoon.” Damn. That was that option gone then. He mentally weighed up the pros and cons of excusing himself and surreptitiously calling Anthea for advice. (Pros, Greg feels better, successful relationship achieved, knowledge gained; cons, Anthea gloats for the rest of her life.)

“You don’t have to stay.” Greg shuffled a little away from him and coughed over his shoulder. “I know this isn’t really your thing, and I really don’t want to get you sick.” There was a definite headiness to his voice now; his voice was thick and treacly, and his consonants were almost painfully nasal.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose; he loathed not being good at things, and he was most decidedly not good at this. He had always chalked up interpersonal relationships as a waste of time, but he found himself wishing now that he had more experience with caring for people. Then maybe Greg would have called him earlier, instead of suffering through the beginning of such a vile cold alone. He felt a little tug at what he supposed were his heartstrings; he wanted, more than anything, to be the comforting presence that Greg was to him.

“Teach me.” He turned to Greg.

“Teach you what?” Greg reached for the tissue box, his eyebrows lifting towards his silver hair. Mycroft assumed it was surprise at his request; which was why he was taken aback yet again when Greg loosely covered his nose and exploded with another monstrous sneeze.

“HUHRRSSSSHHHH-OO!”

“Bless you, again.” And he’d thought his sneezes were loud. He was surprised the walls weren’t shaking. “Teach me how to take care of you.”

Greg looked at him with bleary, wet eyes over the tissue – it took him a second to recover his breath after that earth-shattering sneeze. “You want me to teach you how to take care of me?”

“I want to learn,” Mycroft said, earnestly. “You’re always a very welcome presence when I’m feeling a little under the weather – I would like to be able to reciprocate.”

Greg cleared his throat, a low, rumbly sound that must have been uncomfortable. There was a strange expression on his face; at first, Mycroft thought he was about to sneeze again, and prepared himself so as not to be startled, but then he realised that the look in Greg’s eyes was affection.

“Alright,” said Greg, “masterclass in how to care for a stuffed-up detective, starts now.”

===

[cally]

“Already took some this afternoon.” Damn. That was that option gone then. He mentally weighed up the pros and cons of excusing himself and surreptitiously calling Anthea for advice. (Pros, Greg feels better, successful relationship achieved, knowledge gained; cons, Anthea gloats for the rest of her life.)

Yes, yes she would.

“Bless you, again.” And he’d thought his sneezes were loud. He was surprised the walls weren’t shaking.

Ummmm? Mycroft? You're aware that you muffle everything into oblivion most of the time because heaven forbid you aren't polite. Perhaps you need to get your ears checked?

“Teach me how to take care of you.”

Greg looked at him with bleary, wet eyes over the tissue – it took him a second to recover his breath after that earth-shattering sneeze. “You want me to teach you how to take care of me?”

“I want to learn,” Mycroft said, earnestly. “You’re always a very welcome presence when I’m feeling a little under the weather – I would like to be able to reciprocate.”

Awwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

[Spoo]

The next time, Greg had awkwardly presented him with a shiny new mug, in red and white stripes, and Mycroft had been more touched than he would have liked to admit by the gesture.

This is so sweet it's giving me cavities. Greg probably felt horrifyingly embarrassed by his chipped mug, the poor baby. I have an adorable image in my head of him at the store picking out a mug that's suitable for Mycroft.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose; he loathed not being good at things, and he was most decidedly not good at this.

This line is so painfully in-character, dude. You can't be good at everything, Mycroft, and it annoys you!

“I want to learn,” Mycroft said, earnestly. “You’re always a very welcome presence when I’m feeling a little under the weather – I would like to be able to reciprocate.”

Greg cleared his throat, a low, rumbly sound that must have been uncomfortable. There was a strange expression on his face; at first, Mycroft thought he was about to sneeze again, and prepared himself so as not to be startled, but then he realised that the look in Greg’s eyes was affection.

“Alright,” said Greg, “masterclass in how to care for a stuffed-up detective, starts now.”

Buhhhhh. This bit right here had me holding my face and whimpering. I love Greg's affectionate looks; his big, brown Bambi eyes are just perfect when it comes to conveying tenderness. :web: And OMG. I can't wait to see how he's gonna teach Mycroft.

This is SO good!!!!!!

[ellwren]

This is lovely!

(I'd like to enrol in the master class.)

[AngelEyes]

A new story!!!! I am so spoiled! And everything is just perfect. I love all your wonderful little details! The mugs, Mycroft jumping at the loudness of Greg's sneezes, thinking his own were loud (silly boy), wanting to ask Anthea for help but knowing he'd never live it down, finally asking to be taught how to take care of Greg.

This line especially made me grin it's so true!

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose; he loathed not being good at things, and he was most decidedly not good at this.

[bangbang]

Mycroft NEEDS to be the best at everything, guys - this chapter is going to destroy him with his own incompetence. And Spoo, Greg totally spent an afternoon in the shops, sending agonised texts to Sally and Anthea about which kind of mug Mycroft would like best. Complete with attached pictures.

Enjoy, amigos!

CHAPTER THREE

===

Mycroft had tidied Greg’s living room; washed the collection of dishes in the sink; and arranged Greg’s medicine cabinet into alphabetical order. These menial, organisational tasks helped calm his mind; he often found himself folding and refolding load after load of laundry in the midst of an insomniac daze, and the best way to prevent himself from falling into a panicky spiral was to categorise his bookshelves.

One household chore that he was definitely not accustomed to doing was cooking, which was why he was slightly alarmed when he’d heard Greg’s stomach rumble.

“Would you like something to eat?” he asked, and Greg sniffed hard.

“Dunno. I probably should. Lesson one of taking care of sick people; eating is important. You and Sherlock need to get that into your heads.”

After a bit of coaxing, he’d managed to get Greg’s mother’s vegetable soup recipe out of him – apparently it was something he’d had when ill as a child, and Mycroft wasn’t unfamiliar with the concept of comfort food.

Unfortunately, he remembered very quickly why he chose outside catering and deliveries for his regular eating habits. Quite apart from being on a strict calorie controlled diet, he was abysmal at cooking. He’d almost sliced his finger off by chopping onions through streaming eyes, boiled a pan of water dry, and somehow managed to set a bunch of celery on fire.

“Do you need help?” Greg yelled hoarsely from the living room, as Mycroft managed to burn carrots into a carbonated black smoke.

“No, thank you!” Mycroft called back through gritted teeth, and, in a fit of pique, dumped the whole thing in the bin and called a restaurant.

Now he sat, awkwardly watching Greg drink tea, at a complete loss of what to do next.

“Perhaps I should take your temperature,” he mused.

“I’m not running a temp—huhh!-ahhh—AHHUSSHHHOO!”

“Bless you.” Mycroft winced; the whiplash-like movement of Greg’s head rearing back in preparation of the sneeze and then the sudden jerk forward at its conclusion looked painful.

“Really,” Greg rasped, “you’re worrying yourself over nothing.”

Mycroft frowned. “Shouldn’t I be worried, though? I do know, theoretically, how to take care of someone who’s ill. I’m aware of the physiology behind it. I’m just not entirely sure how I’m supposed to make you feel better.”

Greg mopped at his nose with a tissue; it was looking tenderer by the second. “You’re thinking about it too much,” he said, stuffily.

Mycroft thought that was slightly unfair; he could hardly help having a mental capacity far beyond the average person. “I don’t see how,” he said, rather offended.

“Don’t be like that. I just mean that you’re trying too hard; just do what comes naturally.”

That was exactly the problem, Mycroft wanted to tell him; nothing did come naturally to him, not in this area. Human emotion had always been rather beyond his intellectual reasoning. He had learnt enough social cues so as to pass through society without incident, but the finer details were a mystery to him. Even with Greg, he found himself checking and double-checking for missteps.

“Have you met me?” he asked, dubiously.

Greg gave a wheezy sort of laugh. “It’s just instinct, really - I know it’s in there. You’ve just buried it under the contents of the encyclopaedia.”

Mycroft was silent for a second. “You’re giving me too much credit.” He tried to find the words to explain to Greg that no; there was no soft centre to him, just layers of ice and artifice and a hollow sort of shell in the middle of it all.

Greg reached out and squeezed his arm. “No, I’m not. I’ve seen the way you worry about Sherlock, and the way you care about Anthea, and the way you watch me when you think I’m not looking. You just need to learn how to express your feelings a bit more, that’s all.” He finished in a harsh cough, and Mycroft shook his head in annoyance at himself. Greg shouldn’t be reassuring him, not when he was feeling so ill.

“You sound dreadful; I’m going to fetch you some cough syrup and the soup should be arriving in a few moments. Would you like another blanket?”

Greg had a strangely satisfied smile on his face. “No, I’m warm enough – another cuppa would be great, though. Liquids are important too.”

“Duly noted. I’ve also ordered you a new kettle,” Mycroft said, in the interests of honesty.

Greg burst out laughing, which must have disrupted something in the delicate balance of his sinuses, because he tipped his head back, lips parting, nostrils dilating, and then launched forward in a sneeze that came much more from his throat than his nose.

“HUH-RRDDDSCHHH!”

“Gracious. Bless you. Sit back and I’ll bring you the tea and medicine.”

“See,” Greg said, snuffling, “you’re getting good at this already.”

===

[RiversD]

“Duly noted. I’ve also ordered you a new kettle,”

I love your Mycroft so much. So much.

[cally]

Mycroft was silent for a second. “You’re giving me too much credit.” He tried to find the words to explain to Greg that no; there was no soft centre to him, just layers of ice and artifice and a hollow sort of shell in the middle of it all.

Oh Mycroft.

[AngelEyes]

“Have you met me?” he asked, dubiously.

Greg gave a wheezy sort of laugh. “It’s just instinct, really - I know it’s in there. You’ve just buried it under the contents of the encyclopaedia.”

I love this. It's just perfect!

[Spoo]

Mycroft had tidied Greg’s living room; washed the collection of dishes in the sink; and arranged Greg’s medicine cabinet into alphabetical order. These menial, organisational tasks helped calm his mind; he often found himself folding and refolding load after load of laundry in the midst of an insomniac daze, and the best way to prevent himself from falling into a panicky spiral was to categorise his bookshelves.

Oh my God. This is absolutely perfect. You often claim that I have his compulsions down pat, but I beg to differ! You are seriously the best Mycroft-writer in the world and I bow down to you for it!

Mycroft frowned. “Shouldn’t I be worried, though? I do know, theoretically, how to take care of someone who’s ill. I’m aware of the physiology behind it. I’m just not entirely sure how I’m supposed to make you feel better.”

Mycroooooft. It's always a science to you, isn't it?

That was exactly the problem, Mycroft wanted to tell him; nothing did come naturally to him, not in this area. Human emotion had always been rather beyond his intellectual reasoning. He had learnt enough social cues so as to pass through society without incident, but the finer details were a mystery to him. Even with Greg, he found himself checking and double-checking for missteps.

Yet another beautiful breakdown of Mycroft's character. Jesus, it's so good!

“Gracious. Bless you. Sit back and I’ll bring you the tea and medicine.”

“See,” Greg said, snuffling, “you’re getting good at this already.”

Ughhh. Greg's encouragement and general guidance is making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside! He's so patient and understanding with Mycroft, yet at the same time he's not afraid to tell Mycroft things like 'don't try so much' and 'do what feels right'.

I can't thank you enough for writing this, bangbang. It's pure brilliance!

[bangbang]

You guys give me life. You're all far too kind.

CHAPTER FOUR

===

Mycroft had supplied Greg with fresh tissues, cough medicine, and refilled his tea before the soup arrived – he was rather pleased with himself. Greg was certainly a compliant patient, taking his medicine with nothing more than a disgusted look on his face. He was also a competent teacher, showing Mycroft how to feel the swollen glands in his throat.

Or at least, he had been compliant, until the soup arrived. In concession to Greg’s illness, Mycroft had permitted them to eat sitting on the sofa (although it did make him slightly twitchy to have his own soup balanced on his lap), but this didn’t seem to have done the trick.

He watched as Greg listlessly ran his spoon through the bowl. He’d ordered tomato and red pepper, Greg’s favourite kind, from his favourite Italian restaurant, but he seemed uninterested in eating now it was actually here. Luckily, this was one variable that he was used to dealing with in Sherlock.

“You have to eat something, Greg,” he said, sternly. “Your body needs nutrients if you’re to recover quickly. You said so yourself.”

“I know,” Greg said, wiping his nose on a tissue; the steam from the soup and tea seemed to be making it run slightly. “I’m just not really hungry though.”

“Nonetheless. If you’d like to get rid of this cold sometime this week – which I’m sure you would – you are going to have to bite the proverbial bullet and eat.”

Greg sighed gustily and played with his spoon again.

“I thought,” Mycroft said, changing tactics, “that this was your favourite.”

Greg looked up guiltily. “It is – and it was really nice of you to order it.” He paused to sniff; the sound was thick and made them both wince. “Don’t be offended. Are you?”

“I am. Extremely. The only possible thing that would soothe this hurt is if you eat at least half the bowl.”

Greg coughed into one loosely clenched fist, and Mycroft didn’t miss the glimmer of – pain? Frustration? Something else? - that flickered over his face.

“Is your chest bothering you?”

“No,” Greg said, sounding wheezy, “I just need to –” He cut himself off, bringing his forearm over his nose and mouth – Mycroft quickly took the soup off his lap to make sure he didn’t spill it and scald himself.

“HuhhhRRDDSCHHHOO!”

Once again, Mycroft was shocked at the sheer magnitude of the volume. “Bless you.” He looked closely at his partner; there was a dampness around Greg’s eyes that didn’t seem entirely due to the force of his sneeze, and his cheeks were beginning to look flushed.

“Greg, I think perhaps you may be running a fever.”

“Maybe,” Greg snuffled.

“Do you happen to have a thermometer?”

“Nope,” said Greg, blowing his nose furiously into a stack of tissues.

Mycroft put both soup bowls down on the coffee table and leaned forward, placing the back of his hand along Greg’s forehead.

“Don’t get too close,” Greg pleaded from behind the tissue, “I’m gonna – huh!hhaaahHHAH—" He batted Mycroft's hand away as he was thrown forward with another trademark, huge, painful-sounding sneeze. "HUHUHRRDSCHHOOO!”

Mycroft snorted and stroked back a strand of silver hair.

“Don’t be idiotic, Greg. Bless you. You’re rather warm; do you feel feverish?”

“Bit,” muttered Greg, lowering the tissue. His nose was reddened even further and he sniffled every few breaths, obviously struggling with the congestion.

Mycroft ran his hand down Greg’s hot cheek and withdrew, clucking his tongue sympathetically. “I’ll fetch some ibuprofen; that should help.”

Greg took the tablets obediently, grimacing as they went down his sore throat. Mycroft sighed, wishing there was something more he could do to assist, then took up Greg’s bowl of soup and gathered a spoonful. Greg watched him suspiciously.

“Open your mouth,” he commanded.

“You’re not feeding me,” Greg said, sounding vaguely horrified; Mycroft shook his head at the follies of pride and held out the spoon.

“You’re terribly unwell, and you need to get something down at least. Your rising temperature will only make you less inclined to eat later, so it’s best to do so now. Do open up; this is a rather nice suit and I’d prefer not to stain it.”

Greg glared at him, but there was no real heat in it, only lingering traces of stubbornness. Mycroft moved the spoon forward a bit and put on his steeliest expression, the kind that made presidents and kings reconsider their arguments and back away a fraction.

“I will force feed you if necessary; I’ve had plenty of practice with Sherlock. Now, would you like to let me attend to you, or will I have to pin you down?”

Greg’s lips twitched upwards. “You’re welcome to pin me down,” he said, with a leer, and Mycroft huffed with laughter.

“Perhaps later, when you’re feeling a little better.” Greg rolled his eyes and opened his mouth, leaning towards Mycroft. Mycroft gently spooned the soup in between his lips, and to his satisfaction Greg swallowed.

He couldn’t resist quipping, as he prepared Greg another spoonful, “Here comes the aeroplane,” and Greg spluttered with laughter.

Mycroft fed him three quarters of the bowl, watching his eyes become sleepier and slightly glossy with his rising fever.

“Would you like anymore?” he asked, and Greg shook his head.

“No, thanks,” he said, wriggling his nose, and Mycroft pressed a tissue into his hand. Greg paused for a second, then bent at the waist with another cataclysmic sneeze.

“UUHHRRRDDSHSCH!”

“Bless you.” Mycroft took in Greg’s weary appearance; the reddened skin on his nose and cheeks, the unnatural brightness of his eyes, and the sweat that was beginning to break out along his temple. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could presently do except for keep an eye on Greg’s fever; it wasn’t yet at the stage where cool facecloths would do much good.

He was feeling quite tired himself, and found himself smothering a yawn behind his hand. “I think I may retire; would you care to join me?” He phrased it as a request, so that Greg wouldn’t think he was ordering him around.

“OK,” said Greg, and then, as if compelled to say something, blurted out, “You don’t have to stay the night if you -”

“Hush,” Mycroft commanded, abandoning his scruples about appearing bossy. “It would be my pleasure to stay. Now go and hop into bed, and I’ll join you in a moment.”

====

[cally]

Greg’s lips twitched upwards. “You’re welcome to pin me down,” he said, with a leer, and Mycroft huffed with laughter.

He couldn’t resist quipping, as he prepared Greg another spoonful, “Here comes the aeroplane,” and Greg spluttered with laughter.

Oh dear. I can actually picture this.

Poor Gregory sounds miserable. I hope that he gets a good night's sleep. And Mycroft shouldn't be so worried about not doing a good job; he's doing a better job than anyone who's ever not taken care of me.

[Spoo]

“Nonetheless. If you’d like to get rid of this cold sometime this week – which I’m sure you would – you are going to have to bite the proverbial bullet and eat.”

Greg sighed gustily and played with his spoon again.

“I thought,” Mycroft said, changing tactics, “that this was your favourite.”

Greg looked up guiltily. “It is – and it was really nice of you to order it.” He paused to sniff; the sound was thick and made them both wince. “Don’t be offended. Are you?”

“I am. Extremely. The only possible thing that would soothe this hurt is if you eat at least half the bowl.”

Oh my God, this manipulative little punk! That's the thing with Mycroft Holmes, though; he's always got a trick up his sleeve when it comes to persuasion and applying different methods if it gets him what he wants. (Though I'm sure he's had plenty of practice with Sherlock. )

Also, Greg sighing 'gustily' is such a perfect image in my head - like a little kid who's been told they need to eat when they don't want to, so they huff all melancholy. It's perfect!

“No,” Greg said, sounding wheezy, “I just need to –” He cut himself off, bringing his forearm over his nose and mouth – Mycroft quickly took the soup off his lap to make sure he didn’t spill it and scald himself.

“HuhhhRRDDSCHHHOO!”

Hnnnghnnn. Forearm-covered sneezes are amongst my favorite kind with men like Greg. It's such a yummy mental image. And ajsdfasdlfkl;sdf your Greg sneezes are SO GOOD. They make me giddy! They're gorgeously timed, too (and I love how he has singles and the occasional double, because my headcanon is that he's not prone to fits at all - not even when ill!). One sneeze, two sneezes, and he's good.

Mycroft put both soup bowls down on the coffee table and leaned forward, placing the back of his hand along Greg’s forehead.

“Don’t get too close,” Greg pleaded from behind the tissue,

*...whimper* Forehead-feeling is too sweet. Especially when it's Mycroft feeling Greg's forehead. And UGH, Greg still trying to keep his distance because he knows Mycroft's immune system is crap and that he'll surely catch his cold if he continues directly exposing himself.

Mycroft snorted and stroked back a strand of silver hair.

“Don’t be idiotic, Greg. Bless you. You’re rather warm; do you feel feverish?”

“Bit,” muttered Greg, lowering the tissue. His nose was reddened even further and he sniffled every few breaths, obviously struggling with the congestion.

Mycroft ran his hand down Greg’s hot cheek and withdrew, clucking his tongue sympathetically. “I’ll fetch some ibuprofen; that should help.”

OMGOMG. More physical contact! And while it may not be cuddles or snuggles or anything like that, this is STILL very affectionate for Mycroft. I imagine his hands are naturally on the cool side (being the 'Ice Man' and all [or just because he suffers from poor circulation]) so Greg must feel really warm. Poor thing!

Greg glared at him, but there was no real heat in it, only lingering traces of stubbornness. Mycroft moved the spoon forward a bit and put on his steeliest expression, the kind that made presidents and kings reconsider their arguments and back away a fraction.

“I will force feed you if necessary; I’ve had plenty of practice with Sherlock. Now, would you like to let me attend to you, or will I have to pin you down?”

Ain't NOBODY arguing with Mycroft when he's in British Government mode. Nope. Not even Greg! Gosh, and his dialogue is perfect. I can hear his voice so clearly!

He couldn’t resist quipping, as he prepared Greg another spoonful, “Here comes the aeroplane,” and Greg spluttered with laughter.

No. NO. This is TOO cute. You're fired, bangbang!

He was feeling quite tired himself, and found himself smothering a yawn behind his hand. “I think I may retire; would you care to join me?” He phrased it as a request, so that Greg wouldn’t think he was ordering him around.

“OK,” said Greg, and then, as if compelled to say something, blurted out, “You don’t have to stay the night if you -”

“Hush,” Mycroft commanded, abandoning his scruples about appearing bossy. “It would be my pleasure to stay. Now go and hop into bed, and I’ll join you in a moment.”

1. I love how Mycroft rearranged his sentence into a request. It shows, if anything at all, that he cares how he comes across to his poor, sick boyfriend. Besides, he's been bossy enough already!
   
2. Greggggg. Of course he wants to stay the night. You're probably so used to suffering on your own that you can't fathom why Mycroft would want to stay, let alone risk his health.
   
3. YES! Listen to Mycroft and get in bed.
   

The caretaking - however awkward it's considered to be (mostly by Mycroft himself) - is so precious in this story. I'm so in love with it all. You're brilliant!

Edited September 5, 2014 by Spoo

[Wildwood]

I seem to associate the term "purveyor of all Mystrade perfection" with you, bangbang. Love sick Greg!

[bangbang]

I am avoiding doing real work. Mycroft is avoiding fucking up. Still for Spoo - hopefully this makes you smile a little!

CHAPTER FIVE

===

Mycroft hadn’t been a stranger to intimate encounters before Greg, but he hadn’t been familiar with the concept of spooning. Normally, Greg lay with his chest to Mycroft’s back – they’d found that Mycroft felt somehow more secure and less claustrophobic that way. But now, wrapping himself around Greg, he wondered why he had never liked being the “big spoon.” Greg’s soft, pliable figure fit into his arms like it was made for him, and his chin rested perfectly in the hollow of Greg’s shoulder.

Greg, unfortunately, didn’t seem quite as serene; he shifted and sniffled, radiating heat from his fever, and gave a long, chesty cough that made the mattress vibrate.

“Sorry.” He sounded terribly congested; Mycroft rubbed his back. He was shivering slightly, despite the warmth.

“Is there anything I can do to make you feel more comfortable?” The instructions on the cough syrup and the ibuprofen had said to leave four hours in between dosages, so he couldn’t give Greg anymore just yet. But the wheezy, harsh breathing coming from his partner was making him anxious; surely he shouldn’t sound so bad from a simple cold?

Greg eased himself into a sitting position and sniffled, rubbing his nose with his palm. It scrunched up in a curiously adorable way, and Mycroft offered him a tissue. “Thanks.” Greg gave a thick, liquid snuffle into it, then blew his nose. “I’ve got some Vicks on the cabinet; d’you mind helping me with it?”

“Of course.” Mycroft leaned over to the bedside table, and reached for the small pot sitting there.

However, he dropped it as soon as he had it in his grasp, because Greg had drawn in a huge gasp of air behind him and sneezed so suddenly that Mycroft felt his heart leap into his throat.

“HAHH-RRDSSCHHHOOO!”

“Bless you,” Mycroft said, and then braced himself as he turned back and saw Greg still hovering in sneezy expectancy in front of a tissue.

“HUHHHARRRSHHOOOO!”

“Dear me. And again.”

“Sorry,” Greg said, blowing his nose with fervour, “didn’t mean to scare you.” The underside of his nose looked red and chapped, and Mycroft imagined that his nostrils were sore from the constant blowing and wiping. He made a mental note to arrange for some softer, higher quality tissues to be delivered before poor Greg rubbed himself raw.

“Please don’t worry about it.” Mycroft watched as Greg pulled his T-shirt off, admiring the firm muscles of his stomach and the thatch of greying hair on his chest. “Where would you like it?”

“If you do my back, I can do my chest,” Greg coughed.

“Nonsense. Let me.” Mycroft seated himself cross legged, unscrewed the lid, and was immediately assaulted by the same strong scent of mint that he had noticed when he’d first arrived.

“Thanks,” Greg said, closing his eyes. Mycroft blinked rapidly to clear the tears that had sprung into his eyes, and scooped a finger’s worth of the rub out of the pot. His nose twitched; it really was a dreadfully strong smell. He could see how it would cut instantly through a heady cold; it was almost coaxing a sneeze out of his own sinuses already.

He rubbed the dollop into Greg’s chest, taking care to smooth it properly in. His skin was slightly damp to the touch; there was a thin sheen of sweat coating his torso, and Greg muttered an embarrassed apology which Mycroft dismissed with a wave of his hand. Surely Greg knew that he couldn’t have found anything about him distasteful; things that would make him rear back in disgust from anyone else were simply endearing on Greg. Although he was slightly concerned with just how warm Greg seemed; and he was also concentrating hard on not letting the tingle in his nose develop any further.

Greg made a low noise in his throat, almost like a cat purring, as Mycroft rubbed the Vicks into his chest, paying particular attention to his sternum and the base of his throat. Mycroft was slightly gratified by the way he leaned into his touch. At least he seemed to be doing something right.

“Turn around, and I’ll do your back.” Mycroft squinted; he could feel the mint burning his nostrils, causing them to tremble almost imperceptibly. But he knew that Greg was still conscious of trying not to pass along his illness, and a sneeze would almost certainly make him think he had. And then Greg would feel guilty, and that was the last thing he needed while he was so unwell. So he held his breath and willed his nose to obey him for once.

Greg, eyes still shut, shuffled around, making the mattress dip and bent over to give Mycroft access to the full length of his back. He rubbed a thin stripe over the line of Greg’s shoulders and heard him sigh in contentment. Pressing his lips tightly together, he held his breath and spooned some more of the Vicks out of the pot. The tingle in his sinuses was almost unbearable at this stage, but he forced his eyes open and stroked a long streak down Greg’s spine.

Greg had quieted; his breathing was no longer so snuffly, and he seemed to be enjoying the massage that Mycroft was giving. So he continued rubbing the ointment into Greg’s torso, ghosting elegant fingers over the lightly muscled lines of his back and shoulder blades. By now, he could feel his nostrils flaring, spasming, trying desperately to avoid inhaling the strong, minty, sneeze-inducing scent of the rub.

He moved his hands up to massage the back of Greg’s neck, not wanting to stop his attempts to make his partner feel better. However, this left him with the problem of what to do with the sneeze he felt edging closer to completion. He wrinkled his nose; his nostrils quivered as if they had a mind of their own, and he could feel his breath become shallower and it became more and more of an effort to keep his lips closed and eyes open.

He was forced to transfer his attentions on Greg to one hand only, bringing the other to his face and pinching his septum in the hope that it would help stave off the fit he could feel on the horizon. However, that seemed to only increase the urge, so he was pressed his index finger beneath his nostrils in a ridiculously cartoonish fashion.

He realised, a little too late, that perhaps having a finger coated in the substance so close to his delicate sinuses would do more harm than good. He could feel his inhalations become breathy and uneven, and he tried to force his eyes as wide as he could to prevent them sinking shut. His finger was squashed against his nose, against the wriggling, ticklish tip, desperately trying to prevent the inevitable, and he hitched once, twice…

Greg looked over his shoulder at Mycroft, and even in the dim light he could see his concern. “Alright?” he croaked.

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, but his final inhalation of the scented rub proved too great to control, and he brought both hands to his face and pinched his nostrils shut in a painfully stifled sneeze. “IGNCH!” He held it for a second, hoping he could stop there.

“Bless you!” Greg turned around fully, grabbing the tissue box. “Are you OK?”

Mycroft was powerless to respond; instead, he bent forwards into his own lap and sneezed again, a fittish triple that promised more to come. “NNGCHHH!--NNGSH! Hhh!NGSHH!”

“Don’t stifle,” Greg reminded him as Mycroft was fully seized by the attack; he attempted to be less restrained in the hope it would rid him of the cursed scent. He hopelessly steepled his hands around his creasing, desperate nose. The sneezes were dry and airy and so terribly ticklish; it felt as if his nostrils were filled with sharp, prickly thorns.

“hheh!NGCSHOOO! NGSSHHHOOO!hh!ishOOO!ISH!ISH! hhh!hhh---hehHHHH!YISHOOO!”

The final sneeze, with its torturous build up and higher-pitched ending, seemed finally to flush the mint from his nostrils. He shook his head to clear any remaining irritation from his sinuses and straightened. Greg was looking at him with worried despair.

“Bless you; you’re getting this too, aren’t you?”

“No; I can assure you I’m perfectly well. I just seem to be a little sensitive to the Vicks. You know how I am with certain scents.” Mycroft rubbed the bridge of his nose, satisfied that his fit was over. He noticed Greg was shivering lightly and frowned. “Do put your shirt back on; much as I enjoy the view, your fever won’t be helped by getting chilled.”

Greg yanked his shirt over his head, sniffling. “Will it bother you sleeping beside me? With the rub?” He sounded clearer already, but his eyes were still unnaturally bright, and Mycroft shook his head, trying to put aside his growing concern for Greg.

“Certainly not. A minor tickle, that’s all.” He lay back on the pillows and Greg followed suit. Mycroft folded his long, lean body over Greg’s and they were both soon taken away into a heavy slumber.

===

[cally]

He realised, a little too late, that perhaps having a finger coated in the substance so close to his delicate sinuses would do more harm than good. He could feel his inhalations become breathy and uneven, and he tried to force his eyes as wide as he could to prevent them sinking shut. His finger was squashed against his nose, against the wriggling, ticklish tip, desperately trying to prevent the inevitable, and he hitched once, twice…

Oh Mycroft, you silly thing. (The wording here is of much genius, I must say)

The final sneeze, with its torturous build up and higher-pitched ending, seemed finally to flush the mint from his nostrils. He shook his head to clear any remaining irritation from his sinuses and straightened. Greg was looking at him with worried despair.

Oh Greg. You're such a dear to be worried about Mycroft.

[Wildwood]