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

[Spoo]

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.

Ohhhh my Godddd. This is the most adorable position ever. UGH. MYSTRADE CUDDLES. How can I even handle it???!

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.

B'awww! It is curiously adorable.

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.

:wub: Mycroft, baby, you're doing SUCH a good job omg.

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.

. . . Hnnnnnghn. The entire build-up and sneeze denial was so freakin' HOT, but these two lines are phenomenal. I LOVE the words 'desperate' and 'hopeless' and 'ticklish' when it comes to Mycroft sneezing. alkldkflkadslfdf;

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.

Greeeeg. Worrying for your boyfriend when you're the one who's sick. You sweet, wonderful man. And God, I LIVE for their cuddles.

This definitely made me smile, bangbang. Among other things! Thankyouthankyouthankyou.

[AngelEyes]

Oh gods! That buildup! Mycroft desperately trying to deny the inevitable. Tortuously exquisite!

[bangbang]

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

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

Thank you! It's silly, right, it's like Greg! Worry about yourself!

HAAHAHA That is exactly the reaction I like to provoke!

Ohhhh my Godddd. This is the most adorable position ever. UGH. MYSTRADE CUDDLES. How can I even handle it???!

. . . Hnnnnnghn. The entire build-up and sneeze denial was so freakin' HOT, but these two lines are phenomenal. I LOVE the words 'desperate' and 'hopeless' and 'ticklish' when it comes to Mycroft sneezing. alkldkflkadslfdf;

Greeeeg. Worrying for your boyfriend when you're the one who's sick. You sweet, wonderful man. And God, I LIVE for their cuddles.

This definitely made me smile, bangbang. Among other things! Thankyouthankyouthankyou.

Their cuddles are to die for, right? I love the idea of them swapping out spooning positions to adjust to who needs more comfort. And you KNOW Mycroft has the craziest buildups - and I am so with you with those three words; they're just begging to be used.

Poor Greg! Mycroft better start taking some vitamin C.

Oh gods! That buildup! Mycroft desperately trying to deny the inevitable. Tortuously exquisite!

THANK YOU! Haha, I love torturing Mycroft's poor nose. It's just so much fun.

CHAPTER SIX (guest starring Anthea because why not? Once again, I've stolen Spoo's idea of Bond movies when they're sick - it's just too perfect!)

===

Mycroft was forced to run into the office the next day to deal with a newly arisen crisis; he left a feverish Greg swaddled in blankets on the sofa with copious amounts of tea and toast, promising to return within the hour.

He dealt with an irate Bulgarian and a whinging Foreign Secretary in lightning speed, texting occasional reassurances to Greg beneath the table. Thirty seven minutes after he arrived, he whipped round the office gathering paperwork and his laptop so he could attend to the rest of his daily business while keeping an eye on Greg.

Anthea smirked at him as he strode out of the office. “What?” he demanded, and her grin widened.

“Nothing. Have a good time off, sir.” She seemed highly amused. “Give my best to Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Oh, do shut up.” He swatted at her with a file. “Alert me if anything urgent comes up, will you? I shall probably be away from the office for the next few days.”

“Hmm,” said Anthea, unconvinced, “I’ll pencil you down for a week and a half.”

“I’m sure Greg – DI Lestrade will be fully recovered before then.” He scowled at her as she beamed at the use of Greg’s first name. “I certainly don’t plan on contracting it, if that’s what you’re attempting to imply.”

“Just in case,” she said, smiling toothily at him. “If not, you could always take a romantic weekend away together.”

“I hope the PM calls you about his ties again,” Mycroft told her. (Cameron seemed to think Anthea was his personal wardrobe assistant, a fact that never failed to irritate her.)

“I hear Paris is nice at this time of year!” she called after him as he made his way down the hall.

She was the best assistant he’d ever had; his protégé, his partner in crime, and someone he was inexplicably fond of, but sometimes she was insufferable.

==

“Greg?” he called, closing the door of the flat behind him. There was no reply, and when he went into the living room he found it empty save for a plate of cold, half-eaten toast and a scattering of used tissues.

“Greg?” He made his way down the hall and knocked on the bathroom door. It was pulled shut but not locked.

“Come in,” came the reply; although it really sounded more like “cub id” with how congested Greg was. Mycroft winced and turned the handle.

Greg was standing over the sink, and he met Mycroft’s eyes in the mirror. He was clutching a wad of toilet paper around his nose and the neck of his t-shirt was darkened and dampened by sweat. Mycroft frowned – he had changed his clothes since this morning, and he quickly deduced that Greg had intended to start doing some work. He walked over and gently put a hand on his shoulder.

“Come and sit down, Greg; you’re doing yourself far from good being up and about.”

“’ve got thi- uhhh!hhhuh! things to do,” Greg snuffled, and Mycroft felt his heart melt a little at the miserable look in his eyes; he still hadn’t lowered the wad of toilet paper.

“Don’t use that; it must be terribly sore. I’ve brought some tissues.”

“I nee-hahh! HUH--HHH! Need to sneeze,” Greg said, and Mycroft recognised the hitching, desperate breaths from his own experiences, when a sneeze defied any reason and refused to come out.

“You poor thing.” He touched two fingers to the back of Greg’s neck – it was far too hot, and he sighed. “Come into the living room, and I’ll put a cool facecloth on your forehead. You’re burning up.”

“HUHHH!” Greg’s breath wavered, eyebrows lurching upwards towards his hairline, and Mycroft rubbed his back comfortingly. “HUHHH!—hhehUHH!...”

“You’re alright,” Mycroft said, soothingly, and put his hand around Greg’s waist to steady him as he trembled with the pent-up explosion. Greg’s eyes, although half closed and tearing from the intensity of his growing sneeze, were glittering with fever.

He was glad he had reached out, because almost as soon as he was supporting Greg, he launched forward and almost toppled over with a massive, monumental “HUUHHHRRRDDDSCHOOO!”

“Bless you,” said Mycroft, tightening his arm; Greg snuffled rather liquidly into the makeshift tissue and then blew his nose with a long, congested sound.

“Come, now,” Mycroft said, gently nudging him, “let’s get you some tea and proper tissues, hmmm?”

Greg lowered the wad, revealing a violently crimson nose that was still a little drippy. “Thanks,” he sniffed, and made to turn. Mycroft began steering him towards the door when Greg tipped his head back, took a huge, gulping gasp of air, and sneezed unrestrained and uncovered towards the floor, bent almost double by the force of it. “HAHH-UHHHN!-DDDSCHNOOO!”

He clamped a hand over his nose and mouth a few seconds too late, and Mycroft barely managed to make out his snuffling apology.

Greg’s cheeks were almost as red as his nose – Mycroft was momentarily confused, then realised that Greg was embarrassed by sneezing freely. Probably because he was used to Mycroft’s fastidious nature, and expected some sort of rebuke.

“Hush; you’re quite alright. Come and get more comfortable.” He led Greg out onto the sofa and passed him the newly purchased tissues. “These should be a little softer. I’ll make us some tea, shall I?” Without waiting for a reply, he left, and gathered a cold, wet cloth as well as the hot drinks, and brought them back in.

“Here,” he said, “tip your head back a little.” Greg did so, watching him blearily.

“Sorry,” he said, in a voice that was nearly gone, and Mycroft tutted as he placed the cloth over Greg’s fevered brow.

“What on earth for?”

“Don’t wanna infect you,” Greg muttered, “shouldn’t be sneezing all over the pla-ahh-huh!hhh!” He was forced to pause, lips parting, face twisted with his incessant, urgent need to sneeze, and scrabbled for a tissue. Unfortunately, they were just out of reach, and so he was obliged to direct his thunderous sneeze loosely into his elbow, after a second or two of heavy, panting breath.

“UHHHUHRRADDSCHHOOO!”

Mycroft clicked his tongue and then fetched the tissues and put them where Greg could easily reach them for next time.

“Bless you,” he said, passing a few over, and Greg mopped up the expulsion with a grimace.

“Shouldn’t be sneezing over everything; you’re gonna get it too.”

“You really must stop concerning yourself over the state of my health – I’m perfectly well, as I’ve told you. You, on the other hand, are running a temperature fit to boil a kettle, so do lie back and relax. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”

Greg blew his nose into a balled up tissue, and Mycroft flicked on the television. “Goldfinger, or Die Another Day?”

“Goldfinger,” Greg said, nasally, “don’t want you eyeing up young Pierce Brosnan.”

“I prefer my men rather more on the mature side.” Mycroft manoeuvred Greg so that he rested against Mycroft’s torso and pecked a quick kiss onto his ruffled hair. Greg snuggled up next to him, and was snoring softly twenty minutes later.

===

[cally]

“I prefer my men rather more on the mature side.” Mycroft manoeuvred Greg so that he rested against Mycroft’s torso and pecked a quick kiss onto his ruffled hair. Greg snuggled up next to him, and was snoring softly twenty minutes later.

Awwwwww.

Poor Greg though. He sounds so miserable, the poor thing.

“Shouldn’t be sneezing over everything; you’re gonna get it too.”

“You really must stop concerning yourself over the state of my health – I’m perfectly well, as I’ve told you. You, on the other hand, are running a temperature fit to boil a kettle, so do lie back and relax. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”

Well Gregory, when that time comes (which I am sure will) you will have to repay him in kindness and love and the caring that Mycroft is showing he is capable of giving.

[Spoo]

“Oh, do shut up.” He swatted at her with a file.

! I love how Mycroft isn't above telling people to shut up (I mean, he told Mrs. Hudson to shut up, right? ). And Anthea is just like 'lol have fun with ur bf'.

He clamped a hand over his nose and mouth a few seconds too late, and Mycroft barely managed to make out his snuffling apology.

Greg’s cheeks were almost as red as his nose – Mycroft was momentarily confused, then realised that Greg was embarrassed by sneezing freely. Probably because he was used to Mycroft’s fastidious nature, and expected some sort of rebuke.

Ughghghghhhhh. Baby! This part was sad. Poor thing, feeling awful about sneezing freely. But I did like how he wasn't able to cover the sneeze in time~ I also like how Mycroft happened to be right next to him (not in the line of fire, per se, but definitely in a contamination zone ).

He was forced to pause, lips parting, face twisted with his incessant, urgent need to sneeze, and scrabbled for a tissue. Unfortunately, they were just out of reach, and so he was obliged to direct his thunderous sneeze loosely into his elbow, after a second or two of heavy, panting breath.

Fuck. It's descriptions like these that utterly undo me. Especially the heavy, panting breath. Jesus!

“Shouldn’t be sneezing over everything; you’re gonna get it too.”

Awwww, Greg. You're so adorable when you foreshadow! *evil cackling*

“Goldfinger,” Greg said, nasally, “don’t want you eyeing up young Pierce Brosnan.”

“I prefer my men rather more on the mature side.” Mycroft manoeuvred Greg so that he rested against Mycroft’s torso and pecked a quick kiss onto his ruffled hair. Greg snuggled up next to him, and was snoring softly twenty minutes later.

On the more mature - though goofy and occasionally childish, hot-tempered, silvering side. And ugh, that quick little kiss. And snuggles!

I seem to have melted into spoo-goo all over my keyboard. But don't send help! I'll mop myself up soon enough. Once I stop obsessing over this brilliant story, that is.

Edited September 9, 2014 by Spoo

[Wildwood]

Aaaaaagh. So beautifuuuullll.

[ID2006]

You're trying to kill me.

[RiversD]

“I hope the PM calls you about his ties again,” Mycroft told her. (Cameron seemed to think Anthea was his personal wardrobe assistant, a fact that never failed to irritate her.)

I could actually believe this. Makes it even funnier.

Greg was standing over the sink, and he met Mycroft’s eyes in the mirror. He was clutching a wad of toilet paper around his nose and the neck of his t-shirt was darkened and dampened by sweat. Mycroft frowned – he had changed his clothes since this morning, and he quickly deduced that Greg had intended to start doing some work. He walked over and gently put a hand on his shoulder.

“I nee-hahh! HUH--HHH! Need to sneeze,” Greg said, and Mycroft recognised the hitching, desperate breaths from his own experiences, when a sneeze defied any reason and refused to come out.

[AngelEyes]

LOL, naughty Anthea! I love her. Poor Greg and his Ginormous sneezes.

[bangbang]

Well Gregory, when that time comes (which I am sure will) you will have to repay him in kindness and love and the caring that Mycroft is showing he is capable of giving.

Mycroft is just so happy he's being a good boyfriend he doesn't even care if he gets it! Much.

! I love how Mycroft isn't above telling people to shut up (I mean, he told Mrs. Hudson to shut up, right? ). And Anthea is just like 'lol have fun with ur bf'.

Ughghghghhhhh. Baby! This part was sad. Poor thing, feeling awful about sneezing freely. But I did like how he wasn't able to cover the sneeze in time~ I also like how Mycroft happened to be right next to him (not in the line of fire, per se, but definitely in a contamination zone ).

On the more mature - though goofy and occasionally childish, hot-tempered, silvering side. And ugh, that quick little kiss. And snuggles!

I seem to have melted into spoo-goo all over my keyboard. But don't send help! I'll mop myself up soon enough. Once I stop obsessing over this brilliant story, that is.

YAY! And yeah, poor Mycroft should've worn a hazmat suit if he wanted to avoid this cold. Anthea is my life; she's the only one who can outsnark the Holmes boys.

Aaaaaagh. So beautifuuuullll.

Thank you!

You're trying to kill me.

Muhahahah! *scuttles back to evil lair*

I could actually believe this. Makes it even funnier.

When you're the most competent PA in the British isles, everyone wants a piece of you.

LOL, naughty Anthea! I love her. Poor Greg and his Ginormous sneezes.

I know, poor baby, they must be so exhausting!

CHAPTER SEVEN (my soul is filled with angst)

====

Mycroft spent the rest of the day replying to emails, fielding the occasional call, and fretting over his partner. Greg’s fever waxed and waned almost hourly; he went from teeth chattering one moment to throwing off his blanket the next.

Mycroft hadn’t seen anyone this ill since Sherlock had been coming off cocaine; the sweating and shaking were similar, although Greg wasn’t locking himself in the bathroom and screaming abuse so he supposed that was one improvement. All the same, he had a twisting, terrified sensation in his stomach that wasn’t helped by the fact that he hadn’t taken his medication at the regular time.

He had picked up his emergency supply from the office that morning, but the problem with OCD was that any disruption to routine set him on edge, and that included not being able to take the pills to combat it at the same time every day. Greg hadn’t noticed his rising anxiety, which Mycroft was torn about. On one hand, it was much better for Greg not to waste his strength worrying; on the other, it was symptomatic of just how out of it he was.

He managed to convince Greg to ease his congestion by breathing in steam from a bowl, and he sat limply at the table with a towel draped over his head. But when he raised his head, and coughed in a long, phlegmy way, Mycroft found it hard to disguise his concern.

“Are you alright?” he asked, biting his lip.

“’M fi-ehhhuh!HUH—HUH!RRDDDSSCHHH!”

“You most certainly are not fine. Bless you, by the way.”

“Thanks. Will be, though, in a few days. Not that ill.” Greg wheezed.

Mycroft still retained a certain level of scepticism, which was why he was pacing the hall, calling a little-used number on his phone, chewing his lip.

“Hi, Mycroft. How're you?” John Watson sounded questioning; it wasn’t as though they often had cosy chats. The doctor had never exactly warmed to him; he supposed it came from being Sherlock’s flatmate and only seeing the prickly parts of their relationship. The frequent kidnappings perhaps didn’t help matters. However, he was grateful to him for at least managing to keep Sherlock somewhat in line; it was more than most had ever managed.

“How does one tell if someone suffering a cold needs medical attention?” Mycroft didn’t see the point in pleasantries.

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “This about Greg?” John asked.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade. Yes.” Saying his first name seemed private, and Mycroft wasn’t sure if he was willing to expose that much of himself to the doctor.

“Yeah – we saw him on Wednesday, seemed like he was coming down with something. Sherlock said you’d probably call.”

Mycroft mentally cursed his brother and tapped a staccato rhythm along the wall. “Well?”

John sighed. “Honestly, he’s probably fine. It’s just a cold; apparently everyone’s got it. If he starts feeling really bad, he’ll let you know. He’s not stupid.”

“He’s coughing. Rather badly. And running a temperature.”

“All pretty normal. If he starts getting really delirious, let me know – the cough is fine so long as he’s not actually struggling to breathe or anything.”

“Hmm,” said Mycroft dubiously, making a mental note to check Dr Watson’s medical credentials again.

“Listen, don’t worry about it. He’ll be fine; probably shake it off in a few days.” There was an awkward pause on the other end of the line, and then John said “Just out of curiosity, are you and him…”

“Thank you for your advice, Dr Watson.” Mycroft hung up.

The fact of the matter was, he would have had no idea how to respond, even if he’d wanted to. He and Greg hadn’t really discussed their relationship status. Mycroft was quite certain, at this point, that Greg Lestrade was the most extraordinary ordinary person in existence, and he would rather like to spend the rest of his life running his fingers through Greg’s soft silver hair.

However. Greg had quite a bit more experience in terms of relationships, and Mycroft wasn’t fooling himself into thinking that Greg would be quite as bowled over by him. After all, the man had been in love before – enough to get married, even – and Mycroft doubted he could compare to that wealth of warmth and light.

If you looked at it in terms of a tawdry romance novel (Anthea read the juicy parts out loud on long flights to embarrass him, so he had picked up rather a lot of the vernacular) – it was as though Greg was his soulmate. But he doubted that he was lucky enough to be Greg’s.

Nonetheless. Mycroft rarely found time for himself, and even less often had someone to share that time with. Greg had been the only real relationship he’d had where the other person seemed to understand or even like him. So he had decided to simply take it as it came, and worry about Greg finding someone else (someone less complex, someone more caring, someone better) when it happened.

He made his way back into the living room.

“Who was that? President of Japan?” Greg joked. Behind the tissue, Mycroft deduced that his nose was doing a sound imitation of a tap, but at least the steam had helped loosen him up.

“Japan doesn’t have a president, it has a prime minister,” Mycroft informed him, and went and sat down. “I called John Watson.”

Greg groaned. “You didn’t need to. I keep telling you, I’m fine.”

“And I keep disbelieving you, because you are decidedly not fine, and it’s rather frustrating to be unable to rely on you to honestly report your wellbeing,” Mycroft snapped, and instantly regretted it. He pinched the bridge of his nose; there was a headache dwelling on the horizon. “Forgive me – the last thing you need is me losing my temper.”

“Mycroft.” He looked up at Greg, and loathed himself for causing the concern in those dark eyes. “When I say I’m fine, I mean – of course I feel crap, I’ve got a bloody bad cold. But it’s just a cold. I’m sick about once a year and yeah, when I do get the sniffles it hits me like a ton of bricks. But it’s not anything serious, and there’s nothing medical you can really do.”

Mycroft was quiet for a second. “I’d prefer it if you felt better,” he said, feeling abjectly miserable.

“Well, yeah, me too. And I will, soon.” There was a slight pause, and he could feel Greg weighing up his next words. “I think your –your OCD thing – probably makes you worry about things sometimes, right? Even when you know there’s nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t wish to discuss it. Thank you anyway.” Mycroft picked at the skin around his nail and felt a horrifying prickle at the back of his eyes. He blinked ferociously.

“OK,” Greg said, gently, and then, “If you really want to make me feel better, you could get over here and give me a cuddle.”

Even though Mycroft knew Greg was doing it as much to comfort Mycroft as for his own sake, he still shifted over and let Greg envelop him in a hug. It was warm and Greg rubbed his back gently. He wrapped his arms around Greg and tilted his head back a little to make the most of their height difference. Letting Greg lean on his shoulder, he rested his chin on the top of his partner’s head.

“Sometimes I can’t help it,” he said, staring at the wall opposite.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We’ve all got our things.” Greg went unnaturally still under his grip, and abruptly tried to pull backwards. Mycroft, caught aback, tightened his hold, and Greg was forced to simply turn away and cover the lower half of his face with a forearm as his face sprang into a split-second rictus before the messy release.

“HUHHEHHHRRRRSCHDDCHOOO!” He held his sleeve over his nose and sniffed hard; Mycroft passed him a tissue and compassionately averted his eyes as Greg dealt with the overflow from his nose.

“That steam thing really did the trick,” he said, after a hearty blow, “I’ll have to remember that one.”

“Think of it as a portable sauna,” Mycroft quipped.

Greg laughed, throwing his head back, and Mycroft tucked him into his arms again and pulled the blanket over them both.

===

[cally]

it was as though Greg was his soulmate. But he doubted that he was lucky enough to be Greg’s.

You're breaking my heart into a million pieces here.

I just want to cuddle them both up, for different reasons.

[Wildwood]

it was as though Greg was his soulmate. But he doubted that he was lucky enough to be Greg’s.

You're breaking my heart into a million pieces here.

I just want to cuddle them both up, for different reasons.

This.

Edited September 10, 2014 by Devil Bird

[Garnet]

Ohhh no :c

I've been reading this as it's posted, and it's very cute, but this particular part wrenched my heartstrings. I have a serious weakness for otherwise cool, controlled characters having fractures of self-doubt, in private. I could eat up those four anxious paragraphs of Mycroft weighing the balance of their relationship (how into Lestrade he is vs. how much he thinks Lestrade is into him) over and over.

Also, I really love that you incorporated his OCD not just as a side-detail that's mentioned in passing, but as a recurring and integrated part of his character. Very realistic.

“I don’t wish to discuss it. Thank you anyway.” Mycroft picked at the skin around his nail and felt a horrifying prickle at the back of his eyes. He blinked ferociously.

Goodbye I have to lay down for a while 8(

[Spoo]

John Watson sounded questioning; it wasn’t as though they often had cosy chats. The doctor had never exactly warmed to him; he supposed it came from being Sherlock’s flatmate and only seeing the prickly parts of their relationship. The frequent kidnappings perhaps didn’t help matters. However, he was grateful to him for at least managing to keep Sherlock somewhat in line; it was more than most had ever managed.

If this isn't an amazing way to describe the John/Mycroft relationship, then I don't know what is! I especially love how Mycroft realizes that John is good for Sherlock and (mostly) prevents him from resorting to his old, destructive ways.

“Yeah – we saw him on Wednesday, seemed like he was coming down with something. Sherlock said you’d probably call.”

Consistency! Yassss! Because Greg admitted in the first part that he hadn't been at work since Thursday, meaning Wednesday he was feeling rough around the edges. Sorry, I know it's weird but I love when the dots connect like that.

There was an awkward pause on the other end of the line, and then John said “Just out of curiosity, are you and him…”

“Thank you for your advice, Dr Watson.” Mycroft hung up.

Oh my God, I can TOTALLY picture this so clearly. Because John is always inquisitive (look at me trying to sugarcoat it, he is NOSEY) and he wants the scoop. I'm sure Sherlock will mention Greg and Mycroft's relationship offhandedly someday, and John will be like "HAH I KNEW IT...wait omg how long did u kno and y didn't u tell me sherl u never tell me anything".

Mycroft was quite certain, at this point, that Greg Lestrade was the most extraordinary ordinary person in existence, and he would rather like to spend the rest of his life running his fingers through Greg’s soft silver hair.

Oh, Mycroft. I'm beyond certain that Greg would want that exact thing, too.

After all, the man had been in love before – enough to get married, even – and Mycroft doubted he could compare to that wealth of warmth and light.

You don't compare, Mycroft! You're SO much better and less toxic for Greg than his ex-wife could ever DREAM of being!

Greg had been the only real relationship he’d had where the other person seemed to understand or even like him. So he had decided to simply take it as it came, and worry about Greg finding someone else (someone less complex, someone more caring, someone better) when it happened.

When it happened. WHEN IT HAPPENED. AS IF HE IS TOTALLY 100% SURE IT'S GOING TO. omg i'm not crying YOU'RE crying. Mycrooooft. You're complex, yes, but you're getting better at outwardly showing you care, and I'm sure Greg couldn't find a better person if he traveled the entire world and looked for one. *Sniffles*

“OK,” Greg said, gently, and then, “If you really want to make me feel better, you could get over here and give me a cuddle.”

Even though Mycroft knew Greg was doing it as much to comfort Mycroft as for his own sake, he still shifted over and let Greg envelop him in a hug. It was warm and Greg rubbed his back gently. He wrapped his arms around Greg and tilted his head back a little to make the most of their height difference. Letting Greg lean on his shoulder, he rested his chin on the top of his partner’s head.

“Sometimes I can’t help it,” he said, staring at the wall opposite.

“I know.”

I agree with what Garnet said about Mycroft's OCD. Greg is so patient with him, and I love that he comforts Mycroft when he's having anxiety and general discomfort related to his condition. It's so heartwarming and beautiful.

Greg went unnaturally still under his grip, and abruptly tried to pull backwards. Mycroft, caught aback, tightened his hold, and Greg was forced to simply turn away and cover the lower half of his face with a forearm as his face sprang into a split-second rictus before the messy release.

Omg. Mycroft tightening his hold made me whimper, because he's like "wait what no don't let go yet". UGHHH. (Also, what a yummy forearm covering. )

There's only 2 parts left, yeah? Man oh man. I can't wait to see how it all wraps up. I mean, we already know what's going to end up happening () but I'm honestly more eager to read your writing and your gorgeous details. They are to DIE for, bangbang!

[ID2006]

This deserves so much more than my little OMG I love you!!! reply.

[AngelEyes]

The doctor had never exactly warmed to him; he supposed it came from being Sherlock’s flatmate and only seeing the prickly parts of their relationship. The frequent kidnappings perhaps didn’t help matters. However, he was grateful to him for at least managing to keep Sherlock somewhat in line; it was more than most had ever managed.

Yes, getting regularly kidnapped tends to put a damper on a relationship!

Mycroft was quite certain, at this point, that Greg Lestrade was the most extraordinary ordinary person in existence, and he would rather like to spend the rest of his life running his fingers through Greg’s soft silver hair.

Oh Mycroft!

Greg had been the only real relationship he’d had where the other person seemed to understand or even like him.

Awww, sad!

Mycroft was quiet for a second. “I’d prefer it if you felt better,” he said, feeling abjectly miserable.

Oh dear, this is just adorable!

“Sometimes I can’t help it,” he said, staring at the wall opposite.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We’ve all got our things.”

This just shows the total sweetness of their relationship!

I absolutely love this!!!

[bangbang]

Thank you all for your comments! They are much appreciated!

RE: Mycroft's OCD - the more I thought about it, the more I realised that this wasn't a throwaway remark that Greg could automatically fix with the power of luuurve, because mental illness isn't like that. It's a major struggle for him and an influencing factor behind pretty much everything he does, and yeah. I'm glad it's ringing true to people.

THIS CHAPTER IS NOT SO SAD I PROMISE.

CHAPTER EIGHT

===

Greg, true to his word, seemed much improved the next morning; his temperature had come down quite drastically, and he was no longer shaking with the harsh, racking chills. However, the sneezing was still frequent, and becoming messier every occurrence; his nasal passages were flooded and he snuffled constantly to hold it back from spilling over.

He was quickly becoming restless, and complained of boredom while throwing himself down on the sofa. Mycroft didn’t rate him as well enough for paperwork, despite his protests, but seeing his frustration, permitted him to help in a few stress-free household tasks. So they spent a pleasant day watching films while lazily cuddling on the sofa, and at dinner Greg stood at the kitchen doorway and directed Mycroft in making the vegetable soup he’d attempted on the first day.

They’d eaten it on the sofa; Mycroft was almost getting used to such lax habits. They were both yawning by the time they’d completed another Bond marathon, and decided to call it an early night.

Mycroft doubted it would be pleasant for Greg to continue sleeping on his side of the bed after four nights of shivering and sweating. So he’d popped the used covers in the wash and invited Greg to help him make it back up again.

They shook out the sheets; it was relaxing, making a bed, Mycroft thought. Wiping away the old and bringing in the new. He fitted the sheet around the mattress while Greg fluffed the pillows to what Mycroft judged as satisfactory plumpness.

They did the duvet together, pushing it inside the cover and then shaking it out. They each stood on one side of the bed and draped the cover over from above; Mycroft, as he tucked in the corners, mused on the fact that this may be the first time he had ever made a bed with someone else. It seemed curiously intimate, and he swallowed an odd lump in his throat, then shook his head briskly and began to arrange the pillows. He noticed Greg had halted, and looked up.

Greg had a tissue held six inches in front of his face, meaning that Mycroft could see every movement as his upper lip quivered, his mouth dropped open, his nostrils widened to gaping, needy circles, before he snapped his head forward to bring his nose into the tissue with a seismic “HUUHHRRRAAHHDDDSSHHHOOO!”

“Bless you,” Mycroft said, and Greg, from the depth of the tissue, gasped,

“’ve got ahhh-another one o-uhuhh! One on the wa—ahhh!AHHH!HURRRRDSCHOO!”

“And again.”

Greg looked up from the tissue, which by now was clearly soaked, and said, croakily, “D’you mind passing -”

“Of course.” Mycroft held out a clean tissue, and Greg took it with one hand, unable to remove the other from his face.

“Cheers.” Greg blew his nose violently, then tossed the tissues into the wastepaper bin and nodded at the bed. “Nothing like a fresh bed, is there?”

“I’m rather partial to it myself – I tend to find it promotes the desire for certain… activities.” Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at Greg, who grinned.

“Is that a chat up line or a proposition?”

“It’s a promise,” Mycroft said.

Greg threw his head back and laughed, and then said, “God, I love you.”

It was as if it took them both a second to register what he had said, and he clapped a hand over his mouth. Then they both tumbled over each other in their haste to talk.

“Shit – sorry – don’t freak out -”

“It’s quite alright – I know you didn’t -”

Greg paused. “You know I didn’t what?”

Mycroft swallowed. They’d been having such a nice evening. “That you didn’t mean it. It’s alright,” he added, aware he was babbling but unable to stop, “I don’t expect you to – I mean, I’m sure you don’t – I’m not really - ”

“Oh God,” Greg said, “for a genius, you’re really the biggest idiot ever, aren’t you?”

Mycroft thought that was rather rude; talk about adding insult to injury. Greg must have seen his expression, because he shook his head wildly and said, “No – you’ve got it wrong.”

“Then do enlighten me,” Mycroft said, rather frostily, and Greg sighed.

“I wasn’t going to tell you this soon, because I didn’t want to scare you off – but if you’re thinking that that was a slip of the tongue, well, it wasn’t. I do – y’know.”

“Oh.” Mycroft said, and sat down heavily on his side of the bed.

“Um,” said Greg, crossing round and looking at him, “are you OK?”

Mycroft felt rather like he’d been smashed over the head with a breezeblock – oddly, it was a tremendously pleasant sensation. Greg loved him. Greg loved him. Greg loved him.

“Mycroft – are you alright?”

He looked up at Greg; baggy pyjama bottoms, stubble, stuffed up nose and all. He took his hand, and gently tugged him down beside him on the bed.

“More than alright,” he said, and leaned in and kissed him.

====

[cally]

Greg had a tissue held six inches in front of his face, meaning that Mycroft could see every movement as his upper lip quivered, his mouth dropped open, his nostrils widened to gaping, needy circles, before he snapped his head forward to bring his nose into the tissue with a seismic “HUUHHRRRAAHHDDDSSHHHOOO!”

Is there an instruction manual on how to write like this? I think I'm rather in need of it- the description here- gah!

“More than alright,” he said, and leaned in and kissed him.

As much as I am happy for the two of them (of course), oh Mycroft. Not that you were going to be able to escape this cold, but now you've rather cemented that decision, haven't you?

[Spoo]

Mycroft didn’t rate him as well enough for paperwork, despite his protests, but seeing his frustration, permitted him to help in a few stress-free household tasks. So they spent a pleasant day watching films while lazily cuddling on the sofa, and at dinner Greg stood at the kitchen doorway and directed Mycroft in making the vegetable soup he’d attempted on the first day.

Ah, domestic bliss~

Mycroft, as he tucked in the corners, mused on the fact that this may be the first time he had ever made a bed with someone else. It seemed curiously intimate, and he swallowed an odd lump in his throat, then shook his head briskly and began to arrange the pillows.

Hospital corners! But in all seriousness, I love how 'intimate' Mycroft finds making a bed with Greg. It's a cute detail that's totally in-character.

Greg had a tissue held six inches in front of his face, meaning that Mycroft could see every movement as his upper lip quivered, his mouth dropped open, his nostrils widened to gaping, needy circles, before he snapped his head forward to bring his nose into the tissue with a seismic “HUUHHRRRAAHHDDDSSHHHOOO!”

“Bless you,” Mycroft said, and Greg, from the depth of the tissue, gasped,

“’ve got ahhh-another one o-uhuhh! One on the wa—ahhh!AHHH!HURRRRDSCHOO!”

“And again.”

...Um. This part right here should be illegal. Because wowowow way too hot. Especially Greg saying there was another sneeze coming? Yeahhhno. Nope. Can't. Nuh-uh. Pushes WAY too many of my fetish buttons.

Mycroft felt rather like he’d been smashed over the head with a breezeblock – oddly, it was a tremendously pleasant sensation. Greg loved him. Greg loved him. Greg loved him.

AHHHHHHH. I'm SO happy he processed it correctly. See, Mycroft? Greg does love you! And now it's finally put out there, and you can cling onto it forever.

“Mycroft – are you alright?”

He looked up at Greg; baggy pyjama bottoms, stubble, stuffed up nose and all. He took his hand, and gently tugged him down beside him on the bed.

“More than alright,” he said, and leaned in and kissed him.

God, this felt so real. I love how Mycroft is like "yup, this is the guy right here". Doesn't matter if Greg's unwell and looks disheveled (which makes it ten times cuter in my opinion!). But...uh-oh. A KISS? Weeee-heeeell then.

I don't want this story to end! I know it has to, and that you've got more in store for us, but still. It's made me so happy.

Edited September 11, 2014 by Spoo

[RiversD]

This continues beautiful. Everyone above me is 100% correct in their praise. I really, really love how consistent you are- nothing's throwaway, nothing goes un-dealt with, and it's brilliant.

They shook out the sheets; it was relaxing, making a bed, Mycroft thought. Wiping away the old and bringing in the new. He fitted the sheet around the mattress while Greg fluffed the pillows to what Mycroft judged as satisfactory plumpness.

They did the duvet together, pushing it inside the cover and then shaking it out. They each stood on one side of the bed and draped the cover over from above; Mycroft, as he tucked in the corners, mused on the fact that this may be the first time he had ever made a bed with someone else. It seemed curiously intimate, and he swallowed an odd lump in his throat, then shook his head briskly and began to arrange the pillows. He noticed Greg had halted, and looked up.

Bed-making has never been so enjoyably to read about.

Also, Mycroft.

[AngelEyes]

Awww. This is so sweet and perfect. I love the struggle with misunderstanding they each go through and are then like, oh, ok, We get it now. It's all good. All Good.

[bangbang]

Thank you for all your wonderful comments; I'm so glad you've all enjoyed it! We've reached the inevitable conclusion but I will be back with more domestic sneeziness for these two before you know it.

CHAPTER NINE

===

Mycroft woke up coughing. He supposed it was the inevitable conclusion; none the less, he wished he didn’t feel quite so wretched.

He sat up, cursing pathogens and white blood cells and everything else that conspired to allow an illness to take hold, and looked over at Greg, who was still asleep. He was snoring slightly, mouth hanging open in a way that was curiously sweet. Mycroft surreptitiously checked his temperature with the back of his hand; it felt reasonably normal.

He tiptoed out and listlessly dragged himself into the kitchen and made tea; fatigue was settling into his bones and the steam from the kettle irritated his sinuses. He pressed his lips together, pinching his nostrils tightly and rubbing the tip of his nose to prevent the tickle from rising.

He heard the noises of Greg waking in the bedroom and braced himself. Sure enough, seconds later a thunderous sneeze ripped its way through the flat.

“HHHAHRRRAADDSSCHH!”

Mycroft’s own nose twitched in sympathy and he was forced to press the back of his wrist against it and lean away from the counter.

“hhNGCH!---hhh!NGSCHH! Bless you,” he called, although he doubted Greg could hear the dry rasp of his voice. He frowned at how hard it had hit him already.

He looked at their mugs; matching but different; and thought about Greg’s admission last night, and everything that came after. Despite his throat feeling like he’d gargled broken glass, there was a joyful sort of warmth in his chest that wasn’t going away.

When he carried the mugs back into the bedroom, Greg was sitting up and looking awfully guilty.

“You were coughing loads in your sleep last night; I’ve passed this along to you, haven’t I?” His voice had an undertone of hoarseness but his breathing was far less snuffly than it had been last night, even taking into account the snoring. His hair stuck up like the spikes of a hedgehog, and he badly needed a shave, and he was the most beautiful thing Mycroft had ever seen.

As he watched, Greg's nose wriggled, and Mycroft wearily passed him the tissues, feeling a dull ache settle into his bones. He clambered back into bed and huddled under the covers, against Greg. His lips were parted, reddened nose in the air, tissue held in front of his face, congested breathing coming in short, sharp bursts. The sneeze seemed determined to toy with him, and Mycroft could feel the mattress shake with the effort of Greg's rocking, heavy breaths.

He finally lurched forward, head almost touching his knees, with an enormous "HEEHAAH---RDDSSCHOOO!"

"Bless you," Mycroft croaked, feeling the sneezy sensation in his own nose rise at the sound of Greg's unrestrained explosion. He felt his own chest heave with a hitch, and quelled it with an effort and a forefinger to his nostrils.

Greg blew his nose hard and looked over miserably. "Sorry. I really didn't want you to catch this."

Mycroft tutted, taking a tissue from the box. “It’s not your fault,” he said, horrified at the creak of his voice. “I was doubtless already exposed to it anyway.” He dabbed at his dripping nose and sniffled.

“I shouldn’t have let you stay. You’re going to have it something awful.” Worry was etched onto every fine line of Greg’s face, and Mycroft shook his head (despite the vertigo it caused.)

“Don’t be ridiculous; I insisted. And I very rarely take no for an answer. Do not, under any circumstances, blame yourself.” He pressed a curled finger under his septum, trying to prevent another sneeze for as long as possible – once he started, he knew he’d be completely unable to stop. From observing Greg, it seemed to be an exceptionally sneezy strain of the virus. He could only imagine the havoc it would wreck on his sinuses. He binned his tissue; the first of what he imagined would be many. “Besides. I wanted to.”

Greg reached out and touched the back of his hand to Mycroft’s forehead. “No fever yet,” he said with a deep sniff.

Mycroft took a sip of his tea and felt his nose give a threatening twitch. “I’m quite alright. More importantly, how are you feeling?”

Greg yawned, then stretched. “Pretty good, actually – look, I can say my “em”’s now!”

“Really?” Mycroft probed.

Greg met his eyes. “You’ve been great. I’m feeling loads better, and it’s probably because you’ve been taking such good care of me.”

Mycroft had never considered himself particularly needy of praise or attention (much more Sherlock’s department), but he felt a warm

sort of pride blossom in his chest at Greg’s words.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he said, and shuffled on the mattress so they were closer together. Greg reached out and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“D’you want me to call your office and let them know you won’t be in today?” Greg played with a strand of his hair idly.

“Anthea alreehh!hhh! already arra-hh- arranged it,” Mycroft managed to say, before he succumbed to the demands of his sinuses, pressing both palms flat together, his quivering nostrils fluttering between them, and sneezing with furious intensity. He barely bothered to stifle – the pain it had caused in the kitchen had served as a warning, and with the rate he imagined this cold would develop, he’d be unable to do so in a few hours anyway.

“HHIIINGGSH! Hehh—nnGSHOOO! HEH-ish! ISH! ISHOOO!”

“Bless you.” Greg passed him a tissue, and Mycroft nuzzled into it.

“Thank you.” He leant his head against Greg and closed his eyes. He felt, vaguely, Greg press his lips to Mycroft’s forehead.

“I guess it’s my turn to take care of you, now.”

“I’m sure,” Mycroft yawned, “you’ll be quite proficient. I must warn you - now that I know how high the quality of care can be, I’ll be rather demanding. I do hope you live up to my expectations.”

The last thing he was aware of was Greg’s rumbling laugh, and a soft voice whispering in his ear, “I hope I do too,” – and then he drifted off to sleep.

===

[Spoo]

He looked at their mugs; matching but different; and thought about Greg’s admission last night, and everything that came after. Despite his throat feeling like he’d gargled broken glass, there was a joyful sort of warmth in his chest that wasn’t going away.

Uh-ohhhh. Mycroft's in love. And uGH. THE MUGS. H-how they represent Mycroft and Greg - how well they go together, but, at the same time, how they're also different. *Cries because SYMBOLISM IS A BEAUTIFUL LITERARY DEVICE*

His hair stuck up like the spikes of a hedgehog, and he badly needed a shave, and he was the most beautiful thing Mycroft had ever seen.

And he's all yours, Mycroft.

“Don’t be ridiculous; I insisted. And I very rarely take no for an answer. Do not, under any circumstances, blame yourself.” He pressed a curled finger under his septum, trying to prevent another sneeze for as long as possible – once he started, he knew he’d be completely unable to stop. From observing Greg, it seemed to be an exceptionally sneezy strain of the virus. He could only imagine the havoc it would wreck on his sinuses. He binned his tissue; the first of what he imagined would be many. “Besides. I wanted to.”

There are so many gorgeous details in here: Mycroft rarely taking 'no' for an answer, knowing he won't be able to stop sneezing once he starts, the virus being exceptionally sneezy...

Greg met his eyes. “You’ve been great. I’m feeling loads better, and it’s probably because you’ve been taking such good care of me.”

Mycroft had never considered himself particularly needy of praise or attention (much more Sherlock’s department), but he felt a warm sort of pride blossom in his chest at Greg’s words.

I LOVE Greg saying that the can pronounce certain letters now. That was so cute! And awwww, Greg complimenting Mycroft, who feels proud of himself for managing to take care of Greg, while also helping him feel better.

“Bless you.” Greg passed him a tissue, and Mycroft nuzzled into it.

“Thank you.” He leant his head against Greg and closed his eyes. He felt, vaguely, Greg press his lips to Mycroft’s forehead.

Nuzzling. Into. A. Tissue. AGAIN, WHY IS THIS SO ADORABLE??? alsjdlfkksdfk;

“I guess it’s my turn to take care of you, now.”

“I’m sure,” Mycroft yawned, “you’ll be quite proficient. I must warn you - now that I know how high the quality of care can be, I’ll be rather demanding. I do hope you live up to my expectations.”

The last thing he was aware of was Greg’s rumbling laugh, and a soft voice whispering in his ear, “I hope I do too,” – and then he drifted off to sleep.

Heehee. Mycroft being demanding about caretaking is cute. And buh, sleepy baby. Greg's gonna take good care of him now.

Bangbang, thank you so much for this story. I know that writing a sick!Greg wasn't your division area at first, but the fact that you took on the challenge (especially for little ol' me!) shows what a brilliant writer (and friend!) you are. Thanks again, and I look forward to whatever else you have for us in the near future.

[cally]

“I shouldn’t have let you stay. You’re going to have it something awful.” Worry was etched onto every fine line of Greg’s face, and Mycroft shook his head (despite the vertigo it caused.)

awwwww

Greg met his eyes. “You’ve been great. I’m feeling loads better, and it’s probably because you’ve been taking such good care of me.”

awwwwww

“Anthea alreehh!hhh! already arra-hh- arranged it,” Mycroft managed to say, before he succumbed to the demands of his sinuses, pressing both palms flat together, his quivering nostrils fluttering between them, and sneezing with furious intensity. He barely bothered to stifle – the pain it had caused in the kitchen had served as a warning, and with the rate he imagined this cold would develop, he’d be unable to do so in a few hours anyway.

oh the poor thing I'm glad he has Gregory to take care of him now.

I'm so, so sad this is over and I will be waiting with bells on for another fic from you.

[matilda3948]

His hair stuck up like the spikes of a hedgehog, and he badly needed a shave, and he was the most beautiful thing Mycroft had ever seen.

Ahh! Sweet overload

I loved this story soooo much! Thank you for writing a miserably sick Greg...miserably sick Greg is wonderful