Berlin (Mystrade, BBC Sherlock)

[bangbang]

Yeah, so, I love everyone's headcanon that Mycroft gets sick while travelling so, being me, I wrote 10,000-ish words of pure self indulgence about it. Enjoy.

PART ONE

“You haven’t had dinner.” Mycroft sounded disapproving even from several countries away, and Greg had to restrain himself from laughing.

“I went round Sherlock’s earlier – if you saw what he’s got in his microwave, you’d lose your appetite too.” He leaned forwards and rested his elbows on the table, placing his chin in his hands. “How’s the food in the hotel?”

On the Skype screen, Mycroft sighed and cupped his hands around a mug. “Tolerable. I suppose.” He sounded a little crackly – Greg supposed it was the reception.

“You’ve been eating though, yeah?” Since moving in together, Greg had uncovered the many and varied foibles of Mycroft Holmes. Several of his tics involved food; what kind, how often, and how he reacted after eating. Greg would be lying if he said it didn’t concern him. It was a subject that they avoided, like his nervous obsessions and compulsions, but that didn’t mean Greg didn’t keep a close watch on Mycroft’s weight and dietary habits. In a strange place, surrounded by people and noise and uncontrollable situations, Greg worried even more.

“I have. When given something actually edible.” Mycroft coughed lightly into a closed fist, and Greg narrowed his eyes.

“You OK? You’re losing your voice a bit.”

“Perfect. Thank you. It must be a bad line. How was your day, anyway? Aside from Sherlock’s microwave, that is.”

“It was OK. Got a good lead on the Langdon case – that’s what I was over there for.” Something niggled slightly at the back of Greg’s mind. “How was your flight? Seems like we haven’t spoken properly since you left.”

It was strange, having the house to himself; Mycroft had left for the week-long conference in Berlin three days ago and they had barely had time to text. He found himself oddly lonely, waking up on the wrong side of the bed in a disorientated mess.

“Again, tolerable. As much as flying can be.” Mycroft sounded tired, and the connection was good enough that Greg could see dark circles around his eyes. Something was still bothering him – something that Mycroft had mentioned off-hand before – was Mycroft afraid of flying? It had something to do with travelling.

“You look knackered. The Germans wearing you out?”

Mycroft laughed. “I’m a little tired; it’s been a long day. Yours must have been, as well, if you had a breakthrough on the case.” He touched his face; Greg squinted at the screen to try and make out the gesture, but Mycroft lowered his hand and flashed him a weary smile. Greg went to take a slurp of his tea, only to find that it was empty.

“Hold on. I’m going to go make a cuppa.” Greg went to the kitchen, all the while racking his brain for what it was about Mycroft and travelling that he was forgetting. When he came back and settled down, Mycroft was nowhere to be seen on the skype window.

“Mycroft?” he said, somewhat alarmed. Mycroft ducked back into screen; he looked harried and Greg frowned. “You alright?”

“I’m fi-ihhne.” He didn’t miss the breathy inhalation, and was about to say something when Mycroft steepled his hands over his face and leaned back out of frame with a barely audible “NNNGGSHH!”

In a flash, Greg remembered; an offhand remark from Mycroft, months ago, about always managing to get ill when travelling for work. “I don’t know if it’s perhaps the flight or stress or the change in environment, but I could count on one hand the times I have not fallen victim to something or other whilst away; it’s most inconvenient,” he had said, watching Greg pack for a weekend team building exercise in Cornwall.

He watched with a sinking feeling as Mycroft, leaning away from the webcam, tended to his nose with a tissue. By now he was well versed with his partner’s immune system – or the lack of it. He fell prey to every sniffle and cough that went around, and head colds tended to linger for days. Part of it was Mycroft’s insistence on working through illnesses; part of it was just natural misfortune that left him sneezing long after he should have shaken it off. After a particularly bad cold that had descended in bronchitis, Greg kept a close eye on Mycroft whenever he started to look a bit peaky. Living with him made it easier to slow him down and make sure he got some rest; not being with him now made Greg uneasy.

“Bless you,” he said, as Mycroft surfaced from the tissue. “I just remembered what you said about traveling. Why didn’t you say you were ill?”

Mycroft’s posture became less rigid, and he rubbed a hand across his face as if he could wipe away some of the weariness. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Should I be worried?” Greg watched him carefully; Mycroft looked drawn and, under Greg’s scrutiny, reached out of frame and pulled a tissue box towards him. He noticed, for the first time, Mycroft’s ever present bottle of hand sanitizer at his elbow.

“No. Well, probably not. It’s simply some virus or other; these types of things tend to be incubators for all sorts. Do excuse me.” He blew his nose, softly, and then smothered a yawn behind a hand.

“Hmmm. How are you really, then?” Greg chewed his lip.

“Really. I’m just a little heady at the moment – I’m not sleeping terribly well, but that may be more to do with being aw –hh!ahhh!-away. You’ll have to excuse me ag-hhhhh!” Mycroft twisted away from the camera and, after a few panting, strained breaths, whipped a tissue over his face and crumpled forwards. “NNNGGGSSSCHOOO! NNGSH! HhehRRRRSSSCHOOO!”

“Bless you,” said Greg, shaking his head – the sneezes sounded harder, somehow throatier and wetter than Mycroft’s normal ones, as though they came from somewhere heavy in his sinuses. “You seriously don’t sound well, Mycroft.”

Mycroft gave a long sigh. “I don’t feel it,” he said, which tantamount to him admitting that he was on his death bed. “I’ve got rather a persistent headache and I’m not entirely sure if the heating keeps fluctuating or if I may be developing a temperature.” He shivered; if Greg hadn’t been watching him so closely, he wouldn’t have noticed.

“Sounds like you’ve got a touch of the flu,” Greg said, wishing he was there. Or, even better, Mycroft was home and in bed with him.

Mycroft nodded wearily in concession. “I’m afraid I might. A few more days and I’ll be back, though, so I should be able to avoid the worst of it until I’ve returned home.”

They both sipped their tea; Germany seemed very far away and Greg wanted more than anything to wrap Mycroft up in his arms and a blanket and not let him go. He knew about work pressures; knew about late nights and long hours and relentless floods of information. But he didn’t have the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. And Mycroft did, and that was the difference, and Greg worried that one day he wouldn’t be able to stop him from collapsing.

“You’re not with me,” Mycroft said, referring to Greg’s wandering mind. “Where are you?”

Greg swallowed. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll be home soon – I’ll make a batch of that soup you like.”

“That would be very kind.” Mycroft closed his eyes briefly.

“I can let you go if you’re tired.” Greg ached with not being there.

“I – would you mind terribly if I went and lay down? I’m a little…” Mycroft trailed off, waving his hand in a vague sort of gesture that spoke of a wealth of exhaustion.

“Course not. D’you want me to stay on?” Greg watched as Mycroft carried the laptop and placed it on the bedside table. He could hear a damp, rustling cough as he got changed, then he came back into frame as he stretched out on top of the covers.

“Please. I’m not likely to sleep.” Mycroft propped himself up against the pillows and looked at Greg with too-bright, heavy-lidded eyes.

“Are you going to be OK finishing this thing? If you’re running a temperature?”

“Nothing concrete is being decided this week; it’s simply the preliminaries. Anthea will assist in anything I need to do. She’s been a dear,” he added, unexpectedly – Mycroft’s emotional range was often limited, even with people he was genuinely fond of.

“Good. Tell her I said hi.” Greg made a mental note to text her and ask her to keep a close eye on Mycroft – he assumed she would already be relieving his workload.

“I will.” Mycroft’s breath fluttered again and, rolling onto his back slightly, grabbed a handful of tissues. Greg winced as he watched Mycroft’s nose crinkle in profile, the bridge scrunching up before being covered by the tissues in a shuddery “hhheh!GNNSCCHHOO! ehhrRRSCH! HehhhISHHT!”

“Bless you.” Greg sighed as Mycroft paused for a second in the aftermath, recovering his breath with a heave of his chest. The sneezes seemed to be sapping him of what little energy he’d had – he dreaded to think of what it would be like when Mycroft succumbed fully to one of his notorious fits. He only hoped the worst parts of the flu would hold off until Mycroft got home.

Mycroft turned his head on the pillow to look back at the screen. “Thank you. Apologies.” He sounded hoarse and dazed; Greg wanted more than anything to reach out and touch him, even if it was just to stroke his hair back and kiss his forehead.

“Try and get some sleep, yeah? You’re going to need it.”

“I know. Could you stay on? While I fall asleep?” Mycroft sounded hesitant – Greg wondered just how bad he must be feeling to make such a request.

“God. Of course. I really wish I was there.”

Mycroft made a low humming noise and closed his eyes, pulling the duvet around himself.

“Or you were here. Just hold out for a few more days, alright? Try and eat something. Don’t work yourself too hard. I love you. I’ll call you tomorrow night, OK?”

“Alright,” Mycroft murmured, “I love you. As well.”

“I know.” It was physically painful. “I love you. Night – I’ll be here until I go to bed.”

Mycroft drifted off, restless and shivering, and Greg watched the rise and fall of his chest and listened to his snuffly, hoarse breathing with concern mounting in his chest.

He grabbed his phone, and texted a familiar number – Keep an eye on him, will you?

The reply came within seconds. – I always do.

And even though he knew Anthea was perfectly capable and would do anything for Mycroft, it didn’t make him feel much better.

[cally]

Yeah, so, I love everyone's headcanon that Mycroft gets sick while travelling so, being me, I wrote 10,000-ish words of pure self indulgence about it. Enjoy.

Oh yes, please.

Greg worried that one day he wouldn’t be able to stop him from collapsing.

BRB SOBBING

“I know. Could you stay on? While I fall asleep?” Mycroft sounded hesitant – Greg wondered just how bad he must be feeling to make such a request.

More weeping and rending of garments.

The poor thing sounds so wretched. Mycroft's sneezes even sound unlike him. I want to wrap him up in a duvet and snuggle him better. As always all of your descriptions are lush and perfect and I'd have to quote the entire story to even make a dent in how artfully creative and well created this is. I am so, so pleased to see more of your work posted, as always I do love it!

(Also pre-emptively seconding everything Spoo says, as she is far more eloquent in these things than I am, I fear)

[AngelEyes]

I'm Soooo happy to see you back! I've missed you!

In a strange place, surrounded by people and noise and uncontrollable situations, Greg worried even more.

Awwww. Poor baby.

I love how concerned and caring Greg is. So protective.

They both sipped their tea; Germany seemed very far away and Greg wanted more than anything to wrap Mycroft up in his arms and a blanket and not let him go. He knew about work pressures; knew about late nights and long hours and relentless floods of information. But he didn’t have the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. And Mycroft did, and that was the difference, and Greg worried that one day he wouldn’t be able to stop him from collapsing.

Excuse me while I go cry, this is so sweet and sad!

I love how Mycroft wants Greg to stay on with him while he falls asleep. Sweet.

Also, I'm with Cally, agreeing with Spoo's breakdown!

[Spoo]

If I possessed the ability (and flexibility) to do a backflip I would have done TEN upon seeing this lovely new story on the fanfiction board~ It's so great to have you back, bangbang! I'll admit I was getting a little anxious that you'd disappeared 5ever (that's longer than 4ever, you see ) but dude, way to come back with what's bound to be a heartwrenching story. I already have a LOT OF FEELINGS OKAY.

1. They're Skyping. THEY ARE SKYPING. Like, do you even understand how ADORABLE that is?? Ughhhh, I can't even handle it. I'm totally picturing Greg trying to work Skype and not knowing what the hell he's doing. Mycroft probably installed it for him, because otherwise Greg would be like HOW DO THE FACE TALKY ON THE SCREENY.
   
2. Greg worrying about Mycroft's sensory issues is just . It's different when Mycroft is home, where they can both monitor and soothe the tics, but Mycroft is in another country. There's all sorts of things that can trigger Mycroft there, and poor Greg can't do a thing about it. He's 100% justified in being concerned.
   
3. Oh God, Greg waking up by himself in an empty bed without Mycroft being there, and then feeling lonely because his boyfriend is gone for a week is heartbreaking! It just goes to show how deeply imbedded they've become in one another's lives, as well as how dependent they are on each other's general presence. *ugly crying*
   
4. Okay, Greg trying to remember the offhanded comment that Mycroft made is brilliant. I already envision Greg as the type of person who often forgets something and then picks his brain trying to remember, only for it to come shooting back and make him go 'AH-HAH, that's what it was!'.
   
5. Steepled hands to catch sneezes, um YESPLZ. Mark Gatiss Mycroft has gorgeous hands, and the mental image of said gorgeous hands steepled over his nose and mouth is a beauuuutiful thing.
   
6. Greg being a jittery ball of unease, because he's not with Mycroft and can't take care of him, or make sure that he eats and sleeps properly. Buhhhhh.
   
7. 'I didn't want you to worry.' | 'Should I be worried?'---PERFECT DIALOGUE. SO PERFECT IT HURTS.
   
8. I wholeheartedly agree with cally: Mycroft's sneezes do sound unlike him, which means he's definitely caught something that's going to put him through hell, the poor baby.
   
9. Oh nO. Greg feeling protective and wanting to wrap Mycroft up in his arms and a blanket and just take care of him. *falls on the floor* Go on without me!
   
10. Jesus, I feel exhausted FOR Mycroft just reading through how awful he's feeling, and how fatigued he is with his illness and busy schedule (and it's only been three days since he's left, man).
    
11. Greg staying there while Mycroft falls asleep. I just--no. *wibble*
    
12. FFFFFFF-- GREG SAYING 'I LOVE YOU' TWICE WHY IS THAT SO PRECIOUS??? ....Whelp. I'm officially making whale noises.
    

Like I said up top, I have a lot of feelings for what you have going on here. As eager as I am to see how Mycroft's terrible flu progresses, I'm equally hesitant and sad for Greg, because now that he knows that his beau is sick he's gonna be on edge and more than likely unfocused until Mycroft's come back to him.

[matilda3948]

YAY!!! A new story from you! :) So happy!!

The other folks have done an awesome job pointing much of the amazingness, but I had to add this:

“You’re not with me,” Mycroft said, referring to Greg’s wandering mind. “Where are you?”

I don't know why, but I just loved this little line.

Literally can't wait for more.

[bangbang]

Yay! I am so happy I actually have, you know, free time now. Doing things is sickening.

Cally - I know, poor Mycroft's sneezes are so intense he can barely even stifle. He's sooo sick.

AngelEyes - Mycroft's insomnia is getting the better of him. He can't sleep alone! He needs his boo!

Spoo - ILU. Mycroft is totally exhausted and Greg is worried and they are both in for a horrible time.

Matilda - Awww, thank you! I figure Mycroft can tell when Greg's wandering, even over Skype.

PART 2

Mycroft sipped his coffee, wincing as the hot liquid trickled down his sore throat. He’d declined anything more substantial at breakfast; his appetite had seemingly vanished. Although hardly overnight – he’d felt himself pick at his food for several weeks before the trip, pushing it around his plate to avoid Greg’s worried glances. He missed his partner to a level that was rather disconcerting; he told himself it was a combination of a strange place and coming down with something, but being away from Greg was completely miserable.

He was brought abruptly from his musing by everyone standing; he pushed himself to his feet, wishing he had his umbrella for support. A rush of blood to the head left him with dancing black spots in front of his vision and a dull roar of vertigo. He swallowed, hard, tasting the metallic tang of illness in the back of his throat.

The room was much too hot; he cast his eyes around for a window as the speaker droned on and everyone settled back down in their seats. He could see snowfall outside, white flakes drifting like static. He closed his eyes to calm the pounding of his head.

Anthea was attending a meeting down the corridor; they’d decided to split up to cover as much ground as possible, and he was now deeply regretting this decision. He could feel his breathing become shallower, less controlled, and bit his lip. Usually he was able to exercise some restraint over his sneezes; however, this flu left him feeling so wrung out that he could barely lift a tissue to his nose.

Nevertheless, sneezing in a conference wasn’t something he was prepared to do; it would have been fine had he been able, like Greg, to expel a single sneeze and be done with it. But his prolonged attacks were just humiliating and disruptive and exhausting, and each of his limbs felt as if they were cast in cement.

He felt the tickle build, and pressed a clenched finger briefly under his nostrils to quell it. It didn’t work; in fact, the touch only increased his need, and he pinched his nose and let out a fiercely controlled “hhnghhh!”

It scraped his throat to contain it, but thankfully he had gone unnoticed. He took a deep, quivering breath and buried his nose in his fist, thumb pressing across the bridge as though it would help.

It didn’t.

“hhhhNNGGHH!” He pulled the travel pack of tissues from his jacket pocket and deftly flicked them open while choking off another sneeze with his other hand. “hhNNGCH!”

He knew Greg disapproved of how much he stifled his sneezes, but he really had no other option, even if his eardrums and sinuses did have a quick spike of pain with each one. He snuffled rather pathetically into the tissue and shivered. The overheating had turned into a cold sweat breaking out along the back of his neck, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed.

Everyone stood up, and Mycroft realised that they were abandoning the lecture style room for a conference one; sitting around a long table would make it much easier for everyone to scrutinise each other. Mycroft normally welcomed such arrangements – it gave him a chance to demonstrate his intimidation skills – but today he would rather not come under close observation.

He held back and ducked into a private bathroom, folding a travel tissue around his twitching nostrils just in time for a flurry of sneezes he most decidedly could not restrain.

“IIHHNNG—SSHHHOO! HehhRRRSSSHH! ISHOOO!HH—hhh!HNSSHHH!heh-ISH!”

He clutched the edge of the sink when he was done, trying to ignore the spinning in his head. He gave his nose a tentative blow and washed his hands, methodically rubbing the liquid soap in between his fingers and trying to ignore the little voice in his head that told him they still weren’t clean. He applied his customary sanitizer, dried them on a paper towel; then straightened his shoulders and went out to continue his meetings.

[cally]

but being away from Greg was completely miserable.

once again SOBBING BRB

Nevertheless, sneezing in a conference wasn’t something he was prepared to do; it would have been fine had he been able, like Greg, to expel a single sneeze and be done with it. But his prolonged attacks were just humiliating and disruptive and exhausting, and each of his limbs felt as if they were cast in cement.

Part of me agrees, understanding the need to not be disruptive. I can see that from Mycroft's point of view. Part of me thinks he should say screw it and give in; this way he can go back to his bed. Or Gregory. Either or. Although flying with his sinuses like that may not be the best of ideas. However, this being Mycroft, he's going to be a stubborn bastard and suffer needlessly.

Everyone stood up, and Mycroft realised that they were abandoning the lecture style room for a conference one; sitting around a long table would make it much easier for everyone to scrutinise each other. Mycroft normally welcomed such arrangements – it gave him a chance to demonstrate his intimidation skills – but today he would rather not come under close observation.

poor thing is so wrung out he isn't even paying attention to what is going on

He clutched the edge of the sink when he was done, trying to ignore the spinning in his head. He gave his nose a tentative blow and washed his hands, methodically rubbing the liquid soap in between his fingers and trying to ignore the little voice in his head that told him they still weren’t clean. He applied his customary sanitizer, dried them on a paper towel; then straightened his shoulders and went out to continue his meetings.

I have too many feelings about this paragraph. He's so ill and dizzy which is worrying. He's on the verge of losing his cool not to mention the obsessive thoughts. And he's going back to a meeting. I hope Anthea is standing outside that door with tissues, hot tea, and map toward his bed.

[ID2006]

Love him having to sneeze in a conference room.

[AngelEyes]

Poor sweet baby. So alone and miserable. I love that he is slightly concerned about how attached he's become to Greg. Makes it very realistic.

[Spoo]

Oh no, Mycroft is just miserable and you're doing a fantastic job of showing us that. I feel a little better knowing that Greg is going to eventually take care of him, but for now my heart is aching for this poor, poor man.

1. Mycroft missing Greg is just as 'ajsdlfkaslasjdfls' as Greg missing Mycroft is. The BABIES. Screw this Germany conference, man. These two need to be back in each other's arms ASAP.
   
2. The 'metallic tang of illness' is such a powerful, relatable description. Like, I could definitely taste it in my mouth. Blegh!
   
3. Of course it's snowing when Mycroft is ill. I hope, for his sake, his outings will be limited. He's already so fragile.
   
4. Okay, fumbling for tissues while already sneezing is like one of my HUGE fetish things. It's more or less desperation + desperation and that's just .
   
5. Buhhh. Mycroft thinking about Greg disapproving of his stifles, even when Greg isn't there. Why is that giving me sad feels??
   
6. '…a long table would make it much easier to scrutinise each other.' | '…it gave him a chance to demonstrate his intimidation skills'--- SO FUNNY, OMG. I'm picturing all of these suited men staring at one another like 'I AM IMPORTANT, FEAR ME'.
   
7. Bathroom sneezes. Yesyesyes.
   
8. Methodical hand-washing is so Mycroft. I bet he has a specific numbers of times he rubs his hands together. Also loved the mental voice telling him his hands still weren't clean.
   
9. Noooooo. Don't continue your meetings, bb. Go back to your suite and get some reeeest.
   

It's exactly like Mycroft to work through his illness, even if all he's doing is sitting in on meetings (that's actually a counterargument I can see him using with Greg - how all he did was sit and listen, so he's technically NOT overexerting himself [LIES, I SAY!]). Nevertheless, he's distinctly unwell and needs to suck it up and lie down before all of us mother hens lose our minds.

This story rocks!

[bangbang]

However, this being Mycroft, he's going to be a stubborn bastard and suffer needlessly.

You know it. Nothing short of a complete collapse would convince him to call it a day.

Love him having to sneeze in a conference room.

He is tormented. Poor bb.

I love that he is slightly concerned about how attached he's become to Greg.

Hahahahah! Yes, he is just so confused and a little wary about the idea that he's reliant on another person. The Ice Man thaws!

I hope, for his sake, his outings will be limited. He's already so fragile.

All that snow...

fumbling for tissues while already sneezing is like one of my HUGE fetish things. It's more or less desperation + desperation and that's just .

I KNOW. I love the mad scramble for tissues on the edge of a sneeze/in the middle of a fit. EESH.

Thank you all for your lovely comments! I cherish them like Greg cherishes Mycroft and Mycroft cherishes Lemsip.

PART 3

Greg had been hanging around nervously on Skype for about an hour after the arranged time before Mycroft flashed up. He accepted the call and watched as his partner came into view.

“I’m sorry it’s so late.” Mycroft looked exhausted, and was already in pyjamas and a dressing gown. He always looked so much younger when out of the suits – smaller and more vulnerable. He had his knees brought up to his chest and appeared to be sitting on the bed. “There was an emergency - my presence was required for some rather tense negotiations and I couldn't get away sooner.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Greg bit his lip. “How are you feeling?”

“Alright,” Mycroft said, half-heartedly, and then, seeing Greg’s frown, sighed. “It’s not unbearable yet. It’s rather definitely the flu though. I detest these things – too much hand-shaking. All it takes is one unhygienic minister with a sick child.” He seemed to pull himself together, with an effort. “How was your day?”

“Yeah, it was OK.” He told Mycroft about Sherlock “accidentally” releasing a hive of bees in the office, causing Anderson to lock himself in the storage cupboard in terror, and managed to elicit a small smile. “How’s yours been?”

“Long. Tedious. Tiring.” Mycroft abruptly turned his neck so his face was ducked into his shoulder and raised his forearm to shield it, head bobbing forwards in an almost silent stifle. “NNGH!”

“Bless you,” Greg said, and Mycroft managed a breathy thanks before dipping forward again.

“HHNNGGH!—hhh!NGCH! hehh---NGSSHHH!”

He straightened, then fished in his dressing gown pocket and pulled out a tissue. “Do excuse me,” he said, sounding congested, and Greg shook his head.

“Don’t stifle them so hard. It won’t help. You know it won’t.”

“Yes, I know,” Mycroft said, his voice slightly on edge, “but I can hardly sit coughing and snivelling my way through a meeting, can I?”

“Not with me, then. Have you even stopped for a breather today? Have you even eaten?” Greg was inexplicably angry – he knew that self-care was a foreign concept to Mycroft, but the fact that he was completely disregarding his health was infuriating. At his last question, Mycroft’s face went blank and frosty and he already knew the answer.

“Do forgive me,” Mycroft said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “for putting the needs of the country –several countries, in fact – above my own. How awful of me, to use this conference for its intended meaning.”

Greg opened his mouth to retaliate, then closed it again. “Fine then,” he said, coldly, “I won’t keep you any longer. Sure you’ve got more important things to do than talk to the likes of me.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Mycroft snapped, and Greg gave a hollow peal of laughter.

“Is that what I am? Always wondered what you really -”

He stopped, as Mycroft abruptly rose from the bed and disappeared out of frame. He left the silence hanging for a moment; and then, in the distance, he could hear a wracking, muffled cough.

Shit. He felt his anger fade away. His temper was something he’d been trying to work on most of his adult life – a short fuse didn’t normally mix with police work. Or with a relationship. He and Mycroft had managed to keep it mainly to the occasional burst of sniping in the year they’d cohabited; which was usually fine because Mycroft gave as good as he got (with a layer of added chill - he wasn’t called the Ice Man for nothing.)

But now, with Mycroft a landmass away, suffering with what was gearing up to be an absolutely horrible bout of flu, it just wasn’t a fair fight. Greg looked at the pillows on screen and felt ashamed of himself.

“Mycroft?” he called, trying to hone in on the other side – he could still vaguely hear the coughing. “Can you come back a minute?”

He sat on tenterhooks for about five minutes, and then Mycroft shuffled back into frame and all but collapsed on the bed, giving another sharp cough as he did so. He didn’t look at Greg.

“Mycroft.” He looked up; Greg could just about make out dampened eyes from the strength of his coughing fit, and felt something twist inside him. “I’m sorry.”

Mycroft gave a tiny, imperceptible shrug. “I’m sorry too.”

“Don’t be. I’m being a dick; you’re just not well. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” Mycroft gave a tight little nod, and there was hurt in every line of his posture. Greg almost wanted to cry. “Mycroft – I’m just worried about you. And I miss you. I want to be there so I can fetch you tissues and tea and rub your back and make sure you’re eating, and it really upsets me that I’m not.” He swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat. “I love you. You know that, right?”

Mycroft looked down at his lap, and Greg was about to say something else, when Mycroft snatched a tissue and pitched forwards into it. “IIINNGGSSCHHOO! Hheh-rTTSSSSHHH! Hh!hhheh!---NGSHHH!”

“Bless you,” Greg said softly, watching Mycroft carefully in the aftermath. He straightened, dabbing at his nose, and swiped at his eyes impatiently, then sprayed an alarming amount of sanitising gel onto his hands and rubbed it in. Greg winced. The sanitiser was another one of his quirks that sometimes went too far – he had been known to rub his hands raw with it in an attempt to limit an infection.

“I know. I love you too. But you really must trust that I’m doing what needs to be done.”

“For the country, maybe. Not for yourself.”

“That can’t be helped. Three more days,” he said, and it had the tone of a mantra he had been repeating. “Three more days, and I’ll be back.”

“And then you’ve got to promise me you’re going to take a break until you’ve shaken this off.”

“I will.” Mycroft looked utterly fatigued. “Do you mind staying on with me again?”

“Not at all. Wish there was more I could do.” Greg watched as Mycroft rearranged the laptop and burrowed under the duvet. They stayed that way for several hours; Greg flicked through paperwork as Mycroft shifted and snuffled, offering the occasional “Bless you,” and wanting more than anything to wrap his arms around his partner.

Mycroft eventually drifted off into an uneasy, feverish doze, and Greg went to bed himself. It took him a while to fall asleep.

[cally]

“I know. I love you too. But you really must trust that I’m doing what needs to be done.”

“For the country, maybe. Not for yourself.”

“That can’t be helped. Three more days,” he said, and it had the tone of a mantra he had been repeating. “Three more days, and I’ll be back.”

This part just made me so, so sad for some reason.

They stayed that way for several hours; Greg flicked through paperwork as Mycroft shifted and snuffled, offering the occasional “Bless you,” and wanting more than anything to wrap his arms around his partner.

Gregory, you either need to collude with Anthea to get Mycroft home, or you need to buy a plane ticket and go to him. Because you both are breaking my heart here.

[Spoo]

See, there was already a nervous/uneasy tone starting this part off, so I was kinda anticipating that something would happen. I wasn't wrong (even though I kinda wish I was, because oH NOOOOO). But before I even get to that…

1. Oh God. Greg being on Skype an hour after their intended call time makes ME jittery, man. I bet he was all sorts of anxious - knee bouncing, frequently changing positions along the sofa, mentally telling himself that Mycroft was STILL going to ring him. *sobs*
   
2. Mycroft sitting on his bed with his knees brought up to his chest is a really adorable mental image?? Especially because his legs go on for miles, and just awww.
   
3. These damn unhygienic ministers with their sick kids. Gettin' people with shoddy immune systems sick as well. RUDE.
   
4. OMFG SHERLOCK. I would have fled, too! Better yet, I would have dropkicked Anderson out of the way and taken his hiding place. (Though, thinking about it now I can see the bees release making its way onto the news that evening, and John watching from 221B going WTF).
   
5. But Greeeeg. Mycroft thinks about you when he stifles; he can hear your voice telling him NOT TO stifle. He's just been doing it all day in his meetings, so he's still in the habit (not that he'll never not be when in public).
   
6. No. Nononono. YOU TWO STOP THAT BEFORE---Ice Man Defense Mode Activated. Whelp. There goes that.
   
7. Looks like the Skype Spat 2014™ is in full swing. It was bound to happen at some point, I suppose. I can definitely see both sides of the argument, but it isn't always easy for them to see right away (doesn't help that Greg's a humanized firecracker and Mycroft's icy walls are tall and damn-near impenetrable).
   
8. Oh, but I do enjoy how Greg's been trying to work on his temper during most of his ADULT life. Nevermind when he was a teenager or young adult, because I can only imagine how much trouble his temper got him into. Yeesh!
   
9. I really do love that Mycroft doesn't tolerate Greg's snark without retaliating. It's a pet peeve of mine when I read fics on other websites where Greg yells at Mycroft and Mycroft just shrinks and turns into this sad, sad woobie. It's like, dude. Do you KNOW who this man is? He's not afraid or intimidated by a raised voice or huffy policeman.
   
10. Eeeek. Exchanging apologies (guilty apologies for Greg). alksasldkf;lsdf--'hurt in every line of his posture'--'Greg almost wanted to cry.'--UM EXCUSE ME, I ALMOST WANT TO CRY.
    
11. I can totally envision Mycroft overdoing it with hand sanitizer, if only because his brain is telling him that it's absolutely necessary, and that he must use X amount X times an hour to kill the germs/limit an infection.
    
12. Good. They're compromising. *approving nod*
    
13. I can't EVEN with Greg staying on while Mycroft goes to bed (or tries to, the poor thing). My warm fuzzies are out of control! But awww, looks like they're both in it for a fitful sleep.
    

You're pulling too many heartstrings, and you should be ashamed of yourself! …But you're not ashamed, are you? YOU ENJOY DOING THIS TO YOUR READERS, DON'T YOU? *AGGRESSIVE STARE* Buuuut it's all good, because we love this gorgeous piece of beautifully detailed writing, and you, and especially what you're doing to poor Mycroft (even if it hurts our hearts)~

[AngelEyes]

So much feels! I love Greg losing his temper about Mycroft not taking care of himself, because Seriously Mycroft! And Mycroft all huffy and hurt because he feels awful and now his Greg is upset with him. And Greg immediately realizing this. And Mycroft just repeatedly telling himself, three more days. Just focus on that. That's when you can be back with Greg and he will make everything ok again. Awwwwww!!!!!

[SneezyRae]

Oh my goodness. Poor poor Mycroft so far from his beloved Gregory and so in need of a loving caring partner. There is no way he will get better without Greg. You van tell Greg is so frustrated and probably wants to just hop on a plane to take care of Mycroft properly with tea and soup and cold cloths

[matilda3948]

Oh, this is so sweet and tender! I really love your attention to Mycroft's behavioral tics. It adds a whole extra layer of complexity.

[bangbang]

Gregory, you either need to collude with Anthea to get Mycroft home, or you need to buy a plane ticket and go to him. Because you both are breaking my heart here.

*innocent whistle*... But the conference isn't over yet, Cally!

But Greeeeg. Mycroft thinks about you when he stifles; he can hear your voice telling him NOT TO stifle. He's just been doing it all day in his meetings, so he's still in the habit (not that he'll never not be when in public).

I KNOW. Mycroft is trying to take on board all Greg's suggestions and he KNOWS it only makes his headache worse but he's in that mindset of stifling and restraint. Let the Skype Spat commence!

I can totally envision Mycroft overdoing it with hand sanitizer, if only because his brain is telling him that it's absolutely necessary, and that he must use X amount X times an hour to kill the germs/limit an infection.

You are exactly right! He always tells himself that maybe if he uses it enough he won't get ill, and if he does then the illness will be shorter, and he just gets more and more fixated on it as he gets more feverish and miserable.

You're pulling too many heartstrings, and you should be ashamed of yourself! …But you're not ashamed, are you? YOU ENJOY DOING THIS TO YOUR READERS, DON'T YOU? *AGGRESSIVE STARE*

*hairflip* sorrynotsorry

And Mycroft all huffy and hurt because he feels awful and now his Greg is upset with him. And Greg immediately realizing this.

Yes! Because Mycroft has been feeling utterly lousy and he just wanted to get on and talk to Greg and feel better. But because he's so fragile he takes even the slightest comment as an offence and he feels bad for worrying Greg anyway, so it's a whole host of everything coming together and they both feel guilty and miserable.

There is no way he will get better without Greg.

100% agree. Mycroft needs someone to slow him down.

I really love your attention to Mycroft's behavioral tics. It adds a whole extra layer of complexity.

Thank you! I try and make it realistic.

You are all darlings and you make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Have some more horrifically ill Mycroft.

PART 4

It was after Mycroft’s third meeting of the day that he felt it. He had risen with the others to make his way out, and then been forced to grab the desk to steady himself through a sudden rush of vertigo.

“Sir?” Anthea hovered at his elbow, arms slightly open, and her stance made it clear that she was preparing to catch him if he fell.

Mycroft blinked through the sudden jangle of headache and nausea and dizziness. Everyone else had filed out of the room, and he let himself sink back into his seat and put his head in his hands.

He felt Anthea lean up against the table and pour a glass of water, which she pressed gently into one of his palms. “Here. Drink this.”

He swallowed it obediently, feeling shaky and feverish and trying to ignore the pain in his abdomen. Once he had drained the glass, Anthea took it back off him, fingertips brushing against his wrist; he was aware of his racing pulse.

He forced his head up. “Excuse me. Stood up too quickly. Shall we?” He made to stand again, and Anthea slipped a hand under his elbow and gently took his file off him.

They progressed down the corridor and into the lift; Mycroft took in his reflection with distaste. His eyes were ringed with dark circles, his skin was a sickly sort of pale, and his nose was reddened, nostrils looking almost inflamed. Even his suit looked ill-fitting – he tugged at his cuff and frowned at how much loose fabric there was there. He made a mental note to visit his tailor; but that thought was lost, as a sudden urgency over took him.

He lowered his head so he didn’t have to see the whole ghastly affair in the mirror; his desperate, creasing nose twitching of its own accord, the nostrils gaping, lips parting, eyelids fluttering closed; instead, he brought a tissue over his nose and mouth and leant away from Anthea with a cringing “hhIINGSH!”

“Bless you, sir.” He could feel her hand hovering over his waist to steady him, and turned his head again as he was caught up in the spikey, almost painful inhalations that led to a fittish sequence. “NNNNGSH! Hhhhh—hhh!-ihhh!NNGGSHH! IIHHH---ISH!--ISH!--ISHH! RRRSHOOO!”

At the last, escaped sneeze, he felt himself flush. “Excuse me,” he said; his knees felt like jelly and he was glad when Anthea curled her arm around his waist a little tighter.

He wasn’t so pleased when the lift stopped and they got out at what was most decidedly not one of the conference floors.

“Anthea,” he said, as she pulled him towards his room, “what on earth are you doing?”

She looked up at him, all wide-eyed innocence. It could convince any number of spies or ministers or heads of state that she was just an ingénue secretary – Mycroft, on the other hand, had seen her take down four men twice her size without mussing her hair so he wasn’t fooled.

“You have an hour and a half before your next meeting – I thought perhaps you would like to read over the preparations in private.”

He huffed in his throat. “Despite what you and Greg may think, I do not need coddling.”

“Of course not, sir. I’ll come and wake – I mean, fetch you - twenty minutes before the meeting.” She paused. “Shall I order you some room service, sir?”

Mycroft swallowed and shuddered. “That won’t be necessary, thank you.”

“You didn’t have breakfast,” she probed, “and dinner last night was cut short by the meeting.”

“I am quite fine. Thank you.” He gave her a Look, and she simply shrugged, unlocked his door, and strolled down the corridor, tapping away on her phone.

Mycroft sighed, knowing exactly who she was texting. He also knew exactly why she had brought him upstairs, and it wasn’t for last minute revision. A brief nap, he decided, couldn’t hurt, and he lay down on the covers. Just for a second…

Edited October 17, 2014 by bangbang

[AngelEyes]

Awwww. I'm going to cry. Poor dear sweet love. Thank the wonderful Anthea, she's so good to him.

“Bless you, sir.” He could feel her hand hovering over his waist to steady him, and turned his head again as he was caught up in the spikey, almost painful inhalations that led to a fittish sequence. “NNNNGSH! Hhhhh—hhh!-ihhh!NNGGSHH! IIHHH---ISH!--ISH!--ISHH! RRRSHOOO!”

But this, was just plain Hotness. Mmmmm.

[cally]

*innocent whistle*... But the conference isn't over yet, Cally!

I don't care! He's obviously about to work himself into hospital!

They progressed down the corridor and into the lift; Mycroft took in his reflection with distaste. His eyes were ringed with dark circles, his skin was a sickly sort of pale, and his nose was reddened, nostrils looking almost inflamed. Even his suit looked ill-fitting – he tugged at his cuff and frowned at how much loose fabric there was there. He made a mental note to visit his tailor

YES. Because you're ill. Very ill. When's the last time you've eaten, Mycroft? Granted, I understand. I'm sure your stomach is revolting right now because you're ill. However, you are making it worse by *not eating.*

Bless you, sir.” He could feel her hand hovering over his waist to steady him, and turned his head again as he was caught up in the spikey, almost painful inhalations that led to a fittish sequence. “NNNNGSH! Hhhhh—hhh!-ihhh!NNGGSHH! IIHHH---ISH!--ISH!--ISHH! RRRSHOOO!”

Love the descriptions here. Yes, descriptions. Yes.

He huffed in his throat. “Despite what you and Greg may think, I do not need coddling.”

YES YOU DO!

Mycroft sighed, knowing exactly who she was texting.

I hope she's booking a plane ticket as well. (Not for her, obviously. Does Anthea get hazard pay? Did we ever determine that? )

He also knew exactly why she had brought him upstairs, and it wasn’t for last minute revision. A brief nap, he decided, couldn’t hurt, and he lay down on the covers. Just for a second…

Yes, sleep. Please. You need the rest. Poor lamb.

[Spoo]

I think everyone already knows this, but I just gotta say: Anthea and Mycroft are my BrOTP. Just like Sally and Greg. They have this beautiful relationship, and there's so much trust there. So you can imagine how many FEELS this part gave me.

1. Anthea being ready to physically catch Mycroft is so important. So, SO important. She's literally got his back, and I want to cry from all the stupid!happiness it gives me.
   
2. I make a tiny, shrill noise whenever Mycroft puts his head in his hands because tHE POOR THING OMG IT ISN'T FAAAIR.
   
3. I adore how gentle Anthea is with Mycroft, and how when she touches him it's light, respectful brushes of her fingers, which are also genuine and indicative that she's truly there for him.
   
4. Red nose, inflamed nostrils… I see no 'distasteful' image here. Just sayin'.
   
5. Buhhh, Mycroft not wanting to see himself descend into a sneezing fit because it's unattractive and embarrassing and ajlksd;asdfsdf.
   
6. Fittish sequence indeed! This might sound incredibly silly, but I always count his sneezes.
   
7. HAH! Look at Anthea with her own agenda. She is one cool chick, man.
   
8. Pshhhh. You need ALL the coddling, Mycroft. You stubborn baby.
   
9. Uhhh-ohhh. Mycroft gave Anthea a Look. Pfff, loved how she wasn't scared or anything. She's just like "meh, laterz".
   
10. D'awww. Nightnight, Myc! …wait. Is he going to sleep through his meeting?? THAT 'just for a second…' IS VERY CONCERNING.
    

How is it that I'm already so into this story and you've barely just started? Like seriously! Your writing is always engaging and wonderful, and the way you torture Mycroft is an art. Yup, an ART.

[bangbang]

Angel Eyes - Anthea is a badass. Mycroft would be nothing without her.

Cally - Mycroft, work himself into hospital? Such a thing has never occurred, according to him; Anthea could tell quite a different story. And yes, he's like bewildered by the fact that his suits don't fit while ignoring the fact that he's entirely neglecting to eat. Not that he feels very much like it at the moment...

Spoo - Anthea knows how to handle Mycroft, which is firmly but very gently, especially when he's like this. She knows he's not into physical contact but she can also tell when he's dead on his feet; which he definitely is now. And dawww, poor Mycroft is just so self-conscious about the lack of control he has over his build ups and fits. (I always count the sneezes too!)

Thank you all for reading, it means a lot that you're still enjoying this!

PART 5

Not eating. Seems unfocused. Slept this afternoon. Talk to him?

Greg had been poring over Anthea’s text all day, waiting nervously for their Skype session that evening. He didn’t want to nag Mycroft, especially not when he was ill, and he had no desire for another argument – but there was a rising wave of worry and he was afraid that if Anthea couldn’t convince him to eat anything, he wouldn’t have much luck either.

They’d made idle small talk for the first few minutes – Mycroft’s hotel room was dim, and Greg remembered that he often lowered the lights when he had one of his headaches. He could still see how peaky Mycroft looked, with a slouching posture and a box of tissues on his lap.

He raised the issue halfway through. “I asked Anthea how you were doing today, and she said you hadn’t had much of an appetite.”

He’d tried to sound casual – however, Mycroft froze with a tissue halfway to his nose and looked at him warily.

“I’m not checking up on you – I trust you. But I am worried. Tell me how you are.”

Mycroft folded the tissue around his nose and made a small snuffling noise before crunching his shoulders in on each other with a vicious sneeze.

“hhh----ISHHOO!” At least he wasn’t stifling in front of Greg anymore he thought, sadly, as Mycroft sneezed another five times in quick succession. “HHH-RRSHHOO! ISH—hh!----ISH! HhhehRRSSHHOOO! Hhhhehhh----tttRSSCH!”

Greg let him tend to his nose for a minute, then said, “Bless you. Are you just not hungry?”

Mycroft looked up at him tiredly and pressed his wrist against his nose as if he wasn’t quite confident he was finished sneezing. “No. Not really.” He started to rub his antibacterial gel into his hands, avoiding Greg’s eyes.

“Do you think it’s the flu?” Greg pushed gently.

“Probably.” Mycroft sniffled. “I feel ill at the thought of it. And my throat’s rather sore. I’ve been drinking tea.”

“You know it’s important you eat, though. You can’t take ibuprofen or your medication on an empty stomach – you’ll do yourself damage.”

“I know.” Mycroft looked strained and miserable and Greg wondered if he’d pushed too far.

“I don’t want to nag you about it.”

“No. I know. Thank you, though. For your concern.” Mycroft pursed his lips together and rubbed his septum; even on the Skype screen, it looked reddened and sore and Greg imagined that the persistent itch was making itself known again. His thoughts were confirmed as Mycroft drew in a long gasp of air, fumbling for the tissues while he clamped his hand tightly over his nose and mouth.

“hehhhh—INGSSCCHHH!—TSSCH!—TSCH!—RRRTSCH!”

Greg winced at the noise they made without a tissue to muffle them in; they were wet and sudden and somehow less vocalised than Mycroft’s usual sneezes, just a desperate, damp exhale that came equally from the nose and the mouth. Mycroft finally pulled some tissues free and turned away from the screen to clean himself up, mumbling a tired, humiliated apology that made Greg shake his head.

“Bless you.” He wanted to say something about how terrible Mycroft sounded, how worried he was, but he didn’t want to upset his partner - not when he seemed so fragile. “Please promise me you’ll have something tomorrow. Some fruit or toast or anything.” Greg regretted volunteering for the late shift the next night – it meant he wouldn’t have a chance to Skype Mycroft or talk to him before he got home.

“I’ll try.” Mycroft looked unsure, which scared Greg more than anything, because Mycroft was always sure about everything.

“Thanks. And then the day after that you’ll be coming home.”

“You cannot imagine how much I’m looking forward to it."

They chatted for a while longer – or at least, Greg blabbered on about his day and Mycroft watched, punctuating his monologue with a question or a cough every so often. He was both chestier and more congested than the night before, breathing with harsh little wheezes and blowing his nose frequently. He seemed tightly wound, and Greg was desperate to get him home so he could relax properly. He set up the laptop on the bedside table again and Greg watched as Mycroft slept, restless and uneasy, before making his own way to his lonely bed.

Edited October 19, 2014 by bangbang

[cally]

“hhh----ISHHOO!” At least he wasn’t stifling in front of Greg anymore he thought, sadly, as Mycroft sneezed another five times in quick succession. “HHH-RRSHHOO! ISH—hh!----ISH! HhhehRRSSHHOOO! Hhhhehhh----tttRSSCH!”

Oh dear. Mycroft sounds simply terrible. And completely not himself in the least. I'm beginning to think he's homesick, homesick for Gregory.

He started to rub his antibacterial gel into his hands, avoiding Greg’s eyes.

Mycroft, you're aware that antibac gel isn't really going to help you at this point, right? I think you're beyond that, sadly. I understand why, but it isn't like it can help.

“I’ll try.” Mycroft looked unsure, which scared Greg more than anything, because Mycroft was always sure about everything.

I'm worried about Mycroft, and this isn't even real. That is how real this is to me.

[ID2006]

Poor Mycroft... and Greg. Can't wait for some caretaking mush.

[matilda3948]

His thoughts were confirmed as Mycroft drew in a long gasp of air, fumbling for the tissues while he clamped his hand tightly over his nose and mouth.

“hehhhh—INGSSCCHHH!—TSSCH!—TSCH!—RRRTSCH!”

Greg winced at the noise they made without a tissue to muffle them in; they were wet and sudden and somehow less vocalised than Mycroft’s usual sneezes, just a desperate, damp exhale that came equally from the nose and the mouth. Mycroft finally pulled some tissues free and turned away from the screen to clean himself up, mumbling a tired, humiliated apology that made Greg shake his head.

Poor thing! This whole section melted me. I love the angsty buildup to the inevitable sweetness. Such a good hurt!!

[Spoo]

Of COURSE we're still enjoying this, silly! I mean, how could we not? It's well-written Mystrade with a terribly ill Mycroft and a terribly worried Greg. What's not to enjoy, AMIRITE. That being said…

1. Concerned!Greg tugs at my heartstrings. Especially since he finds Mycroft's lack of appetite so ridiculously distressing (as it truly is!).
   
2. 'One of his headaches', implying that Mycroft is prone to headaches and suffers from them occasionally. Knowing what he deals with and does for a living, it makes perfect sense. It's still sad, though!
   
3. I really love Mycroft freezing with a tissue halfway up to his nose while sporting a wary look on his face. Like, I can totally create that image in my head. And then how Greg immediately defends himself because he's like CRAPCRAPCRAP DON'T TAKE IT THAT WAY. Buhh, he wants to be so careful with his bb.
   
4. Good. I'm glad Mycroft isn't stifling in front of Greg anymore. *AGGRESSIVE NOD*
   
5. Um, Mycroft's wrist should always touch his nose. It's veryvery desirable.
   
6. UGHHH GREG IS TRYING TO BE SO CAREFUL ABOUT THIS TOPIC, AND EVERY TIME MYCROFT SHOWS EVEN THE TINIEST BIT OF EXASPERATION (however mild it may be) GREG IS LIKE SORRY SORRY I DON'T WANT TO NAGGG.
   
7. Oh no. Mycroft not being sure about eating is a scary thought, because he IS always sure of everything.
   
8. See, it would have been fine if you didn't describe Greg's bed as LONELY. Now I'm sobbing all over again.
   

I'm looking forward to Mycroft's homecoming, but at the same time I'm also dreading the possibility of him getting sicker. He still has another full day ahead of him, plus the stress of traveling back to London… Bahhh, hang in there, Mycroft!

Edited October 20, 2014 by Spoo