Berlin (Mystrade, BBC Sherlock)

[AngelEyes]

It's wicked late and I need to sleep but I had to come see this. So I'll just agree with what everybody has previously said so eloquently, as I'm far from eloquent at the moment.

This.

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

[bangbang]

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.

BUT BUT BUT.... Nah, in my head Mycroft has a weird thing about contagion so at this point it's more about disinfecting himself before he touches anything because he would be MORTIFIED if someone caught his cold.

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

Best compliment ever!

Can't wait for some caretaking mush.

How mean would it be if I just left him in Berlin? (Don't worry, he and Greg WILL get to see each other soon.)

I love the angsty buildup to the inevitable sweetness. Such a good hurt!!

My main excuse for writing nothing but angst! Thank you!

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!

Urrrgh he gets stress migraines and his life is nothing but stress. Great career choice, Mycroft!

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.

Greg is honestly the best person of all time. And he is so so wary about upsetting Mycroft right now because Mycroft needs to know he's coming back to someone who loves him to bits.

Um, Mycroft's wrist should always touch his nose. It's veryvery desirable.

Mycroft is all embarrassed about his symptoms and we are eating popcorn and begging him to continue.

So I'll just agree with what everybody has previously said so eloquently, as I'm far from eloquent at the moment.

I feel you bro. Yesterday I spelt my own name wrong in an email.

[bangbang]

Thank you for all your wonderful comments, as always; Mycroft is not having fun in this section.

PART 6

Mycroft tried. He really tried. At breakfast he swore he would eat something, but after crumbling a croissant into pieces hopelessly, he’d given up and forced himself to drink half a cup of coffee instead. He needed the energy and the caffeine – he had slept through two alarms, which was most unlike him, and he felt weak and jittery from tiredness and an overriding fever that was rising by the hour.

The coffee didn’t seem to help, even after he added sugar, and he spent the first few hours of meetings in a miserable limbo, clutching his jacket around him and trying not to shake. He would eat something at lunch, he promised himself.

In between two meetings, he dropped away from the crowd and cloistered himself in the bathroom, feeling the numb, familiar tingle of a fit lurking closely. He leant against the wall and stifled a dozen or so sneezes, silently, his head feeling like an over-inflated balloon.

“ISCH!” The next sneeze tumbled out, and he groaned as he realised that this fit was just too strong to smother into oblivion. In addition, his pack of tissues was running low and he doubted he would have time to meet Anthea or run back up to his room to restock; the idea of asking for some was too mortifying to contemplate. Attempting to conserve them, he pulled off a length of toilet roll and used it to muffle the formless, spraying sneezes that followed. “TSCCCH!- RRRSCHH!—SSSHHOOO!—ISHCH! ISCH!—RRRTTTSCH!”

He grimaced, feeling desperately ill and self-loathing, and blew his nose. The toilet paper was rough along his already-sensitive nostrils and he sniffled spasmodically and made his way back to the meeting.

His morning was filled with tense negotiations that would have been difficult even if he was in full health. As it was, he felt as though he was limping towards the finish line, and when one minister started shouting he had to resist the urge to put his pounding forehead onto the cool table top.

The snow still hadn’t let up, and there was a snake of worry in the pit of his stomach that the flight due to leave tomorrow evening would be delayed and he’d be stuck here, away from home and away from Greg.

“Some scene in there, yes?” drawled a Norwegian, and Mycroft forced a smile that was all set teeth.

“Quite.”

“I have,” said the Norwegian, slipping into a low whisper, “a proposition for you, Mr Holmes.”

Another thing Mycroft loathed about these little get-togethers was the intrigue. Everyone clawing at everyone else for favours and influence and power, and as someone relatively high on the food chain (though he’d deny it, of course) Mycroft was accustomed to being embroiled in their pathetic little attempts at espionage.

Still, the Norwegian was of a surprisingly high level to be bothering with such petty little things, and it was worrying; there was no way he could really brush him off without finding out what he was interested in.

“Somewhere,” the Norwegian said, looking around, “a little more private.”

Which is how Mycroft found himself outside. He knew as well as anyone that the walls had eyes, especially at these things; but he would rather have been scrutinised by every intelligence and terrorist organisation in the world at the moment than spend another second in the damnable snow.

It was akin to torture, and he was only half listening as the Norwegian excitedly outlined the most exceedingly dull – but potentially catastrophic - thing Mycroft had ever heard of. Most of his concentration was focused on trying not to shake. His long coat was quite sufficient even in London’s harshest winters; but the biting wind came right through it, and despite his gloves his fingertips were turning numb. The Norwegian looked disgustingly comfortable in a huge puffa jacket with a furry hood Mycroft couldn’t help but envy.

Mycroft was almost in agony. Every step soaked through his brogues – his socks were uncomfortably wet – and he leant on his umbrella, sure it was the only thing holding him up at this stage. His breath was catching in his chest, icy tendrils of air jabbing at his lungs. His nose was quite another problem; it was contantly streaming at this point, and he dabbed at it whenever the Norwegian wasn’t looking. In addition, he was preoccupied with trying not to let the freezing tingle take over his sinuses.

However, at some point he was forced to submit to the demands of his assaulted nostrils. It crept up on him and he almost didn’t manage to cup his hands over his nose and mouth before giving in. The first three he stifled almost silently, but by that time he was barely upright and his head span, so he had no choice but to simply muffle his next six sneezes.

“hhNGSH!—MMMSH!—GNN-SSHHH! Heh..hehh!RRSH!-RSSH!—ahhNRSCH!”

“Gesundheit, Mr Holmes,” said the Norwegian, and Mycroft swallowed past the congestion and the illness and the overwhelming pounding in his head and give another forced smirk.

“Excuse me. I imagine I’m not quite as used to the snow as you are. Do continue.”

---

Half an hour later, he strode through the lobby, forcing his posture ramrod straight in the hope that his windswept, sodden appearance would go unnoticed. His nose was tickling desperately, and he couldn’t wait to get into his suite and crawl into a hot shower.

Anthea was at his elbow as he pressed the button for the lift, jabbing it impatiently when it didn’t come within seconds. “Where have you been?”

“I would have thought it was obvious,” Mycroft wheezed from between his chattering teeth, but there was no venom in it, and Anthea looked up at him in concern.

She got into the lift with him when it finally came, hovering near him as though she was afraid he would fall. As soon as the doors closed, Mycroft let himself give in to the coughing fit that had been brewing since he had come indoors. It was long and hacking and unpleasant, and he clutched at the sudden pain in his ribs as Anthea gently propelled him out of the lift and towards his room.

He managed to disrobe and fiddled with the dials of the shower before stepping into the steaming water. He almost yelped at the sensation of the warmth hitting his frozen skin, and he could feel himself blinking rapidly in anticipation of the sneezes that lingered on the horizon.

Alone in the shower, over the sound of the water hitting the glass, he let himself relinquish some control and sneezed unrestrained into his hands. It felt miserably good not to have to stifle or hold back; he sneezed, again and again, heavily, and cracked open the cubicle door to reach for the tissues on the cistern. The steam wound into his spasming nostrils, coaxing yet more sneezes out of him; they were loud and desperate and he was helpless to contain them.

“hehRRRSSSCHHOO!—ISH!—heh!hah!heh!RRRSSCHH! hahTSCH!—TSHH!—TSSCHOOO!”

He blew his nose, feeling wrung out and repellent, and stepped out of the shower, feeling every aching muscle in his body protest as he dried himself and redressed in dry clothes.

Anthea was waiting outside his room, looking stern. “Sir -”

“There have been,” Mycroft said, the dry rasp of his voice sounding like sandpaper even to his own ears, “some unexpected developments.” He filled her in on the Norwegian as they went down in the lift and re-joined the group.

---

Lunch was something in a sauce that he didn’t look too closely at. Anthea sat on his left, and even in his fuzzy-headed state he didn’t miss her concerned look as he avoided his plate. He couldn’t imagine anything less appealing than eating right now; between the congestion and the fever he was almost unable to contemplate it.

He managed to eat a few small slices of vegetables, sipping at his water and feeling an unpleasantly damp sensation creep over the back of his neck. When the waiter came to collect plates, he paused at Mycroft, and he waved at him to take it.

Anthea glanced at him askance. “There’s only the Rutgard meeting in the next two hours, and I can go to that alone, if you’d like to spend some time looking over the Moscow figures.”

“Trying to get rid of me?” He tried to keep his tone light, but he was sure she could detect the waver in his voice. He pressed a palm against his throbbing temple.

“There’s a very dishy intern who’ll be there. You’ll cramp my style, sir,” Anthea said, deadpan, and despite himself Mycroft coughed a laugh.

“One wouldn’t want to get in the way of true love.”

“Getting a bit ahead of yourself, sir – not all of us are ready to settle down in domestic bliss.” She gave him a cheeky grin, then her face softened. “Would you like me to escort you to your room?”

“I’m sure I can find it; I’ll send up a flare should I happen to get lost in between here and the fifth floor.”

Anthea smirked, but as Mycroft got up to leave, she followed him a few steps behind.

They left to avoid the rush to the lifts, and Anthea pressed the buttons for Mycroft's floor. As they started to ascend, Mycroft felt the pressure in his head increase. He raised a hand to his forehead and felt the cold sweat that had broken out over it; his mouth was suddenly extremely dry and his vision was blurring at the edges.

“Are you alright, sir?” he heard faintly from beside him, and he was about to reply when the dark patches took over his vision entirely and his mind stopped.

[cally]

My heart is seriously racing here.

He grimaced, feeling desperately ill and self-loathing, and blew his nose. The toilet paper was rough along his already-sensitive nostrils and he sniffled spasmodically and made his way back to the meeting.

BRB SOBBING

Mycroft was almost in agony. Every step soaked through his brogues – his socks were uncomfortably wet – and he leant on his umbrella, sure it was the only thing holding him up at this stage. His breath was catching in his chest, icy tendrils of air jabbing at his lungs. His nose was quite another problem; it was contantly streaming at this point, and he dabbed at it whenever the Norwegian wasn’t looking. In addition, he was preoccupied with trying not to let the freezing tingle take over his sinuses.

Oh dear God. No. Just no. Stop. My heart is breaking for him here. Seriously, next stop pneumonia.

“Are you alright, sir?” he heard faintly from beside him, and he was about to reply when the dark patches took over his vision entirely and his mind stopped.

Nope. Nope. Nope. /walks out. /slams door

[Skyler]

Oooh! I can't wait for more

[Spoo]

You, my dear bangbang, have amazing pacing when it comes to stories. I'm so impressed how you can develop an illness, but not make it too severe right off the bat. You gradually work into it until it's this awful, terrible thing that feels SO RIGHT being placed where it is in the story (if that makes any sense whatsoever ). You don't rush anything or make the symptoms feel methodic (ie: a character has to sneeze X amount of times every X paragraphs), and the slow build to that terribly ill moment is just…yes.

1. Mycroft trying so hard to eat and not being able to breaks my heart. He really, really wants to do it for Greg, because he knows how worried Greg is, but it's so hard to get anything down he doesn't have the appetite for it. I can only imagine how much weight he's lost at this point.
   
2. '…clutching his jacket around him and trying not to shake.' --Noooooo!
   
3. Oh man, the description of 'the numb, familiar tinge of a fit'? It's uh…very hot.
   
4. You know Mycroft Holmes is desperate when he's using toilet paper (even though he didn't have time to fetch more tissues).
   
5. OmgNO. The weather isn't allowed to interfere with his travel plans! He can't afford to be away from Greg any longer than he's already been. Especially with his terrible flu.
   
6. Um, EXCUSE YOU, MR. NORWEGIAN. Now is not the time for creepin'. Although, I love the breakdown of everyone trying to get something from everyone, because these are all men in power who can pull strings without batting an eyelash. I also loved the whole 'food chain' bit, because Mycroft is totally high on the food chain.
   
7. UGH HE WENT OUTSIDEEEE.
   
8. As unpleasant as it is to imagine the poor thing being in such awful conditions when he's sicker than a dog, the way you described the 'icy tendrils of air jabbing at his lungs', and his streaming nose, and that freezing tingle was excellent. Yesgood.
   
9. Oh nooooo he couldn't hold them back in the company of someone else; I bet that was a mortifying experience for him (on top of already feeling like death).
   
10. Small thing, but Mycroft jabbing the lift button impatiently is so in character.
    
11. I feel like the shower helped, but in a way it also didn't help? Regardless, I was more distracted by those 'loud and desperate' shower sneezes. YUM.
    
12. I need a t-shirt of Anthea telling Mycroft that he's cramping her style ASAP kthx.
    
13. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a fainter. This is what happens when you push through your illnesses, Mycroft! I'm legitimately dying from thinking when Greg finds out.
    

Hopefully this is what needed to happen (sad as that is to say) for Mycroft to be sent home early. He really can't continue any more. It's way too dangerous, given that he's already at the worst of worsts. He needs medicine and rest and tons and tons of love (preferably from his boyfriend ). Can't wait to read more!

[AngelEyes]

NOOOOOOOO!!!!!! So much poor baby!!! The descriptions of his increasing decline are excellent! But the end..... crying! Anthea help!

[bangbang]

Oh dear God. No. Just no. Stop. My heart is breaking for him here. Seriously, next stop pneumonia.

The sad thing is he would probably have recovered if he'd let Anthea book him a flight and spent a few days in bed. Now it's going to take him EVERYTHING to shake this off.

Oooh! I can't wait for more

Your wish is my command!

You, my dear bangbang, have amazing pacing when it comes to stories. I'm so impressed how you can develop an illness, but not make it too severe right off the bat. You gradually work into it until it's this awful, terrible thing that feels SO RIGHT being placed where it is in the story (if that makes any sense whatsoever ). You don't rush anything or make the symptoms feel methodic (ie: a character has to sneeze X amount of times every X paragraphs), and the slow build to that terribly ill moment is just…yes.

OMG I am blushing like a lunatic. Thank you so so much; I love the slow deterioration and my pet peeve is when sickfics (non-forum) have that formulaic sort of approach because THAT'S NOT HOW ILLNESSES WORK.

I can only imagine how much weight he's lost at this point.

He just cannot stomach anything at this stage; Greg is not going to be thrilled by his condition.

You know Mycroft Holmes is desperate when he's using toilet paper (even though he didn't have time to fetch more tissues).

It's the last thing he needed! And going outside? You KNOW he was super jealous of that damn Norwegian's unstylish-but-so-so-cosy jacket.

I feel like the shower helped, but in a way it also didn't help? Regardless, I was more distracted by those 'loud and desperate' shower sneezes. YUM.

It probably helped him avoid hypothermia but it opened the floodgates to all that awful sneezing. Poor thinggg.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a fainter.

He just needs to get home and warm and cuddly.

NOOOOOOOO!!!!!! So much poor baby!!! The descriptions of his increasing decline are excellent! But the end..... crying! Anthea help!

Anthea is not paid enough for this shizz. At this rate she'll be dragging him onto the plane.

THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH AHHH I love all your comments!

[bangbang]

PART 7

His first thought was that he had fallen asleep in a meeting, and he jerked up, mortified. So he was quite confused when he realised he was sitting propped against the wall of a lift, next to Anthea.

His second thought was that his head was leaning on her shoulder, and although she was really quite comfortable, he didn’t think it was appropriate.

His third thought was that he desperately needed to sneeze. He cupped a hand over his nose and released a frantic sequence without even drawing breath, caught up in their release and feeling his head pound from the effort. “HEHRRRSH! TTSSSZCH!—TSCHOO! HehTISH-TISH-TSSCH! Ah…hah!RRTSCH!”

“Bless you.” Anthea stroked his curved spine as he recovered. The sneezes had been harsh and wet, with an underlying catch of congestion that hinted towards a brewing sinus infection – his frequent stifling and holding back had obviously taken its toll.

He cleared his throat, and was distressed at the dry rasp of his voice. “Anthea?”

“Hello, sir.” She shuffled towards her bag, pulled out a bottle of water, loosened the lid, and passed it to him. She sat opposite him and crossed her legs, adjusting her skirt. “How are you feeling?”

Mycroft unscrewed the bottle lid with shaking hands and took a sip, feeling the world spin. “I don’t recall -”

“You fainted.” She’d put her phone away, and her face was very kind.

“Oh, dear.” Mycroft clutched his aching head. “My apologies. Are we…”

“You’ve been out for approximately forty-five seconds. Drink some more of your water.”

Looking over her and assessing his own condition, he deduced that she must have caught him as he fell and lowered him to the ground. He looked around – the buttons were all flashing red and the emergency light was on.

“I’ve stopped the lift between floors,” Anthea informed him. “Take a few moments.”

Mycroft shivered, chilled, and put the bottle down. He could feel an insistent scratch beginning in his throat and sinuses. He massaged his eyelids, wincing at the pain in his joints and trying to relieve the thumping in his head. When he swallowed, he ignited a searing pain in his throat that felt as if someone was dragging a lit match down his airways. The dizziness was returning, and he pulled his knees up and let his head dangle down between them.

The shift in his position caused a spike of agony through his skull; but he was distracted by another effect, which was the short, sharp tickle in his sinuses. He only just managed to bring the back of his hand up to shield his face before sneezing, mostly uncovered, in between his knees.

“hehRSSSCH!” He quickly steepled his hands over his face, feeling abjectly awful and tired of the incessant symptoms of his flu. All he wanted to do was be in bed with Greg, a cold compress and hot tea; instead he was forced to deal with the quartet of sneezes that tore out of him. “TSCH!—heh…hehh!TSZCCCHH!---hahhRRRTSCH!—RSCHHH!”

“Bless you,” Anthea said, rubbing his shoulder in short, gentle strokes, and he took one hand away from his face to accept the tissues she offered and miserably disinfected his hands with his sanitiser, feeling utterly disgusted at himself for his lack of restraint. She tutted as he tried to stumble out an apology, and gently pulled his head back down onto her shoulder.

They sat for a minute more, Mycroft snuffling into the tissues, and then he struggled to his feet. Anthea provided more support than either of them would have admitted, and turned the lift back on. He didn’t argue as she led him, one hand on his back, down the hallway to his room.

He collapsed on the bed, kicked off his shoes and closed his eyes as she dimmed the lights. He desperately wanted some ibuprofen, but Greg’s reminder about taking them without food weighed heavy on his mind.

He felt Anthea’s hand brush over his forehead, and then a cold wetness descended and he bit back a moan at the unexpected and unpleasant sensation.

“Sorry. You’re burning up.” She said, in a low whisper, and he felt the bed dip as she sat down beside him. “All things considered, I think it would be best if I made your excuses this evening.”

Mycroft swallowed, throat raw, and nodded.

“Do you want me to help you undress?”

“God, no,” Mycroft managed to mumble, and she laughed slightly and removed the facecloth so he could take his jacket off.

She tactfully left the room as he struggled into his pyjamas, knocking softly before coming back in. He felt as though his entire body had been doused in rain and rusted; his bones creaked in protest as he climbed into bed.

Anthea crossed the room and boiled the kettle. Mycroft wanted nothing more than to fall asleep, but his nose had other ideas. Feeling his way to the tissue box, he smothered a handful over the lower part of his face and lay, hitching miserably, waiting for the sneezes to overtake him. They came in a long, steady stream, with a few seconds in between each one, which was almost worse than one of his rapid fire fits - every time he thought he was finally finished he would be swept up again in endless, snuffling breaths. The last few were almost torturous in their drawn-out, intense buildups, and caused the same sinus ache as before.

“ISH! Hhh!hehh!-uhhhh!RSSHH! hhNSSHHOO! Hhh - - hhh!—INGSHHHH! ISH!---ISH!—RRSHOOO! Heh…aheh…ah!hah!TSZZCH!-TSCCHH!”

He was too tired to do anything beyond muffle them in between the soft layers of tissue; he heard Anthea tut and place a cup down on the bedside. He blew his nose, wincing at the hard layer of congestion that refused to budge, and coughed slightly.

“Bless you.” She laid the facecloth back on his forehead; this time, its cool dampness was almost pleasant. He took that as a sign that his fever had risen again. “It’s green tea, no milk; it should be plain enough. Do drink it.” She paused. “I’m going to see if we can get the plane at an earlier time.”

“There’s no need.” There was a sick little lurch in Mycroft’s stomach at the idea of leaving early; of exposing his vulnerabilities, of neglecting his duties.

“Sir,” said Anthea, her voice turning soft, “I think it’s best you return home sooner rather than later.”

“And I shall, tomorrow, at the appointed time.”

“I can organise a flight for tonight.”

“And I assure you I will not be on it.”

Anthea heaved a sigh, and obviously chose not to argue, something that concerned him (she must really think he was ill if she wasn’t protesting) but also came as a huge relief, because in his current state he severely doubted he could stand up to her full potential.

“Make my excuses at the meeting, would you?” Mycroft snuffled, and cracked his eyes open to see her nod in the dark. “Thank you.”

She waved it away and was making her way to the door when he spoke again. “Anthea.”

“Sir?” She turned back.

“Please ensure that Greg does not hear of this. A minor dizzy spell is nothing to worry him over.” She looked sceptical. “I am serious. I will not be pleased if you pass this information along.”

“Sir.” She sounded sulky, and folded her arms over her chest. “He’d want to know. So would you, if the positions were reversed.”

“There is absolutely nothing he could do, and I don’t wish you to needlessly concern him before his shift. Do I make myself clear?”

Anthea heaved a sigh. “Yes, sir. Crystal. Although I disagree.”

“Thank you. For everything.”

She paused, hand on the door. “I’ll check on you later. Drink your tea.” And with that she slipped out, leaving Mycroft to the blessed darkness.

[Spoo]

Considering you've [literally] heard my TRUE feelings on this update, I'm going to leave that part out. *FORCED CHEERY SMILE* Outside of that, there were some other things that I found myself drawn to - like the sheer amount of epic Mythea. She's too good to him. And he…well. He should really listen to her. *mumblegrumble*

1. Mycroft's thought process upon coming to was amazing (especially that third pressing thought~). Though, the second thought gave me feels because that's a bit too close for him, and it's not very professional to be all up ON your employee (even if it's just leaning on her shoulder).
   
2. Ughhh, a brewing sinus infection. As if he doesn't have enough on his sickly plate already.
   
3. Anthea calmly and sweetly explaining the situation while Mycroft bemoans the entire thing.
   
4. Omg, that entire paragraph from 'Mycroft shivered' to 'dangle down between them' is utterly heartbreaking. I feel awful from just reading; I can't even imagine the reality of it for this poor, poor man.
   
5. Lovely as they are, those sneezes are fierce. So heavy and damp and merciless. Jeeeesus.
   
6. Anthea pulling Mycroft's head back onto her shoulder, because 'oh my God come here and stop apologizing you're fine'.
   
7. Mycroft remembering what Greg said about not having food in his stomach and taking medication.
   
8. Anthea is such a dear. Look at her taking care of him with that cold compress. I'm glad she's there with him. I honestly can't imagine where he'd be in his illness if she wasn't there (probably in hospital, tbh).
   
9. 'He felt as though his entire body had been doused in rain and rusted' is a gorgeous piece of writing. Such vivid imagery, I just---ajsdlfaksfdl;
   
10. Oh nooo, a slow fit. At least with rapid fire you get them done and over with (in spite of how many there usually are or how big a toll they take) but sneezing with a few seconds in between prolongs the torment (yesyesyessss ).
    
11. Mycroft, you stubborn bastar--*TAKES A DEEP BREATH*--I'm good, good. Totally cool, totally levelheaded. It's all good, man. *Twitch, twitch*
    
12. What a GREAT idea, Mycroft. Not telling Greg about what happened. I'm sure he'd be SOOO appreciative of being kept in the dark about someone he's insanely in love with. BRAVO BEST BOYFRIEND EVER. *AGGRESSIVE CONFETTI*
    
13. Anthea's reluctant agreement is like knives to the heart. UGH.
    

Okay, I honestly tried to stay positive, but I may have slipped at the end there. WHOOPS. All I can say is that I won't be surprised if Greg rage quits because Mycroft is keeping things from him - IMPORTANT THINGS, TOO. I'm definitely rage quitting over here because it's not fair and Mycroft is so sick and why won't he just LISTEN and go home???? *...Sigh* In the end, he really only has himself to blame.

[Skyler]

Oh my gosh I love it!

[cally]

I . . . . /flips bat

There aren't enough emoji's to express my various emotions ranging from OMG the absolutely perfect writing to Mycroft you're an ass.

I'm just gonna

[ID2006]

You are killing me with this

[AngelEyes]

asoijdbcnviaouesbovweoralsncmxz,!!!!!!!!!!!!! Dying of feels! Excuse my incoherence while I desperately want to take care of the dear man. And hug Anthea because she's priceless.

[HoneyBunny]

Woah. This whole story is frickin' amazing. Like, hands down one of the best Mystrade things I have read on the forum.

Mycroft's characterization is spot on! He just feels so ... real, for the lack of a better word. And OMG, Mythea! What I wouldn't give to have an Anthea of my own.

Also, I'm kinda sorta maybe hoping Mycroft won't be able to go home because of the snowstorm. Because I'm sadistic like that.

[bangbang]

Lovely as they are, those sneezes are fierce. So heavy and damp and merciless. Jeeeesus.

Next stop is sinus infections and more awful fits. Mycroft really needs to learn to stop stifling.

Mycroft remembering what Greg said about not having food in his stomach and taking medication.

He is so conscious about disappointing his bb oh noooo

What a GREAT idea, Mycroft. Not telling Greg about what happened. I'm sure he'd be SOOO appreciative of being kept in the dark about someone he's insanely in love with. BRAVO BEST BOYFRIEND EVER. *AGGRESSIVE CONFETTI*

Mycroft is the dumbest genius around.

Oh my gosh I love it!

Thank you!

I . . . . /flips bat

You sum up my feelings PERFECTLY.

You are killing me with this

I'ma take that as a compliment!

And hug Anthea because she's priceless.

Isn't she just? Best PA ever.

Woah. This whole story is frickin' amazing.

Also, I'm kinda sorta maybe hoping Mycroft won't be able to go home because of the snowstorm. Because I'm sadistic like that.

Thank you (although even I'm not that cruel!)

[bangbang]

This story is for real killing me. SO HARD TO WRITE.

PART 8

When Anthea had first started working for the secret service, she had been told that the best thing to do was keep your head down, obey orders, and don’t ask questions. Her refusal to do any of those things was why she was so excellent at her job, and why she had been working for Mycroft Holmes approximately seven years longer than any of his previous assistants.

So she didn’t feel any trace of guilt as she rearranged the private plane for the next morning instead of their scheduled evening flight. She was considering ordering it to leave right away, but Mycroft had been drifting off as she left his room, and after almost a week of illness and insomnia, any sleep he could get would be for the better.

On the matter of Greg Lestrade, she found herself disinclined to help Mycroft sabotage his relationship, so she fired off a text telling him to call her on his break and she would fill him in on Mycroft’s condition.

If there was one thing Lestrade abhorred, according to her notes, it was being lied to; she was used to occasionally being baffled by Mycroft’s reasoning but she imagined this decision was made more out of delirium than intellect. She rarely disobeyed a direct order from her employer, but in this case she was willing to risk it to keep Lestrade in the loop. She resolved to tell him everything at the airport, when he had Mycroft back home and was able to take care of him properly.

Satisfied with her decision, she put her phone back into her pocket and continued on to her meeting, counting down the minutes until she could go and check on Mycroft again.

---

It was dark, and he was running so fast he was out of breath – there was something behind, chasing, and Greg up ahead, calling for him, and then Greg was behind and Mycroft couldn’t turn back, his lungs hurt from the effort of running and the thing had Greg and –

“Mycroft!”

Mycroft bolted awake. He was half-propped against pillows, and there was a bedside lamp shining far too brightly. The dream was stark in his mind, and he didn’t have time to think where he was before he rolled over, almost on all fours, and coughed. And coughed. And couldn’t stop coughing.

When he finally managed to get his desperate, gulping breaths back under control, he realised Anthea was stroking his back, making soothing noises. He shuffled so he was sitting up against the pillows and drew his knees up to his chest.

Anthea sat in front of him, her eyes huge with worry. “Are you alright?” she asked.

Mycroft nodded shakily and bit his lip – the nightmare had seemed so vivid. With horror, he realised that his face was damp, and he reached up and brushed the moisture from his eyes and cheekbones.

“I didn’t know whether to wake you,” she said, chewing her own lip. “You sounded…”

“It’s alright – thank you.” Mycroft wrapped his arms around his legs. He wanted to call Greg, to hear his voice and know he was alright, but by now the officer was probably away on shift. “What time is it?”

“Just after ten.” Anthea sounded as shaky as he felt. “I brought you some food – I don’t imagine –”

“God, no.” Mycroft burrowed deeper into the quilt. “I’m sorry if I gave you a fright.”

“Don’t be.” Anthea paused. “I can have you on a plane within the hour.”

“Greg’s at work,” Mycroft said, and angrily swiped away a rogue tear.

Anthea placed the back of her hand across his forehead. It was cool and dry and he had to resist leaning into it. His head felt as though it was splitting.

“I’m going to fetch you some ibuprofen – your temperature’s sky high.”

She gave him the pills in between sips of water, then kicked off her heels and sat on the bed cross-legged, handing him another cup of green tea. They sipped in companionable silence for a minute – Mycroft was ridiculously grateful for her calm, stabilising presence and she shifted closer to him as if to provide comfort.

However, he couldn’t settle down – his nose was tingling and he wearily pulled a handful of tissues from the box and clamped them over his face, waiting for the sneezes he knew were inevitable.

He could feel his gasping breaths wax and wane, nostrils flaring between his shaking hands, and Anthea rubbed his shoulder and made low, soothing sounds.

He eventually gave into a long, exhausting fit, that made his stomach muscles clench with the effort and his head spin as though he was on a fairground ride. Until now his sneezing attacks had been relatively minor; minor for him, anyway. This one seemed to last a lifetime. He lost count of how many sneezes scraped their way through his raw throat, and finally finished after an agonising five or ten minutes with a shaky, breathless sequence of seven.

“iihhNGSH! HHH—hh!TISH! HEH-RR-sshhh! Hehh-SH! IIISH! HehhhhRRSSH! TISCH!”

“Bless you,” Anthea murmured, as he abandoned all hope of decorum and blew his nose. She touched two fingers to his forehead again and was obviously displeased at the heat she felt. “I’ve booked the plane for tomorrow morning; don’t attempt to argue. We should arrive at Heathrow by 11am. Detective Inspector Lestrade will be off his shift by the time we land.”

It was seven hours before he was scheduled to leave, and it meant that Greg, who got off his shift at three in the morning, would only have a few hours of sleep before having to come and collect him. But at the minute Mycroft felt terrible enough not to protest, and he leaned against the headboard and forced himself to drink the tea, watching Anthea tap away on her phone.

He must have dozed off slightly, because he startled awake at Anthea’s whisper. “Sir?”

He opened his eyes blearily. She was holding the phone out to him. “DI Lestrade is on a break – he wanted to know if you were available.”

Mycroft took the phone as she slipped out of the room, and held it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Oh, Mycroft,” said Greg, “you poor thing.”

He blinked away a tear that threatened to overspill. He’d become such a crier since meeting Greg. Before, he could have counted on one hand the amount of times he’d sobbed since turning thirteen. “Did Anthea call you?”

“She said you’re getting an earlier flight tomorrow.”

Mycroft nodded, then realised Greg couldn’t see him. “Mmm. Eleven.”

“That’s good. I’ll see you at the airport.” Greg paused. “She said you’d been a bit delirious.”

“I had a nightmare,” said Mycroft, feeling like he was three years old and climbing into bed with his parents again. He hoped Greg hadn’t noticed how his voice had cracked on the last word.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Greg asked, softly.

“I miss you,” Mycroft choked out, and pressed a hand against his mouth.

“Shh. It’s OK. Mycroft, it’s OK. I’m here. I’m fine, you’re fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? Just try and get some sleep. It was just a dream. I promise you that everything is fine.”

Mycroft swallowed hard and wiped his eyes. “I know. I love you.”

“I love you too. I’ll see you tomorrow. Can you pass me over to Anthea?”

Mycroft called her hoarsely and she must have been waiting, because she popped through the door, took the phone off him, and went into the ensuite.

Mycroft lay there, listening to her quietly talking to Greg, but he couldn’t make out the words. He closed his eyes. He vaguely heard her coming back in and drawing the covers over him, but at that point he was almost asleep and he wouldn’t have remembered her stroking his hair back and turning out the light if he’d tried.

[Skyler]

This is beautiful I don't know what more to say about it, it just is.

[Spoo]

I should have recorded the noises I made while reading this (I'm pretty sure I hit 'whale frequency' with a few of them. ) Anyway, it seriously breaks my heart to know that Mycroft is in such a poorly state! He needs ALL the love and caretaking he can get. I'm glad he's at least going home to Greg (though I fear that his boobear won't be pleased when he's informed all that's been kept from him…).

1. Aw yiss, actual BADASS Anthea. I know it isn't possible, but I would love if they dedicated an entire Sherlock episode (or at least a large chunk of one) to her. She's so freakin' awesome!
   
2. And hah! The awesomeness continues, apparently~ Look at her taking charge of the situation like a boss. You go, girl!
   
3. The nightmare sequence was so, so sad. Mycroft waking up disturbed and weepy isn't fair. Ughhhh, and the way he drew his knees up - like he was trying to protect himself. Noooooo-hooo-hoooo.
   
4. I think Mythea sharing bed-space would be cuter if Mycroft wasn't so terribly ill. *Sigh*
   
5. Oh gosh, you know a sneezing fit is bad when it makes your stomach muscles clench up. They're so viscous, his sneezes.
   
6. SADDEST PHONE CONVERSATION EVER, OH MY GOD. Mycroft is just so miserable and all he wants is his Greg, and--"I miss you"/hand over mouth---ajdkflasdsd;.
   
7. Good. The baby's asleep again. He needs all the rest he can get before his flight. Hmph.
   

I'm still really anxious about Greg seeing how bad-off Mycroft is (as well as him finding out about the whole 'fainting' thing) but hopefully our beloved silver fox will try and keep a cool head because his bb is crazy sick and in desperate need of some TLC.

[shirin]

hi guys I'm new in the forum but you can't even imagine how happy I ammmmmmmm.girl your threads always killing me like I can't even breath when I read them pleease keep on writting

and what the helll is going on with that mystrade you are rockiiiiing yaaaay

[AngelEyes]

Until now his sneezing attacks had been relatively minor; minor for him, anyway. This one seemed to last a lifetime.

Poor dear. He's utterly done in.

This story is just brilliant. The angst. The feels. The anticipation.

[cally]

“I miss you,” Mycroft choked out, and pressed a hand against his mouth.

“Shh. It’s OK. Mycroft, it’s OK. I’m here. I’m fine, you’re fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? Just try and get some sleep. It was just a dream. I promise you that everything is fine.”

Nope. Nope. Nope.

[shirin]

and about anthea im just jealous why she can always be around mycroft and I can't

do you think mycroft would like to have a persian girl as his PA too?meow I promiss I'll behave

[ellwren]

So good! Feeling all the feels.

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

I am new to the forum and wanted to say I joined just so I could compliment you, Cally and Spoo on your fabulous Mystrade fics. They are wonderful to read with or without the sneezes. I am on tenterhooks waiting for the next installment.