Berlin (Mystrade, BBC Sherlock)

[Spoo]

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.

This is extremely flattering and lovely. Thank you so much, dear, and welcome to the forum!

[bangbang]

YAY you are all lovely and brilliant (scw that is possibly the most flattering thing anyone has ever said to me so THANK YOU so freaking much!)

PART 9

Greg had no idea how he’d gotten through the rest of his shift. From the moment he had seen Anthea’s text and called her back, there had been a knot of worry in his stomach that had refused to loosen.

“Ill, to put it mildly,” she told him, quietly. “He’s dozing - he went outside in sub-zero temperatures earlier.”

“Jesus. Please tell me you’re not letting him stay til tomorrow night.”

“Certainly not. We’re flying back in the morning.”

“God. How is he, otherwise?”

“Feverish; his coughing’s far worse and I’m almost sure he’s got a sinus infection. He hasn’t been eating; barely been drinking. I don’t think he can at this stage. I’ve had to give him some ibuprofen and his usual medication anyway because his fever is just too high to ignore and if he goes into one of his spirals in this state God knows what’ll happen. Do you want to talk to him?”

He’d spent the whole conversation with Mycroft in a state of agony, listening to his harsh breathing and cursing himself for not being there.

“I’ll bring him through Heathrow tomorrow around eleven,” Anthea said, as Mycroft handed him back over. “If he doesn’t improve in the next few days he’ll have to go to hospital; the dehydration isn’t a good sign. I’ll try and make him eat something tomorrow, but…”

“I know. Christ. Thanks for taking care of him for me. Thanks for calling.”

“He’ll be fine,” said Anthea. “It’s just a bad case of the flu.” But she didn’t sound convinced.

---

Leaving Berlin was simultaneously the best and worst thing Mycroft had ever experienced. Anthea, who had been in the chair by his bed when he woke up, had led him towards the car and onto the plane that morning. His throat was burning with the miserable, painful heat and his head thumped as they took off.

He wasn’t particularly fond of flying at the best of times; the altitude and swaying often made him feel unwell. The flu, which filled his skull with fuzzy congestion, hardly helped. Anthea had pressed food and hot tea on him, none of which he could stomach; after a few sips of water he was shivering hard enough that she took it away and passed him a travel pillow instead.

They had barely lifted off the runway before he was snapping forward into enclosed hands with a frantic gasp – “INSHHHH!”

He attempted to stifle, but there was little use, as the initial breathy sneeze was followed by several heavier, wetter ones. “NNNNSGHHOO!—RRSCH!—CCHHH!—SCCCHHOO!”

He pulled out handfuls of tissues and attended to his nose, his nostrils shuddering as he clasped the paper around them. As they climbed into the air, he felt the pressure in his sinuses increase and braced himself for an unpleasant flight.

Anthea touched his shoulder as he rested his head in his hands, trying to avoid developing one of his migraines from the pressure and the building stuffiness in his head. He dabbed his nose roughly, feeling almost angry at himself for the sniffly congestion that waxed and waned, leaving him panting with the denied urgency of his sneezes.

As Anthea tapped away on the laptop, he sniffled damply into a tissue and felt his eyebrows draw together. He managed to shake it off, fighting past the terrible tickle. He felt weak from the fever, which was climbing again after a momentary reprieve that morning.

Anthea took his temperature, and he saw her teeth grit at the number on the thermometer. The dizziness was beginning to blur his vision again, there was a cold sweat breaking out over the back of his neck and he felt somehow disconnected from his surroundings.

As his breath began to skip into shallow wheezes, he reached for the tissues, expecting a fit; and then he realised with a sinking feeling that the tightness of his chest wasn’t caused by incipient sneezes.

Mycroft’s panic attacks were somewhat rare occurrences; Greg had only ever seen one and had hovered with paper bags and water until Mycroft was able to explain what was wrong. He had them mostly under control but every so often the beast awoke. The exhaustion, the fever, the claustrophobia of being trapped on a plane and the endless cacophony of noise and people and places over the last week had gotten the better of him, and he put his head between his knees to try and stave off the attack.

He swallowed hard, hearing the rush of blood in his head and the racing of his heart, and willed himself to relax. Anthea reached over and took his hand; he jumped at the sudden contact. Every inch of his skin seemed hypersensitive, and he bit back a sob. He was vaguely aware that he was shaking. Anthea ran her thumb over his palm in reassuring circles.

“Thirty minutes until we land. I’ve texted Greg, he’ll be waiting for us at the airport. It’s just half an hour longer and then you’ll be home.”

He took a long breath, feeling tears prickle the back of his eyes. He concentrated on the ins and outs of his lungs. The anxiety finally receded somewhat and he sat back; he felt worn out just from existing, and he didn’t protest when Anthea produced a blanket and carefully draped it over him.

It was possibly the longest thirty minutes of his life; his sinuses felt compact and hard, and any attempt to sniffle or blow his nose was met with resistance. He desperately needed to sneeze, but somehow it wouldn’t come out, leaving him with watering eyes and lurching breath. When they finally landed, he could have cried with relief.

Anthea held his elbow as they walked down the aircraft steps; but now they were out of the altitude, Mycroft was overcome by the phantom tickle that had plagued him throughout the flight. He stopped, raising his eyes to the sky, feeling his face slacken and twist, and scrambled for tissues in his pocket.

“HHHTTSZCHH!” He didn’t quite raise the tissues in time, and sneezed to the side away from Anthea, deflecting it with the back of his hand and pressing the tissues to his nose in time to catch the next. “hhhhehRRRSSCH!”

They were thick and heady, and he barely had time to wince before grabbing the bar to steady himself through the next rapid-fire sequence. “RRRSTCHH!—hahTSCH! AhhahTTSZCH!—hehRRRSCHOO!”

He coughed a little in the aftermath, swiping at his now-streaming nose with the tissues, which were practically useless after just a few sneezes. They were just so intense, rippling through his entire body. He took a second to recover his breath and let Anthea support him as they made their way through the airport and finally, blessedly, towards Greg.

-----

Standing outside his car at the airport, Greg watched as a burly man in a black suit who could only be part of the secret service security detail pushed a trolley of cases over. He began loading them into Greg’s boot with a nod.

Greg kept his eyes fixed on the door, swallowing, and felt his stomach clench as Mycroft’s tall, lean figure came out of the terminal. Anthea was following as closely as if she was his shadow, and he was grasping his umbrella as though it was a lifeline.

Greg walked towards them, and as soon as he was within arm’s length he reached out and pulled Mycroft into a hug, exhaling hard through his nose as he felt how Mycroft went limp under his touch.

“Hi there,” he whispered into Mycroft’s hair, “I missed you.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything, just tightened his grip around Greg’s waist, burying his head into the crook of Greg’s neck.

Greg eventually broke them apart; the November wind was chilly and Mycroft was shivering hard, despite being expertly bundled up in multiple layers – something he assumed was Anthea’s doing. He let Mycroft into the car and frowned at the crackly, sharp cough he gave out.

Anthea strode towards him. “A moment, Detective Inspector?”

Greg bit his lip. “Is everything OK?”

She cast a long, almost guilty look at Mycroft in the car, and edged out of his sightline. “He fainted last night. It’s something you’ll probably need to watch out for.”

“He what? Was this after I called?”

“No. Before he went to bed. He asked me not to tell you.”

A cold prickle of rage broke out over the back of Greg’s neck, and his face must have changed, because Anthea hastily said, “He didn’t want to worry you before your shift; I believe he was doing it out of good intentions.”

“He lied to me,” Greg said, dully. He had been worried anyway, pacing and wondering if he could justify calling Mycroft on his way to the Yard. He couldn’t believe that after all their talks about honestly and openness and how Greg needed that after his failed marriage, Mycroft would lie to him. Especially about something like this.

“By omission,” said Anthea, but she was grimacing. “I’d ask you to hold fire until he’s a bit better.”

“He’s not going to get better if he keeps -” Greg cut himself off with a great effort; it wasn’t Anthea’s fault. Maybe it wasn’t even Mycroft’s fault, simply the way his ridiculously stupid genius brain worked, that he thought holding things back from Greg was the best idea. The cogs in his brain started turning, and there was a shudder of dread in his stomach as he considered what else Mycroft might be hiding. “Please tell me that this – this – eating thing – isn’t anything he’s doing on purpose.”

“I don’t believe so. But he’s had – problems – with it in the past.”

Greg clenched and unclenched his fist, resisting the urge to break something, anything. “As soon as he’s better, I’m going to kill him.”

Anthea touched his arm. “Take care of him. Call me if he worsens.” She strode into the black sedan, and Greg took a minute to breathe deeply before getting into his own car.

Mycroft was huddled in the passenger seat, coat collar drawn up around his face, scarf tightly wound. He looked more haggard than Greg had ever seen him, and he reached into the backseat to grab the box of tissues he had bought on his way earlier and put them on Mycroft’s lap. He hoped that in his current impaired state, Mycroft wouldn’t pick up on the boiling rage below the surface.

“You know me so well,” Mycroft rasped, in a half-hearted attempt at a joke, and then opened the box and pulled out a handful as the warmth of the car had the predicted effect on his nose. Greg listened to his wet, increasingly desperate sniffles, and Mycroft gave a final snuffle before being flung into one of the harsh, unrestrained fits that had so worried Greg on Skype.

“ISCH!—heh-ehch—SSSCCHH! RRRSCCH! TSSZZCH! TSCHOO! Hahh..aahh…RRRTTSSSHH!”

They sounded, if possible, even worse in person; Greg could now see the pained scrunch of Mycroft’s closed eyes, the palpitations of his nostrils beneath the tissues, the congested moan that escaped as he swiped at his nose and coughed chestily.

“Bless you.” Greg said, wincing as he rubbed Mycroft’s too-hot back and felt the bumps of his spine through the suit and coat.

“Thank you for coming and getting me,” Mycroft said, hoarsely; he was looking warily askance at Greg and he knew that his partner had picked up on something.

He set his jaw and turned to the steering wheel.

“Let’s get you home and in bed, yeah?”

“That sounds lovely,” Mycroft sighed, and leaned back into his seat as Greg drove through London.

Edited November 2, 2014 by bangbang

[cally]

I am so so so so happy for an update, but so so so so sad for Mycroft and Gregory.

Anthea touched his shoulder as he rested his head in his hands, trying to avoid developing one of his migraines from the pressure and the building stuffiness in his head. He dabbed his nose roughly, feeling almost angry at himself for the sniffly congestion that waxed and waned, leaving him panting with the denied urgency of his sneezes.

This description. Stop. Just stop.

Greg clenched and unclenched his fist, resisting the urge to break something, anything. “As soon as he’s better, I’m going to kill him.”

I'm laughing and crying at the same time here.

They sounded, if possible, even worse in person; Greg could now see the pained scrunch of Mycroft’s closed eyes, the palpitations of his nostrils beneath the tissues, the congested moan that escaped as he swiped at his nose and coughed chestily.

He sounds awful, so awful. I know Gregory is mad, but honestly, look at Mycroft. The poor lamb is done in and needs an IV and some serious meds. And sleep. Lots of sleep and love.

My heart is absolutely breaking right now. I'm going to go sob in the corner.

[matilda3948]

Wow!! This is incredible. Your descriptions are so detailed and (as someone else mentioned earlier) I love the way you let things build slowly--it makes things so much more realistic.

Also, this bit:

I’ve had to give him some ibuprofen and his usual medication anyway because his fever is just too high to ignore and if he goes into one of his spirals in this state God knows what’ll happen.

I really, really love the idea of Mycroft struggling to maintain his mental health as well. The panic attack that follows was heartbreaking and sad, but the way Anthea handled him was perfection.

[Spoo]

I'm just… I'm just gonna jump right in. TOO MANY FEELS NOPE CAN'T DEAL BYE.

x

1. I love how you went back and described the conversation that went on between Greg and Anthea. I was legitimately curious how that transpired anyway, so I was very appreciative that you explained!
   
2. I can totally see Mycroft experiencing a bit of motion sickness whenever he flies. The same would apply to a boat, I think (a seasick Mycroft is somehow adorable??).
   
3. Buhhhh. Poor, sneezy baby. He's super unwell.
   
4. Oh no. Not a panic attack. I agree with Matilda, man. Anthea handled it so well. I'm really glad she was there for him as he worked on calming himself down.
   
5. WORST PLANE RIDE EVER.
   
6. 'He stopped, raising his eyes to the sky, feeling his face slacken and twist, and scrambled for tissues in his pocket'--oh GOD. The urgency! The desperation! Yesyesyesyes.
   
7. I adore how he sneezed away from Anthea, and how he shielded the spray with the back of his hand? Um, that's just…yeaaaah.
   
8. I wasn't prepared for the reunion. I wASN'T READYYYY. When Greg hugged him and just said 'hi there' (I could hear the softness in his voice) and then Mycroft holding onto him for dear life, because he missed Greg and now he's WITH Greg a-and… *weeps*
   
9. ohgodohgodohgod anthea is telling greg what happened ohgodohgodohgod
   
10. I'm seriously feeling the tension over here. Greg is trying SO HARD to keep that temper of his in check. Taking a breath before he goes back in the car, because he's tense and upset and ACKKK.
    
11. Greg witnessing Mycroft's terrible symptoms in person (those sneezes are so strong, omg). Greg rubbing Mycroft's back. Greg trying to remain calm as they start the drive home. ajlskdf;asdfl
    

It's insanely RELIEVING to have them back together. Now Greg doesn't have to work through Anthea; he can just tend to Mycroft himself. Although… I have this cold, sinking feeling that Greg isn't going to be able to bite his tongue forever, because Mycroft Lied to him, and Greg HATES being Lied to. Eeeek!

[AngelEyes]

I admit I might have just squealed out loud when I saw an update. And Oh Gods it was brilliant! Poor Mycroft trying desperately to hold himself together mentally as he gets continually worse physically. Anthea just being there for him. Finally the reunion. Greg simply welcoming him into his arms and Mycroft just hanging on desperately. Greg's worry about the "eating thing". Trying to keep his temper about being lied to, "When he's better, I'll kill him!" So so so happy they are going home together finally!!!! I love this so much.

[bangbang]

I really, really love the idea of Mycroft struggling to maintain his mental health as well. The panic attack that follows was heartbreaking and sad, but the way Anthea handled him was perfection.

I have this headcanon that Mycroft just falls apart when he has a fever. All his little tics get magnified and brought to the surface and it is noooot good.

He sounds awful, so awful. I know Gregory is mad, but honestly, look at Mycroft. The poor lamb is done in and needs an IV and some serious meds. And sleep. Lots of sleep and love.

Sleep and love coming up! (After a healthy dose of angst, of course.)

I adore how he sneezed away from Anthea, and how he shielded the spray with the back of his hand? Um, that's just…yeaaaah.

He's too ill and tired and sneezy to even be able to cover them all entirely; but too polite to sneeze NEAR anyone, of course.

Greg witnessing Mycroft's terrible symptoms in person (those sneezes are so strong, omg). Greg rubbing Mycroft's back. Greg trying to remain calm as they start the drive home. ajlskdf;asdfl

Greg is SO ANGRY and trying not to be angry omggg

Although… I have this cold, sinking feeling that Greg isn't going to be able to bite his tongue forever

You may be right...

I admit I might have just squealed out loud when I saw an update. And Oh Gods it was brilliant! Poor Mycroft trying desperately to hold himself together mentally as he gets continually worse physically. Anthea just being there for him. Finally the reunion. Greg simply welcoming him into his arms and Mycroft just hanging on desperately. Greg's worry about the "eating thing". Trying to keep his temper about being lied to, "When he's better, I'll kill him!" So so so happy they are going home together finally!!!! I love this so much.

I'm so happy you like it! Mycroft is seriously going through the wars with this one.

Thank you all for comments - a lil bb update today because Greg is building to his HULK RAGE and Mycroft is limping through life.

PART 10

Greg pulled up outside the house and looked at his sleeping partner. He hated to rouse Mycroft – especially when his sleep had been so disturbed – but he wanted to get him in bed sooner rather than later.

He climbed out of the car and unlocked the front door, then went back and opened the passenger side. “Mycroft? We’re here.”

Mycroft blinked and scrubbed a hand across his face. “Thank you,” he rasped, and allowed Greg to help him step out of the car.

Greg went round to the boot to unload the luggage, trying to avoid Mycroft’s eyes. He had to expend quite a lot of effort not to scream, ask him what the hell he thought he was doing keeping things from Greg, why he was keeping him in the dark when he was so ill.

Mycroft trailed after him, and, sounding very small, said “Greg, is everything…?” and then stopped abruptly.

“You OK?” Greg paused and looked at Mycroft; his partner had gone deathly white and his eyes had gone out of focus. He looked at Greg as though he couldn’t see him.

Greg must have subconsciously registered what was about to happen, because he had his arms wrapped around Mycroft by the time his knees gave way and he collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.

“Mycroft?!” He grabbed the door of the backseat and swung it open, propping Mycroft in a sitting position with his head between his knees, still holding his unconscious partner upright. There was a cold wave of dread washing over him, and he studied Mycroft’s gaunt white face with its fine lines and tired circles and swore under his breath.

He heaved a massive sigh of relief when Mycroft’s eyes fluttered open and he knelt down, rubbing Mycroft’s icy hands between his.

“Hey,” he said, softly, as Mycroft looked at him with panic etched into his irises, “you’re fine – everything’s fine, you passed out. Are you alright?”

Mycroft gave a harsh little gasp and covered his face with his hands. Greg straightened and wrapped his arms around him. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

Mycroft tried to stand, but he was shaking like a tree in a storm and every last scrap of his strength seemed to be gone. “Put your arms around my neck,” Greg told him. Mycroft did, unthinkingly, and Greg ignored his little noise of protest as he slipped one arm under Mycroft’s knees and lifted him up.

Greg was in good shape, but he was no bodybuilder; he expected to struggle a little just lifting Mycroft. Although his partner was willowy, he was two inches taller and Greg wasn’t getting any younger. So he was surprised and a little horrified by how easily he could bear Mycroft’s weight. Carrying him wasn’t even a challenge. Having Mycroft actually in his arms made him realise, with a jolt, just how thin he’d become. He dampened down the fury that threatened to overspill and walked towards the house.

Mycroft twisted his head away from Greg halfway up the stairs to their front door, and said, choked, pressing his face against his own shoulder, “You ne—hhh! Need to put me –hhhh!”

Greg simply hoisted Mycroft closer to his body, and felt his ribcage shake against Greg’s with a final, shivery inhalation before he gave in. “ihhNG-TISZSH! NGGCHH! Heh!...heh!GNCHOOO!”

“Bless you,” Greg murmured, touching his lips to the top of Mycroft’s head. He was momentarily confused by the return of Mycroft’s miserable, laborious stifles – he had seemed almost powerless against his sneezes in the car. He realised with a pang that Mycroft was trying to avoid spraying him, despite the fact that he was facing the opposite direction and Greg couldn’t have cared less about it. He rubbed the base of Mycroft’s shoulders and said, softly, “Don’t stifle. It’s fine.”

Mycroft sniffled a barely audible protest from inside the crook of his elbow and sneezily convulsed again. “IHHNNNSH!--RRRSHH!—TSSCHH!”

“And again.” At least he was less restrained that time, though Greg didn’t know if it was because of his assurances or because Mycroft didn’t have the strength left to smother them. They sounded like they hurt. He remembered Anthea’s warning about sinus infections and groaned inwardly.

He pushed the door open and carried Mycroft through to the living room. He gently put him down on the sofa, handing him a box of tissues that he’d left ready and waiting on the coffee table.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, so congested Greg could barely make it out, and Greg stroked his hair back. The heat from his forehead was worrying; but he was overwhelmingly relieved that Mycroft was home and he could finally look after him properly.

Even though they did need to have a serious chat about what had been going on.

[cally]

“Hey,” he said, softly, as Mycroft looked at him with panic etched into his irises, “you’re fine – everything’s fine, you passed out. Are you alright?”

No, no, no.

“Bless you,” Greg murmured, touching his lips to the top of Mycroft’s head. He was momentarily confused by the return of Mycroft’s miserable, laborious stifles – he had seemed almost powerless against his sneezes in the car. He realised with a pang that Mycroft was trying to avoid spraying him, despite the fact that he was facing the opposite direction and Greg couldn’t have cared less about it. He rubbed the base of Mycroft’s shoulders and said, softly, “Don’t stifle. It’s fine.”

Mycroft. Seriously. You *fainted.* Again. And you're worried about partially sneezing on your lover? Really? REALLY? Do you not even see how clearly ill you are? Have some sense of proportion, for heavens sake!

“And again.” At least he was less restrained that time, though Greg didn’t know if it was because of his assurances or because Mycroft didn’t have the strength left to smother them. They sounded like they hurt. He remembered Anthea’s warning about sinus infections and groaned inwardly.

Awwwwwww. Love the "and again" bit. That's like seriously one of my things.

But first, someone get Mycroft a Zpack or something.

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Updates! Happy day!

I love the image of Greg carrying Mycroft. Greg realizing that it was too easy gave me shivers. I am seriously worried that Mycroft is in need of more than a zpack.

Looking forward to more.

[Skyler]

Loving these updates and looking forward to more

[AngelEyes]

Awwwww!!!! Poor baby! Passing out again. Not ok. Greg just picking him up and realizing how thin he's gotten. Also not ok. But this is such a wonderful slow build story I could just read Forever!!!!

[coldcure08]

AAAAAHHHH!!!! Updates! I'm so Happy, I'm so Joyful... (Reads a bit) Oh dear... (Reads more) Oh... (starts crying)

(Points at mycroft and lestrade through the screen)

You two are both idiots!

The misery and the agony on both ends... My Gods, Bangbang... you are the author-embodiment of a toenail ripper (Medieval torture device) You are George R.R. Martin for fanfiction... (Oh you are emotionally invested in these characters? Okay let's F*** with them in the most gut-wrenching possible way)

I loved it of course! Thank you!

to quote another favorite character:

"Hammer and Tongs! I am so torn between Rage and Joy, that if I do not burst it will be a marvel!"

[shirin]

oh jesus two updates Im literally dying and the way you describe every little detailes makes me feel something warm inside me and feel really h.o.r.n.y sorry but couldn't resist saying it looooooooooove youu and plus my b.f loves u 2 cause of the benefits you bring to him loool

[Spoo]

There were so many wonderful things going on in this update, regardless of its length. You can literally write a few paragraphs and I promise you it'll be pure GOLD to your readers. Okay, so:

1. I love how Greg literally did everything he could BEFORE waking up Mycroft (unlocking the door and then coming back for him). It's stupid!sweet and considerate.
   
2. Guhhhh, Greg's fighting with himself. HE IS REALLY FIGHTING BRO. Tryin' so hard to keep that rage in a cage.
   
3. ajslkdkf;asdf; MYCROFT NO. GREG NO. A-at least Greg caught him as he fainted...? *sobs heavily anyway*
   
4. Mmmmffffff. Greg rubbing Mycroft's freezing hands between his: It's a sweet, familiar gesture and it gives me a severe case of the fuzzies.
   
5. Ohhh, I really liked Greg expecting to experience a bit of difficulty carrying Mycroft - that's super realistic! - but not because Mycroft would be heavy. Nope, Greg was more concerned about him being an old man, and uGH FEELS. Luckily, Greg, you'll be able to carry Mycroft just fine, but you'll unluckily realize that it's because your bb has lost an alarming amount of weight.
   
6. Okay, someone sneezing while being carried is a new fetish trope I'm totally into (especially if it's these two in particular).
   
7. Greg telling Mycroft not to stifle - as usual. Baaaby.
   
8. Good. Mycroft is comfy on the sofa now, but…oh God. IT'S TIME FOR 'THE TALK' ISN'T IT??? Gregggg, don't explode too badly! You'll hurt Mycroft's feelings (even though YOUR feelings are beyond hurt).
   

I think we all know what's going to happen next (or whenever they eventually address the [congested] elephant in the room). I just…I…I WANT THEM TO BE HAPPY OK??? *lip wibble*

[shirin]

has mycroft sneezed on Greg till now? if not what a pitty you should take this chance pleeaseeee I really need that one and please a little more suffering for myc(I know it's evil ) but would you do that?

[bangbang]

Cally - Mycroft has NO sense of proportion. Just too much etiquette training and a fever.

scw - Greg's sinking feeling that it's too easy to carry Mycroft is too much for him! (What's a z pack?)

Skyler - Thank you! Glad you're still enjoying!

Angel Eyes - I love the slow build (because I cannot control myself hahaha)

Coldcure - OMG, toenail ripper? George R R Martin? best compliments ever! (I wish I had George R R Martin's bank account!)

Shirin - thank you! Glad you like it

Spoo - Greg is trying SO HARD not to pop off but it is hard. I am a HUGE fan of the sneezing while carrying, and Mycroft is just so ill that any rage from Greg is going to be awful.

Thank you all SO MUCH for reading, you are fantastic! Get the tissues out for this section - Mycroft will need them. In every sense.

PART 11

Mycroft Holmes generally prided himself on his stoic nature. Bullet wounds, coups and the office photocopier were just a few of the things he had faced with his customary stiff upper lip intact.

However, slouching against the arm of the sofa, he couldn’t resist feeling abjectly sorry for himself. The flight back had been the final straw in the whole hellish experience, and he was now stretched out, miserable and fluey and entirely unable to breathe.

And his partner was being… rather off. After carrying him into the house after his ridiculous fainting spell, Greg had helped him into pyjamas with an oddly brusque gesture that made Mycroft inexplicably want to cry.

“Do you want to go up to bed?”

“I’d rather stay here. Just for a while.” Every nerve in his body jangled with pain; even being carried was sore, and the idea moving under his own steam was almost unthinkable. Greg had nodded and gone into the kitchen.

“Here,” he said now, emerging, “hot water bottle, tea, blanket. Get yourself comfy.”

Mycroft half-heartedly pulled the blanket up to his neck. It was definitely flu, he finally admitted to himself, rather than a bad cold; his joints ached, and he pressed the hot water bottle to his chest in the hope of relieving the sting in his lungs.

Greg came back in carrying his own tea. He reached over and helped Mycroft rearrange the blanket so it was tucked tightly around his shoulders, and then, rather surprisingly, sat down on the chair opposite instead of beside him on the sofa.

“Thanks,” Mycroft said, rather disgusted at how nasal he sounded. His nose was somehow stopped up and incredibly drippy at the same time.

Right now, he was also rising to an unappealing conclusion; he felt his eyes start to close and his lips part in a supremely unattractive way. He wearily raised a tissue and crumpled it over his nose and mouth. “HHHRRRCH! IHHSSCHHH! TSZCHOO!”

“Bless you.” Greg said. Mycroft, without lowering the tissue, raised a finger to stop him, feeling the intolerable pressure mount once more in his sinuses as he was forced to jerk forward in a sharp little movement that jarred his sore muscles.

“HEIIH--RRRSSSH! hhh!SZSSCCHH! heh—heh!RRRZZCH!”

“God, and again.”

Mycroft managed to croak a thanks and, once he was satisfied he was decent, lowered the tissue, sniffling. He was absolutely exhausted, and there was a piercing pain in his head, probably caused by the congestion.

Greg, seeing his squint, reached over and dimmed the lamp. The room sank into a blessed, cool dusk, and Mycroft sighed with relief. “Thank you.” He coughed, with an effort, and snuffled headily.

There was something odd about Greg’s demeanour; he hadn’t been quite as affectionate as he normally was whenever Mycroft was ill or returned from a trip. Mycroft couldn’t help but feel a little hurt; and then he realised, through his flu-addled mind, that it was no wonder. He was probably so miserably disgusting, with his sniffling and sneezing, that one could hardly blame Greg for not wanting to get too close.

He shifted onto his side so he was facing away from Greg and said, “I can sleep in the spare room tonight if you’d prefer.”

“Am I that obvious?” Greg said, drily, and Mycroft swallowed past a lump in his throat that had nothing to do with the flu. “S’pose so; I’m not that good at hiding things.”

“It’s quite alright,” Mycroft said, feeling his eyes sting. “I understand.”

“It’s not bloody alright,” Greg snapped. “You can’t do this, Mycroft. You can’t work yourself sick and then come back and expect me to pick up the pieces after you’ve lied to me.” His voice rose. “I’m not going to do that.”

Mycroft eased himself up on his elbows, his fevered mind turning and coming to no conclusion. “I beg your pardon?”

“You. You…” Greg looked like he badly wanted to punch something. “It doesn’t matter. I promised Anthea I wouldn’t go off on you while you’re still sick as hell. Drink your tea.”

“I haven’t lied to you!” Mycroft had finally managed to process what Greg had said, and he hoped that the break of his voice wasn’t as noticeable as he thought it was.

“Don’t give me that. At what point where you going to tell me you’d passed out? When you did it again, and I wasn’t there, and you cracked your head open? When you ended up in bloody hospital because you’re on some sort of hunger strike and you apparently don’t know how to stop when you need to take a break? Jesus Christ, Mycroft, I’m on the verge of taking you to hospital anyway because I don’t know if you’re going to get better without it.”

Mycroft was used to Greg’s temper – his partner could go from zero to furious within minutes, and he was rather amazed he’d kept it dampened down for as long as he had. He felt a brief tinge of relief when he realised that Greg wasn’t keeping his distance because of how repulsively ill he was; but it was quickly replaced with a cold sense of anxious guilt at the true reason.

“I’m fine,” he said, trying not to snap – he was tired and miserable and rather not in the mood for one of their rows. “You’re overreacting.”

“Are you serious?!” Greg shouted, and a spike of pain ran through Mycroft’s head.

“I did not lie to you – I simply didn’t inform you of -”

“Don’t even start,” Greg snarled, “I seriously don’t want to hear anything you have to say right now. You know who else used to lie to me? My wife, Mycroft. How the hell do you think it makes me feel when I find out you’re doing the same?”

“I’m not,” choked out Mycroft, feeling all the fight drain out of him to be compared to her, and Greg gave a hollow laugh.

“Well, it sure feels the same.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Mycroft whispered.

“Well, you did. And now I’m even more worried because I don’t know what else you’re hiding. Congratulations, that one backfired, didn’t it?” Greg pushed himself up off his chair and stormed out.

Mycroft pulled his knees up to his chest and leaned into them. He bit his lip so hard he thought he might break the skin.

“And another thing -” Greg said, striding back in, and then stopped. Mycroft didn’t look up. He was not going to cry. Not now.

“Shit,” Greg sighed, and slumped back into his chair. Mycroft’s breath gave a little jerk without his permission, and he clutched his knees tighter.

“Right,” said Greg, sounding deflated. “this obviously isn’t something we can do now – I’ll take the spare room tonight. I’m going to go and do some paperwork; call me if you need anything.” He got up, and Mycroft gave in entirely and collapsed into dry, heaving sobs into his knees.

“Oh, shit,” Greg said, and walked back over. “Don’t cry.”

Mycroft wanted to tell him that he’d been trying to protect him; that he was afraid that if Greg saw the whole miserable, neurotic complexity of him he would walk out the door and never return; that the only thing that had gotten him through that hellish week was reassuring himself again and again that soon he would be sleeping beside Greg again. That it was like a knife to the heart to be compared to someone who had hurt Greg so much and he loathed himself for doing anything that had led Greg to think that. He wanted to tell Greg that he was the best thing that ever happened to him, and that he was terrified of upsetting him, and that he was so sorry.

But he couldn’t force any words out, so he shifted away from Greg’s tentative hand and curled into himself and cried.

“Mycroft. Mycroft, calm down. You need to stop crying, your breathing is terrible.”

Mycroft coughed, a barking sound that came from deep in his lungs, and sobbed, still coughing. He was seeing through tunnel vision; the panic attack he’d narrowly avoided on the plane was returning with a vengeance.

“Please calm down,” Greg said, and wrapped his arms around him. Mycroft leaned into the touch and tried; it didn’t seem to work, and he could feel his chest get tighter and his fingers tingled and his blood seemed to have turned to ice. He felt as though he was drowning, and he dug his fingernails into his palms until he felt bruising as he slipped under.

---

He’d ended up having a full blown panic attack, and had come out the other end drained and mortified, and hating himself for making Greg take care of him after everything Mycroft had done.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, as Greg tucked the blanket around him.

“No, I am. I shouldn’t have gone off on you like that.” Greg sat down beside him and shifted them around so Mycroft’s head rested on his chest.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” There was the threat of tears in Mycroft’s voice, and he buried his head into Greg’s shirt.

“I know.” Greg said, heavily. “Don’t think about it now; can I get you anything else?”

Mycroft shook his head and then closed his eyes; the pain in his skull had made a sharp stab at the movement. He felt like a cardboard figure, drenched; weak and limp and useless. The panic attack and the guilt had exhausted him, and he wanted nothing more than to fall asleep here and now.

However, there was one other thing that was disturbing his rest, and that was his nose. Quite apart from feeling as though the tip was constantly ice-cold and damp, the prickling sensation in his sinuses had only grown stronger as the flu developed and a sinus infection made itself known. There was little he could do to abate it, aside from give into its demands when it brought him to completion.

He snuffled again and swiped at his nose with a knuckle to try and avert a sneeze. His red-raw nostrils flinched; he pressed at his delicate septum and then leaned in closer to Greg’s warmth.

“You sure I can’t do anything?” Greg asked, softly, stroking his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. “How are you feeling?”

“Horrendous.” He didn’t even have the energy to lie (not that he should, he reminded himself); he could feel his temperature creeping up and shifted under the blanket, trying to relieve some of the discomfort. Greg pulled him closer.

“I missed you, you know.”

Mycroft pressed his lips together – both to avoid a sneeze and the sudden wave of emotion that had unexpectedly risen in his chest. “And I you.” He swept a hand over his eyes, trying to rub away the headache, and give a long, tired exhale.

He felt Greg’s lips on his forehead. “Poor sod,” he said, against Mycroft’s skin, “you’re really going through the wringer with this, aren’t you?”

Mycroft was about to reply, but he was forced to duck his head in between pressed-together hands, lacking a tissue to cover it in any more decorum, a series of sneezes ripped themselves out of his abused airways.

“HHHRRRSHH! Hhh!---hhhNGSSCHH!”

He paused, hovering on the edge, gasping, completely out of breath, without daring to lower his hands, before he hunched his shoulders and curled into himself again. The sneezes were damp and made him cringe in distaste; he definitely had a sinus infection from the strength and the pain of them. “HHRRRSHHH! Hehhhhhh---RRSSSHOOOO! Hah!TSSZSCH!—TSCH!—NNGSCHOOO!”

“Bless you,” Greg said, passing him some tissues – Mycroft gratefully accepted, dabbing at his swollen, dark-ringed eyes and then leaned back onto Greg.

“Thank you. Could you pass me the sanitiser?”

Greg rubbed his shoulders gently as Mycroft smoothed the gel into his hands. He touched two fingers to his temple. His head was full of cotton wool and razor blades, fuzziness jostling with pain, and he could feel a thin sheen of sweat breaking out along the back of his neck.

“You’re shivering,” Greg said, quietly, and Mycroft nuzzled his head into Greg’s shoulder, feeling almost desperately in need of comfort. Greg went still, and Mycroft knew he was weighing up his words carefully. “Could you eat something?”

Mycroft swallowed. “I really don’t think so.”

“Mycroft. I know you’re feeling crap, but letting your body run on empty isn’t going to help. You keep passing out and you’re getting seriously dehydrated. If this goes on much longer you’re going to need an IV – you haven’t eaten in days.”

“Anthea told you, then.”

“Jesus, Mycroft. You’re really ill. You need to get something in.”

“I don’t think I can.” Mycroft bit his lip hard; Greg was getting annoyed again. No wonder. It was the same old argument, the one they had whenever Mycroft was stressed or anxious and his appetite disappeared, the numbers on the scale dipping in a way that Mycroft couldn’t deny was satisfying. He did try, nowadays, to keep himself at an even keel, but every now and then the old voices started to whisper and he and Greg would have a fight that left them both frustrated and made him even less inclined to eat. He didn’t want to go through it now, not after they’d just had a fight; he was tired and his vision was getting shaky again. “Please don’t,” he said.

“Don’t what?” Greg touched his forehead. “Oh, Mycroft. You’re burning up. Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

Edited November 5, 2014 by bangbang

[matilda3948]

Aww...poor things! This whole section is really brilliant (as usual) but I especially love this line:

He felt Greg’s lips on his forehead. “Poor sod,” he said, against Mycroft’s skin, “you’re really going through the wringer with this, aren’t you?”

Also (again, as usual) love the idea that Mycroft has panic attacks. That's always been part of my head cannon for Molly, but I totally love it with Mycroft.

[shirin]

haha myc man you've get caught. you can not keep Greg out of this forever simply can not.so please let him ease the pain

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

"Zpack" is a trade name (in the US) for the antibiotic azithromycin, which is used to treat a variety of infections, mostly upper respiratory infections, like a sinus infection.

Love the update. Mycroft is really getting put through the wringer--flu, sinus infection, panic attacks all on top of not eating or drinking. Please don't let Greg yell at him too much.

[Spoo]

Rambling voice comment I AM SO SORRY

[AngelEyes]

OMG. TEARS. So much. Much. Need. No more words. Love.

[cally]

I . . .I have no words right now. If I were to start quoting parts, I would end up with the entire chapter quoted. This is truly a work of art, of perfection.

[ID2006]

Tears... poor Mystrade

[Purple]

I have fallen down the rabbit hole that is Mystrade and I have no regrets. THIS IS SO LOVELY aND CrUEL IN ALL THE BEST WAYS AND what else was I going to say... Oh, right:

[AngelEyes]

So this has officially taken over my brain, literally. I had a dream last night of Mycroft curled up in a ball having a panic attack. The perspective kept switching between me being Mycroft and me watching him. It was quite distressing. And yet somehow made me feel closer to him. Is that weird?