Berlin (Mystrade, BBC Sherlock)

[bangbang]

Matilda - yes! I am so into Mycroft having an anxiety disorder, based on that one throwaway comment from Sherlock about him having OCD. It's something I think can fit into his character perfectly.

Shirin - don't worry, Greg is gonna ease the pain!

Scw - Mycroft definitely needs a z-pack! Greg is done yelling though, he's too worried about Mycroft.

Cally - I am an artiste *hairflip* (omg not really but thank you!)

Spoo - things are gonna get better! I love the idea of us being a Mycroft support group, though.

Ickydog - Thank you! I love reducing people to tears. It's my fave thing.

Purple - it is a wonderful rabbit hole, isn't it? Mystrade 4eva

Angel Eyes - AMAZING! Well, not that you had a horrible dream, but that it got into you so much, that's so great to hear! EEK!

We're getting near the end, Holmsies. Two parts after this (I thiiiink).

PART 12

Mycroft had blacked out again as Greg carried him up the stairs. Greg lay him on the bed and stroked his back as he came too, trembling worse than ever. He’d asked for something for his head, and Greg brought tea, dry toast, water and ibuprofen through on a tray – he hoped he could convince Mycroft to have at least something before he gave him the pills. Moving him up the stairs, he had paid closer attention, and realised with a shock that he could feel every bone in his body. He knew Mycroft had been off his food for a month or so (stress at work, insomnia - the reasons were varied) but the bout of flu seemed to have melted away what little weight he was carrying and it was frightening.

Mycroft lay curled on his side, eyes half closed, chest shaking up and down with harsh, shallow little breaths. Greg stroked the inside of his wrist and felt the hummingbird thump of his pulse. Mycroft seemed barely responsive, and Greg lay down beside him. All his anger had been shelved when Mycroft had had the panic attack; it was clear that he wasn’t up to an argument right now.

“Mycroft?” he whispered, being careful not to raise his voice too loudly.

“Mmm.” Mycroft rolled over limply so he was facing Greg, and cracked his eyes open.

“Mycroft. You need to eat something. Or drink something, at least.” His face was pinched, cheeks looking hollow and eyes bruised.

“Can’t,” Mycroft whispered, and shuffled closer to Greg, closing his eyes again.

“Mycroft. You have to. I’m going to have to call someone if you don’t.” Greg wanted nothing more than to wrap Mycroft in a bearhug and not let go but he couldn’t let the matter drop. By his estimation, it had been several days since Mycroft had eaten, and at least twelve hours since he’d drunk anything. It was getting dangerously close to needing medical intervention, and the fact that his fever hadn’t dropped didn’t help anything.

“I don’t feel well,” Mycroft whispered, and Greg pulled him close and stroked the back of his head.

“I know,” he said, biting his lip, “it must be awful for you. But the dehydration and not eating isn’t helping, Myc. You need to get something in you. I can’t give you any more medication unless you do.”

Mycroft made to sit up, and Greg guided him with a hand over his back, propping him against the pillows. “Alright,” he croaked, and Greg brought over the water glass, almost falling to his knees in relief.

Mycroft reached for the cup but as soon as Greg felt his shaking, icy hands, he shook his head and said, “Let me.” He put a hand on the nape of Mycroft’s neck and held the water glass to his chapped lips as he took minute sips, shuddering.

They’d got roughly a third of it down when Mycroft pulled away abruptly; Greg brought the glass back to avoid spilling it down him.

“You alright?” he asked, and was answered as Mycroft pressed his pyjama cuff over his nose and mouth and sneezed ferociously.

“RRRSSHHOOO! HhhehTCHh! hhh!RRRSSZHHOO! ISH!ISH!hhhh---TZSH! Hah!RRSHOOO!”

“Bless you.” Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders and pulled him into his body. He was hot and shivery and Greg smoothed down his hair and planted a kiss on his forehead.

Mycroft, who was the most independent and reserved and collected person he had ever met, clung to him and whimpered very quietly, and that was what made Greg’s mind up. “I’m going to call John,” he said, lowly, “and see if he’s got any ideas.” Mycroft tightened his grip. “I know you don’t want to, but I think you might need to see a doctor.”

“Alright,” Mycroft whispered, and Greg left the room.

---

“Do you have a case?” asked a languid, private-schooled voce that was most definitely not John’s.

“Do you have John’s phone?” Greg demanded.

“He left it behind when he went to the supermarket. Said he needed a break from me for a while.” Even Sherlock’s voice was pouty. “Do you have a case?”

“No. Tell John to call me back.” Greg made to hang up; he wasn’t in the mood for Sherlock’s games.

“Wait!” Sherlock sounded perturbed. “Why do you need John?”

“None of your business. Tell him to call me.”

“It’s not police business – you’re not working today, and you would have called me first, so it must be personal. And you sound angry, so you’re not inviting him to one of those ridiculous pub get-togethers, and you’re not asking me to take a message, so… something medical? You don’t sound obviously ill - don’t tell me you’ve developed some embarrassing malady, Lestrade.” Sherlock sounded gleeful at the thought.

“Piss off.” Greg felt his temper rise. “Just piss off and tell John to call me.”

“It’s not you, is it?” Sherlock paused, and then, his voice suddenly losing its laughing edge, asked, “What’s wrong with Mycroft?”

“Like you care.” Greg was too angry to even talk to him. “In fact, just tell John to get over here as soon as he gets back.”

“Tell me what’s wrong with him or I’m coming over myself.” Sherlock’s voice was low and dangerous. Greg ran a hand through his hair.

“He’s got the flu. He’s dehydrated, he keeps passing out, and he hasn’t eaten in about four days.” He heard Sherlock start to talk, and interrupted him. “Don’t you dare say anything. I swear to God. He’s bloody emaciated. He’s barely conscious. Don’t you dare bloody say anything about his weight or I’m going to throw you in the cells.” He kicked the sofa, imagining it was Sherlock’s head. It hurt in the best possible way.

Sherlock had gone silent. “Despite what you may believe, I don’t actually wish my brother harm, Lestrade.”

“Like hell you don’t. All those little jabs about his diet? And his habits? You think that doesn’t make it all worse?” He breathed heavily and collapsed on the sofa, putting his head in his free hand.

The line was silent for a few minutes, then Sherlock, sounding uncertain, said, “It’s just a joke.”

“Maybe to you,” Greg said bitterly. He heard Sherlock swallow on the other end of the phone, and his anger faded. “Just, get John to call me, OK? I don’t know if he’s going to need to go to the hospital or not.” He hung up and put the kettle on, furious and anxious in equal measures.

His phone rang again; he picked up, hissing “Sherlock, if this is - ”

“Nah,” said John’s voice, “it’s me. Sherlock said it was pretty urgent. Sorry about him; he’s in a bad mood because he forgot his mum’s birthday and she told Mrs Hudson and now she won’t make him breakfast anymore. What’s up with Mycroft?”

Greg shook off the fact that Sherlock’s landlady made him breakfast and ran a hand through his hair. “He’s got the flu, but it’s a really bad dose.”

“OK. Respiratory symptoms?”

“He’s coughing a lot. And he can’t stop sneezing. And he’s not eating. But I’m really worried about how high his temperature’s getting. And he keeps passing out.” Greg picked at his thumbnail.

“Fevers are quite common with the flu – so long as he doesn’t go above around 40º it should be OK. The fainting is a bit worrying, though. As for the eating, the flu can destroy your appetite so if he’s drinking plenty he’ll likely be fine without eating for a few days - is he drinking enough?”

“I can barely get him to drink water. And he’s got a splitting headache, but I don’t want to keep giving him medicine if he doesn’t eat. I don’t really know what to do. He seems really dehydrated.”

“OK. He’ll need to start taking in fluids or he’ll end up in hospital. Try flat lemonade; helps replace electrolytes and blood sugar and it’s easy enough to drink. Do you want me to come round?”

“I don’t know. I’ll see if I can get anything down him tonight.”

“Call me anytime.” John paused. “Are you OK? You sound a bit off.”

“I just… I feel useless,” Greg confessed. “I’m not very good at this stuff.”

There was a rustle on the other end of the phone and then Sherlock’s voice came over it. “Mycroft doesn’t tolerate useless people. You’re still there, aren’t you?”

“Give the phone back to John,” Greg demanded – all the same, though, Sherlock’s uncharacteristically comforting (if brusque) words cheered him up slightly. As John and Sherlock bickered for the phone, he heard a creak from upstairs – Mycroft must have woken up

“God,” said John, “turns out when he doesn’t get his bed made every morning he’s even more of a nightmare to live with. Let me know how it goes, yeah?”

“OK. Thanks.” Greg hung up, and, at the sound of a muffled cough from the second floor, made his way upstairs.

Edited November 8, 2014 by bangbang

[coldcure08]

ER GERD LERD! These last two updates... I can't be expected to function after these... I just can't.

The photocopier... and the guilt... and the visuals... and "I'vehadituptoherewithyourshit" Greg.

And desperation of calling John and ending up with Sherlock.

Andandand... lostgreg... I just can't. (curls into a ball and sobs) I love you BangBang.

[Skyler]

I am lost for words... Wow

[AngelEyes]

Wailing!!!! Noooo! Sweet baby is so fragile right now! You're killing me. (In a good way)

[cally]

Mycroft, who was the most independent and reserved and collected person he had ever met, clung to him and whimpered very quietly, and that was what made Greg’s mind up.

This was the line that broke me.

Like others have mentioned, I am worried, like worried about Mycroft. (But I worry about everything, so. . .)

I did quite enjoy the Greg/Sherlock/John banter, though.

[Spoo]

Two voice comments in a row? SAY WHAT

[bangbang]

coldcure - I knooow. I am a terrible person. Things are gonna get better?

SkylerSneeze - Thank you!

Angel Eyes - Mycroft is so vulnerable right now it's unbelievable, and so out of character that it's freaking him out a little bit.

Cally - I just love putting all of them in the mix and letting them snark it out! Don't worry, Mycroft has his not-furious boo to take care of him now!

Spoo - voice comment voice comment you SPOIL me. *aggressive confetti* Mycroft admitting he's sick is usually a bad sign - the Mycroft support group and Greg are watching with bated breath. Fragile snowflake is perfect for Mycroft - Sherlock seriously needs to consider the weight of his words.

Only the epilogue to go now after this part!

PART 13

Mycroft was emerging from the bathroom, bracing himself against the wall with one hand; he glanced up at Greg. “Did you talk to John?” he rasped, swaying slightly. Greg wrapped a steadying arm around his waist.

“Easy. Yeah, he said you need to get some liquids down you before you get hospitalised. Are you alright walking?”

Mycroft gave a weak little shiver; Greg gently lifted him off his feet, bridal-style, and made his way down the hall.

“Sorry,” Mycroft sighed into his neck, “for everything.” He sounded morose and shaky – he often got a bit weepy when running a temperature and it never helped matters. His crying jag earlier had been utterly terrifying; Greg was determined to avert another by any means possible.

“You don’t have to be sorry.” Greg shifted his hand so he could stroke Mycroft’s back.

“I never intended to cause any concern.”

“I love you. That’s what you do when you love someone. You worry about me.” Greg put Mycroft down and lay across the bed next to him. Mycroft shifted so they were facing each other and placed his forehead on the centre of Greg’s chest.

“Your mum’s made Mrs Hudson go on strike,” Greg said into his hair, and Mycroft laughed, vibrating against him. Greg wrapped his arms around him as he descended into a hoarse coughing fit, and then froze and tried to jerk away.

Greg didn’t let go, but he leant back a bit and saw that Mycroft had his hands cupped desperately over his nose and mouth, eyes slipping closed, breath coming in quickened pants.

“Sorry - I nee-ehhh! Need to sn—hhh! Hhh! HHEHRRRSHH!” Mycroft rocked forwards against Greg’s torso, and Greg sat up, reaching over and retrieving the tissue box from the bedside table. Mycroft was unable to take them, because he was caught in another cycle of hitching, his eyebrows crashing together in a pained grimace as the sneeze tore its way through him. “HH—INN-GSSHH!”

He lowered his hands and took the tissues Greg offered, his face slack, nostrils visibly trembling from the force of his heady, hopeless sneezes. He managed to dip his head forward into the white paper just in time to expel a rapid, tiring sequence. “hhhhhehh!INGSH! heh-TISH! Ahhehhh---RRSH!—RRSZSH!---RRRRSSHHOOO!”

Greg, still half sitting, leaned over and rubbed his back. “Bless you. Alright?”

“I can’t–hhh! Ca-can’t –ahhh!hhh—hh! Stop – hh! Snee—” Just saying the word seemed to intensify Mycroft’s need for it, his long nose crinkling at the bridge and his narrow nostrils arching further with their haste. “Sneez—ihhh! ihhh-SHH! HhhhittSCHOO! Hhh!hhhhh….aahh!” It seemed determined to torment him; he scrunched his nose in a desperate attempt to force it out, then lowered the tissue and pressed the underside of his nostrils with a forefinger to try and coax it to completion, hitching all the while but unable to develop the sneeze past the ticklish, nightmarish lingering in his sinuses.

Greg felt tremendously sorry for him; he gave tiny little coughs in between staggering breaths and he looked utterly worn out, his eyes glistening with fever and tears of exertion. The vicious sneezing had obviously worsened his headache as well – there was a definite look of pain in the crow’s feet around his eyes.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, helplessly, as Mycroft’s nostrils fluttered with their incessant, denied need. Mycroft shook his head; he looked closer to the sneeze with every passing second but it was still holding out.

Greg, wanting to provide at least some small comfort, lay back down so Mycroft was leaning into his chest again. He pulled him close and pressed a kiss above his eyebrow, and then paused as Mycroft gave a frantic, wild gasp at his action.

It didn’t seem to have done the trick entirely, because his breathing settled back into the torturous, sneezy rhythm, but it gave Greg an idea. He laid chaste, feathery kisses along Mycroft’s eyebrow and leading onto the bridge of his nose; Mycroft’s breaths were becoming more and more erratic.

“Wha---aaaah! What are –hhh!” Mycroft clasped the tissue back over his nose and mouth; Greg pushed it a little lower so it barely covered his septum and his shivering, widening nostrils and kissed the long, crooked line of his bridge.

“I’m helping,” he whispered, and put one last, tiny kiss onto the tip of Mycroft’s twitching, unbearable, desperate nose. Mycroft gave a final quavering breath, leaned his forehead back against Greg’s chest and sneezed explosively into the tissue.

“HEH-TINGSHHH!--hhhinGSH!—ISH!--ISH!--ISH!-----hhhehISH!”

He shuddered against Greg with every helpless inhale, and Greg rubbed his back, feeling a great wave of sympathy for how wretched Mycroft was feeling. Mycroft stopped for one long gasp and Greg was about to bless him, but seconds later he launched back into the exceptionally violent attack. “HRRRSHH! IIIHH-RSSH! Heh!—aheh!—HAHTSSZCH! TISHOOO! ING-SZHHOOOO!”

Finally, spent, he snuffled hard into the tissue and edged a little closer towards Greg as though he was asking permission. Greg cradled the back of his skull and pulled him in, and Mycroft nuzzled into the hollow between his shoulder and neck.

Greg smoothed a lock of hair off his forehead. “Bless you,” he said, and Mycroft gave a raspy laugh.

“Thank you. That was most unorthodox.”

“Effective, though. We’ll have to remember that one.” He kissed the top of Mycroft’s head and felt him sigh. “You must be bloody exhausted. Do you think you can sleep for a bit?”

“God, yes,” Mycroft said, faintly, and then paused. Greg could almost hear the cogs working in his mind. “Would it be possible to have a drink first, though?”

“John recommended flat Sprite.”

“That sounds horrendous. Tea would be lovely. If you don’t mind.”

Greg made them both a cup and brought them back up. Greg knew Mycroft was only saying it to appease him; but if it got some liquids into his dehydrated partner, he was willing to go along with it. Mycroft managed almost half the cup before waving it away and leaning sideways onto Greg’s shoulder, worn out.

Greg’s phone beeped. It was a text from Sherlock, saying simply – Progress?

“Are you on a case?” Mycroft asked, sleepily, taking in Greg’s screen with fever-glazed eyes.

“He wanted me to tell him how you were.” Greg was still angry with Sherlock, for all his years of little barbs and taunts. He knew, intellectually, that Sherlock’s mocking wouldn’t have caused or even significantly worsened Mycroft’s problems with control or body image, but he couldn’t help feeling infuriated that someone as clever as Sherlock didn’t consider the effect his words could have.

Mycroft looked up at him, obviously reading his thoughts on his face. “Sherlock likes to get a reaction from people. And I must take partial responsibility for teaching him how to deduce someone’s insecurities. I doubt he does it out of any real malice.”

“I don’t care. He still does it.”

“Yes. But he’s not the root of the problem. Nothing is. It’s simply faulty brain chemistry exacerbated by emotional difficulty.”

“It makes me sad,” Greg admitted, staring at his hands. “I thought I’d…”

“You thought you’d be able to fix it.” Mycroft didn’t sound angry; in fact, he was almost smiling.

“Or at least help,” Greg said, feeling a lump form in his throat.

“A common misconception. My parents often wondered what they’d done wrong. The answer is, of course, nothing – some things simply are. And there’s very little anyone can do.” He coughed, throatily, and sipped his tea. “I’m medicated. I have coping strategies. And with you, I’ve… I’ve rarely felt this happy.”

Greg’s mouth was dry and his eyes were damp, and he wrapped an arm over Mycroft’s shoulders as he carried on. “Everything is better with you here. And I could never have anticipated that. So please don’t feel that you don’t help. You help. You help tremendously. You help just by being here, by being yourself.” He finished with another long, dry coughing fit, and pressed himself into Greg’s side. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

Greg wrapped his arms tighter around Mycroft’s shoulders and pulled him in closer. “I love you, you daft sod,” he muttered into Mycroft’s hair, and his partner gave a hoarse giggle, and nuzzled closer, and within minutes he was asleep.

[Spoo]

I'm just gonna...yeah...

1. Ughhhhh. More bridal-style carrying. Not to mention Greg being extra gentle and considerate, because Mycroft is so breakable right now. *sob*
   
2. If you'll allow me to channel my inner Moriarty: That's what people DO…when they love each other. See, Mycroft? Greg understands these things~
   
3. Um. Mycroft sneezing against Greg? Yes. ALL my yes. That is a lovely pose and situation and eeeeeverything.
   
4. And omg it gOT BETTERRRR. I really love Mycroft's unending sneezing fits (much as he himself hates them). Most of the descriptions you used should be illegal, though, because they're so desperate and needy and please God just let him sneeze. ajsldfka;lsd;fd
   
5. Greg should help Mycroft sneeze more often, methinks. The results are fruitful and we get some delicious nose porn in the process .
   
6. Mycroft Holmes does NOT drink flat Sprite. *Talk to the hand*
   
7. Protective!Greg gives me life. Still being huffy with Sherlock for his mockery, even though he completely understands that Sherlock's taunts didn't cause Mycroft's issues (NOT THE POINT, THOUGH, GREG HUFFILY THINKS).
   
8. Nooooo. Greg just wanted to help.
   
9. "I've rarely felt this happy"--NOPE. NOPENOPENOPE. *Flips every table on the forum* I CAN'T.
   
10. Buhhh. See, Greg? You are helping! Just by being your loving self.
    

Gadzooks. What a STORY. I just--how is this not an independent novel?? Brava! BRAVAAAA! I'm sure the epilogue is going to be just as perfect, but seriously, man, give yourself a huge pat on the back. You are a master at storytelling and character development/overall emotions and deserve ALL the fanfiction awards. *Throws said awards at you…AGGRESSIVELY* I'm totally adding this fic to my bangbang shrine.

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Wonderful updates! "Helping", all the "helping" that's going on here is amazing. I love all the layers of "help". Greg helping Mycroft back to bed, helping Mycroft sneeze (sigh!), helping Mycroft with his anxiety. I keep thinking of Shel Silverstein's poem, which says, "Some kind of help is the kind of help that helping's all about." (Greg) "And some kind of help is the kind of help we all could do without!" (Sherlock)

I look forward to the epilogue, though I'll be sad when this is over.

[ellwren]

some things simply are. And there’s very little anyone can do.

Wow. You're so smart!

Why didn't I ever figure out that much myself?

Really looking forward to the epilogue, although it means this lovely story's near its end.

[AngelEyes]

“You thought you’d be able to fix it.” Mycroft didn’t sound angry; in fact, he was almost smiling.

“Or at least help,” Greg said, feeling a lump form in his throat.

“A common misconception. My parents often wondered what they’d done wrong. The answer is, of course, nothing – some things simply are. And there’s very little anyone can do.” He coughed, throatily, and sipped his tea. “I’m medicated. I have coping strategies. And with you, I’ve… I’ve rarely felt this happy.”

Wow. As someone with bipolar disorder, who also dated someone with bipolar for a while, this is so spot on. Mental illness is a tricky thing to understand if you haven't experienced it. You really have the heart of it. Thank you.

And besides that, poor helpless Desperate Mycroft! Gah!!!!! His desperate endless fits make me insensible. Just, mmmmmmmm.......

[cally]

Mycroft looked up at him, obviously reading his thoughts on his face. “Sherlock likes to get a reaction from people. And I must take partial responsibility for teaching him how to deduce someone’s insecurities. I doubt he does it out of any real malice.”

“I don’t care. He still does it.”

“Yes. But he’s not the root of the problem. Nothing is. It’s simply faulty brain chemistry exacerbated by emotional difficulty.”

“It makes me sad,” Greg admitted, staring at his hands. “I thought I’d…”

“You thought you’d be able to fix it.” Mycroft didn’t sound angry; in fact, he was almost smiling.

“Or at least help,” Greg said, feeling a lump form in his throat.

“A common misconception. My parents often wondered what they’d done wrong. The answer is, of course, nothing – some things simply are. And there’s very little anyone can do.”

I . . .um . . . have a lot of feelings about this and I. . . yeah. I don't really have the appropriate words for this. . . . so I will just echo everyone else's sentiments for now.

[ellwren]

Mental illness is a tricky thing to understand if you haven't experienced it. You really have the heart of it. Thank you.

Er, that's what I was trying to say (but failed to articulate.)

[matilda3948]

It took me, like, four tries to get through this section because my brain kept short-circuiting. Sooooo sooo good!!

Greg, still half sitting, leaned over and rubbed his back. “Bless you. Alright?”

“I can’t–hhh! Ca-can’t –ahhh!hhh—hh! Stop – hh! Snee—” Just saying the word seemed to intensify Mycroft’s need for it, his long nose crinkling at the bridge and his narrow nostrils arching further with their haste. “Sneez—ihhh! ihhh-SHH! HhhhittSCHOO!

"I can't stop sneezing" (especially while sneezing) is about my favorite thing ever.

And as others have noted, your treatment of Mycroft's anxiety is spot-on. Bravo!!

[bangbang]

Spoo - I basically just want Greg to carry Mycroft everywhere forever. The poor bb. He loathes his terrible fits so much and we just sit there on the edge of our seats.

Huffy, grumpy Greg is basically my life. He's like an angry little teddy-bear, cuddling Mycroft while grumbling about his brother.

*aggressively accepts awards* You better have a shrine to me, girl. I imagine it's like that one in Hey Arnold! where Helga has built a life sized bust of him out of chewing gum.

scw - The layers of helping! It's one of those things I never even considered. That poem is lovely. Sherlock is DEFINITELY the help we could all do without (although he does try, I think!)

ellwren - I know, right? Mycroft is like a wise old owl.

AngelEyes - thank you, that means a lot. Mycroft is kind of an outlet for me here, and once I latched onto the idea of him having OCD it kind of ran away with me - I'm glad it rang true, though.

cally- so long as it's a good speechless!

Matilda - the "I can't stop sneezing" while sneezing thing is my favourite ever. It's like, we know, Mycroft!

We have reached the end, homies! *pops champagne cork* Thank you for all your support and well wishing and lovely comments the whole way through - it kept me going in the dark days when I wanted them both to vanish off the face of the earth so I wouldn't have to finish writing this thing. But here we are! And here they are! And here it is!

EPILOGUE

“D’you want tomato and lentil, or chicken and vegetable?” Greg pulled the cartons of soup out of the fridge.

“Tomato, thank you,” Mycroft croaked from the kitchen table, flicking out a tissue from the pack and dabbing at his watering nose.

It was almost a week since Mycroft had returned home. The initial few days had been the most difficult; Mycroft had been completely unable to face eating anything, growing paler and limper each day. Greg had eventually sent out a panicked call the morning after Mycroft came back that had had John coming out and checking Mycroft’s pulse and his rattling cough. He’d supplied antibiotics for the sinus infection, and there had been an unpleasant few days where Mycroft choked down nutritional smoothies under Greg’s watchful eye. It had been tense – not least because with a fever that was verging on dangerous Mycroft wasn’t entirely co-operative, and Greg felt overwhelmingly guilty. (Especially when he tasted one of the smoothies, and had to brush his teeth four times to get rid of the vile flavour.)

All the same, Mycroft had, with a bit of coercion, finished the three days of smoothies and managed to get back onto a tentative diet of soup and the occasional piece of toast. It wasn’t ideal, but at least Greg could leave him alone for more than five minutes without worrying about him passing out. Now that his temperature had come down and he was compliant, if exhausted, Greg had allowed him out of bed.

“Tomato it is then.” Greg put it on to heat and made them both another cup of tea, sitting down beside Mycroft. His partner had insisted on eating at the table, and Greg had agreed, on the condition that he stayed in pyjamas; he was currently bundled up in dressing gown, slippers, and a massive blanket swaddled around his shoulders with a hot water bottle tucked in for good measure.

“Thank you.” Mycroft had been on the verge of losing his voice for days; Greg thought that this might be when it finally happened. It was strained and airy and as he sipped his tea, he took another tissue and pressed it beneath his nose.

“Alright?” inquired Greg, and Mycroft nodded, despite his narrowing eyes. Greg sighed; although he was massively relieved that Mycroft had managed to shake the fever, he wished he’d recovered from his lingering respiratory symptoms as well. He had to be dosed up on cough syrup to be able to sleep without his dry hacking keeping him awake, but there was nothing to be done with the frequent sneezing fits that left him exhausted and sniffly.

Mycroft was obviously on the brink of one of those fits now, his flu-swollen eyes half closed and mouth half open as his nostrils contracted and widened into sneezy expanses. Greg tutted and got up to check on the soup as Mycroft dipped his stuffed-up, fitful nose into the tissue.

“HEHRRRRSH!” Greg turned from the pan; Mycroft gave a shallow gasp and covered his face again. “TTSCH! HeshTSCHSH! HeshhOOO! TISH!—hehTISH!—hehTNGSCH!—hihhRRSCHOO!”

“Bless you.” He gave Mycroft’s shoulders a quick rub as he recovered, headily snuffling into the tissue.

Mycroft opened his mouth and made a sort of croaking noise; he cleared his throat, painfully, and said in a cracked whisper “Thank you.”

“Shush. That sounds sore. You think you can manage some toast with this?”

Mycroft gave a so-so shrug and then nodded, looking resigned; Greg appreciated that he was making the effort, and put the toaster on.

He watched Mycroft out of the corner of his eye. His partner had been feverishly on edge upon coming home - more nervy than usual, and prone to tears. Quite apart from the panic attack he’d had on arrival, Anthea had filled him in about the one on the plane. Greg was used to Mycroft’s issues with over stimulation from noise and people and unfamiliar environments, but he seemed terribly vulnerable at the moment. He had treaded carefully around him for fear of upsetting him unnecessarily – they had skirted around their argument, although he knew they had to tackle it sometime soon.

Mycroft had managed, with some effort, to get everything under control and had even eased up on his usage of anti-bacterial gel over the last few days.

He ladled out the soup and tangled his legs up in Mycroft’s under the table while they ate. He was surprised at just how lost he had been while Mycroft was away and how nice it was to have him home, even if it was with a horrendous bout of flu.

Mycroft gave a dry cough and said, as though he could read Greg’s thoughts, “I missed you terribly, you know.”

“I know. I missed you too.” Greg paused. “We need to talk about what happened.”

Mycroft let out a rogue sniffle and quickly swiped at his nose with distaste. “Excuse me. I know.” He looked tired and miserable and resigned, and Greg couldn’t find it in him to ignite his previous fury, so he took a gentler approach.

“You can’t lie to me. Not even to protect me, and especially not about serious stuff like your health. It scares me. And it hurts, Mycroft.”

“I know. “ Mycroft chewed his lip, and Greg nudged him gently before he drew blood. “I didn’t want you to worry when there was nothing you could do.”

“Mycroft, I’m going to worry anyway. If I was away and sick, you’d worry.”

“I know, but…” Mycroft closed his eyes, and Greg waited. “I’m sorry. I assure you that from now on I will strive for honesty.” He reached across the table and tentatively touched Greg’s hand. “I really am sorry that I hurt you.”

“I know.” Greg stroked his thumb. “It’s something we can work on.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m like…” Mycroft trailed off, and Greg grimaced. So that’s what had been bothering him.

“I shouldn’t have said that. You’re nothing like her.”

“It’s the same thing, though.” Mycroft’s eyes were glossing over slightly; Greg shook his head, rounded the table, and pulled him into a bearhug.

“It’s not. You’re not. I promise.” Mycroft rested his head on his shoulder and Greg’s throat tightened. “There’s no way you can avoid going away to these things, is there?”

He felt Mycroft shake his head, and start to apologise, and he interrupted. “I know you have to do these things. I just miss you, when you’re gone. And I wish I could do more.”

“You’re doing this. This is more than enough.” Mycroft hesitated. “The going away is bearable if I’m coming back to you.”

“Oh, Mycroft.” Greg squeezed him harder. “You always will be.”

They sat in silence for a minute, just listening to the thump of each other’s heartbeat, until Mycroft shifted, and breathlessly, said, “Sorry- I need -hhh!”

He swooped away from Greg and the table, burying his head in his elbow just in time to catch an errant trio of sneezes. “hehRRSCH! Heh-ahh…INGSHHH! TSSSCHHOO!” He pulled out another handful of tissues. “God. Excuse me.”

“Bless you. Finished?” Greg gestured towards the bowl; Mycroft had eaten almost all his soup and managed half a slice of toast, which was an improvement on yesterday.

Mycroft nodded blearily. “Thank you. And yes.”

“Want to go and sit on the sofa?”

“If you’re coming,” said Mycroft, tiredly, and Greg pressed a kiss onto his forehead.

“Course I am. Always.”

Mycroft drifted off to sleep, sprawled out over Greg’s body in a rare moment of inelegance; Greg watched him, not quite understanding how someone could be so infuriating and insecure and perfect in equal measures.

But he had long since realised that he was simply content with loving the mystery that was Mycroft; so he brushed his partner’s hair back and went to sleep himself.

THE END

[cally]

“You’re doing this. This is more than enough.” Mycroft hesitated. “The going away is bearable if I’m coming back to you.”

Awwwwwwwwwwww.

I'm so, so sad this is over. I have far too many emotions and feelings over this than is probably healthy.

[ellwren]

Sad that it's over, but that was just lovely.

And now I want soup.

[AngelEyes]

Mycroft drifted off to sleep, sprawled out over Greg’s body in a rare moment of inelegance; Greg watched him, not quite understanding how someone could be so infuriating and insecure and perfect in equal measures.

The essence of Mycroft.

I love this so much! I'm super sad it's done!!! But it was wonderful and brilliant! Looking forward to your next project.

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Thank you for this wonderfully intense fic. I really enjoyed it. Your stories are a pleasure to read because of the complexity you weave into them. I'm looking forward to your next endeavor.

As an aside, I forsee Mycroft being strong armed into getting a flu shot next fall by Greg and Anthea.

[Skyler]

I LOVE THIS

[Spoo]

Considering I've left obnoxious comment-essays throughout this story, let me just summarize: Beautiful epilogue to a beautiful story. ALSO. Greg needs to bearhug Mycroft more often. Because...because yeah.

[coldcure08]

“Bless you. Finished?” Greg gestured towards the bowl; Mycroft had eaten almost all his soup and managed half a slice of toast, which was an improvement on yesterday.

Mycroft nodded blearily. “Thank you. And yes.”

“Want to go and sit on the sofa?”

“If you’re coming,” said Mycroft, tiredly, and Greg pressed a kiss onto his forehead.

“Course I am. Always.”

Mycroft drifted off to sleep, sprawled out over Greg’s body in a rare moment of inelegance; Greg watched him, not quite understanding how someone could be so infuriating and insecure and perfect in equal measures.

But he had long since realised that he was simply content with loving the mystery that was Mycroft; so he brushed his partner’s hair back and went to sleep himself.

Great Galloping Gorillas... Adorabibble! and this... "Greg wrapped his arms tighter around Mycroft’s shoulders and pulled him in closer. “I love you, you daft sod,” he muttered into Mycroft’s hair, and his partner gave a hoarse giggle, and nuzzled closer, and within minutes he was asleep. ", Yes YES YESSSSSS! Happy Happy Happy CC! Much like Mycroft, this story was equal parts adorable and infuriating! Gods I loved it though! Thank you for your creative magicks! I look forward expectantly to being tortured more by you!

[matilda3948]

Marvelous story!! Thank you for the effort.

[frolicking periwinkle]

Years too late, but i cant get enough of this story. I want to see a whole world where you write about these two 

[frolicking periwinkle]

On 10/24/2014 at 0:54 PM, Spoo said:

*AGGRESSIVE CONFETTI*

I know that this is yours late, but I have been laughing at the idea of aggressive confetti for days. Because I can see it, I totally understand what you're saying. And probably because I see it in like a Sesame Street background we are Greg is aggressively throwing confetti at Mycroft