Secret Santa for cally! (Sherlock; Mystrade [M])

[Spoo]

Are you surprised that I was your Secret Santa? I wasn't! Especially since, you know, we've been sailing on the Mystrade ship for ages. Anywho, I'm a writer who tends to work better when a deadline is sneaking up on me, so I do apologize for the wait~

That being said, I really hope you enjoy this. I know that, like me, you get feels from Mystrade hurt/comfort and snuggles - more so Greg comforting poor Mycroft when he's unwell and anxiety-ridden. That being said, I strongly feel as though Mycroft has nightmares when he's very ill about all of the traumatizing things he's seen throughout his career. Luckily, he has a very caring and concerned boyfriend to look after him.

Anywho, enough babbling on my part. Here you gooooo!

- - -

It was still dark outside when Mycroft awoke with a gasp from the frighteningly realistic fever dream that had feasted on his unguarded mind. Suppressing a cough that bubbled up from his painfully tight chest, he turned onto his side and pressed his thin fingers over his eyes, willing the horrifying images that were stained on the insides of his eyelids to retreat to the darker corners of his brain, where he normally kept them tightly contained.

Since he didn't quite trust himself to maintain the silence and not wake his partner with his strained, whistling breaths, Mycroft collected his pillow from beneath his head and cradled it against his chest, so that, at the very least, he was able to press the cushioned material to his parted lips. His nose wasn't entirely capable of drawing in air through his inflamed his nasal passages, yet breathing through his nose, however snuffly it sounded, was far less conspicuous than breathing heavily from his mouth.

More than that, though, it allowed him to muffle the small, pinched sounds of vulnerability that were slipping past his vocal defenses.

Mycroft wasn't often attacked in his sleep (not usually, anyway) but the stressful traumas of his career, combined with his own imprisoning insecurities, seemed to amplify whenever he was gravely ill; they seized his memory bank and exploited recollections from earlier years that contained horrors beyond measure.

There was, of course, the option of medication - of a sleep aid that would prevent him from waking before dawn, regardless if he was fevered or not. Nevertheless, artificial tranquility wasn't something Mycroft wished for. He was already medicated for his allergies, anxiety, and OCD. He would have rather liked to avoid an additional pair of tablets beside his morning tea for yet another crippling condition.

Seconds ticked by like individual eternities as he waited for the cold flames of irrational fear to diminish. Mycroft could endure the embers just fine, but a full-on wildfire was never easy to recover from; he was constantly burned, constantly scarred by invisible blemishes that insisted on hurting, even after years of suppression and mental override.

Just as he'd nearly suffocated on the unseen smoke, he felt a light touch to his side. Hypersensitive, he jumped at the contact though relaxed when it was accompanied by a familiar corporal presence. He'd nearly forgotten that he wasn't the only person in his bed.

Mycroft surfaced from the pillow he held against the lower part of his face, mostly because it was being slowly, and gently, tugged away by a hand that wasn't his own. Lips caressed the back of his warm neck, and they were just as ginger as the hand that stroked his back in tiny circles.

In the past, Mycroft would have immediately removed himself from the physical comfort (just because the very idea of someone touching him so intimately [and without explicit permission] was absurd) but he adamantly attempted to stay still.

...Even when the cadence of his breathing changed and took on a shaky, fluttering resonance that eventually surrendered to a more pressing symptom of his dreadful head cold.

"Hihh… hh-- hihh!ih!…hih'GNSCHHhh!--hihh…ihh'NGSCHHhh! Hihh'IGHSCHh'oo!"

The expulsions were caught in his hands - his least preferable choice by far - yet searching for an appropriate thing to sneeze into when already disorientated was not an easy task.

A blessing, low and groggy, was murmured into Mycroft's shoulder before the mattress shifted; the softness of what Mycroft identified as tissues were set somewhere near his elbow as the body behind his own returned to its mold against Mycroft's back. Grateful, though still far too haunted to speak, Mycroft reached for the tissues and rubbed them against his nose, sniffling, as he recovered.

Neither of them spoke in the aftermath or when Mycroft eventually turned around, so that he was facing the man that opened his arms to Mycroft invitingly. He was by no means forcing Mycroft to accept the embrace, nor was he insinuating that Mycroft wasn't strong enough to overcome this episode by himself.

In truth, Greg was simply offering something that could have been easily be denied. And yet…

Mycroft would face his shame in the morning, he told himself, as he slid against Greg and let himself be comforted. His head tilted back as he briefly looked at his lover through the darkness - his lover who returned Mycroft's gaze with a corner of his mouth quirked up into a sleepy, albeit reassuring smile.

Leaning in, Greg set a lingering kiss between Mycroft's eyes, followed by his temple, and then his cheek. They were light kisses, if anything, so as not to overstimulate Mycroft when he was still susceptible to his own inner demons.

Mycroft didn't put forth an effort to stop Greg's actions, but as he felt a returning pinprick spreading throughout his nose, coaxing his breath to hitch, he pushed a hand on Greg's chest, moving him back, while also twisting away in his arms. The combined ache of his skull and pressure in his sinuses were dizzying, especially when joined by another fit of sneezing that he directed into his handful of tissues.

"Hih..!ih-hh'IGSCHHhhh! NGSCHHhhh!--hihh'TSCHhhh! hihh'ih'RZSCHHhh'oo!"

The last of that particular sequence birthed a miserable, clenched sound in Mycroft's aching throat. Concerned, Greg woke up a bit more and said again in a clearer voice: "Bless you."

Mycroft exhaled, snuffling, and spoke through a whispering wheeze: "Thank you."

"You OK?" Greg inquired, drawing Mycroft back to him once his other half had recovered enough to be coddled again. Now that their mutual silence had been broken by words he felt it best to take advantage of it and seek answers.

"Yes. Forgive me for waking you. I had desperately hoped to avoid it. Do go back to bed."

"And leave you like this? No. No, sorry. I won't."

Mycroft knew that Greg wasn't a night person by nature and could barely keep his eyes open past eleven, let alone three o'clock in the morning. Staying awake on Mycroft's behalf, while selfless, also seemed drastically unfair. On the other hand, Mycroft lacked the strength to protest or appeal to Greg's stubbornness.

"D'you want me to get you some water? Or more medicine?"

Mycroft wordlessly considered Greg's offer. He'd taken a dose of paracetamol prior to going to bed, along with a powerful decongestant John Watson had been kind enough to prescribe him, yet both felt somewhat bleak in terms of consistency; Mycroft was certain that they were still in effect, in spite of everything felt irreparably broken at the moment.

"Perhaps later," he eventually rasped into the older man's chest. It was a discreet way of keeping Greg in bed with him until he could manage to be alone.

A shiver ran down the length of Mycroft's long spine - a shiver that Greg physically felt. It prompted him to readjust the duvet and tuck it around Mycroft protectively as Greg held him impossibly close. If contagion had ever once been a liable concern (which it honestly hadn't) then Greg had completely destroyed it now.

As the two of them laid there in the dwindling chaos of Mycroft's paroxysms and night fright, their bodies creating two shapes that fit together undeniably well, Mycroft couldn't help but question Greg's patience: How could anyone stand to tolerate someone who repetitively fell ill? Who found great difficulty in expressing even the most basic of human emotions? Who awoke in the night seeking comfort like an upset child, when his own shameful dreams were to blame?The consuming self-doubt would have no doubt continued had Mycroft not been stopped - though not by Greg. No, they were stopped because of his nose or, more specifically, the cruel whims of his nose.

Smothering the flickering, widening ellipticals of his nostrils into the tissues he had yet to release, he bent until his forehead pressed into Greg's chest, considering he hadn't time or energy to pull away as he had before.

"Hhh'NGSCHhhish! hh--ihh'heh…hih'TGSCHHhh'oo!"

"Bless you," Greg offered, quietly, and waited until Mycroft tended to his nose so he could tuck Mycroft's head beneath his chin. "You poor thing."

Exhausted from the demanding sneezes, without the added weight of his anxiety, Mycroft's original lean against Greg became a shameless slump against his torso; he closed his eyes and tried not to speculate when Greg would tire of him. Thankfully, the lingering kiss that found its way into his hair some seconds later suggested otherwise and tame his paranoia back into submission.

When Mycroft fell asleep again he didn't dream of unspeakable horrors or crushing inadequacies as he did before, but of warmth, acceptance, and the kindest brown eyes he'd ever known.

[cally]

I'm not surprised you're my secret santa. I was hoping, since you hadn't posted anything yet that it would be for me.

Oh Mycroft, you poor thing. Please, let Gregory just cuddle you and take care of you because you deserve him.

I need to go back and re-read this for a 4th time, but I will wait to do that when I am actually fully awake and comprehending.

Ok, now that I have my coffee:

It was still dark outside when Mycroft awoke with a gasp from the frighteningly realistic fever dream that had feasted on his unguarded mind.

So vivid and realistic, the words you've chosen here (and in all of it, obviously).

Mycroft would face his shame in the morning, he told himself, as he slid against Greg and let himself be comforted. His head tilted back as he briefly looked at his lover through the darkness - his lover who returned Mycroft's gaze with a corner of his mouth quirked up into a sleepy, albeit reassuring smile.

Oh Mycroft. There's no shame in this.

Smothering the flickering, widening ellipticals of his nostrils into the tissues he had yet to release, he bent until his forehead pressed into Greg's chest, considering he hadn't time or energy to pull away as he had before.

Oh those terrible, ticklish sneezes. And not turning away, but surrendering into Gregory's embrace, oh my heart can't take the perfect picture of intimacy pictured here.

When Mycroft fell asleep again he didn't dream of unspeakable horrors or crushing inadequacies as he did before, but of warmth, acceptance, and the kindest brown eyes he'd ever known.

BRB sobbing in happiness.

Thank you so much for being my secret santa. This is by far the best present I've received

Edited January 6, 2015 by cally

[matilda3948]

Awww!So much sweetness! Love your writing

[AngelEyes]

I saw it was you. And I saw it was for Cally. And my houseguest in the other room called out to ask me what happened because I might have made some inappropriately loud noises of delight. And then I read it. This is so wonderfully beautifully emotionally descriptive. I love this so much!

Seconds ticked by like individual eternities as he waited for the cold flames of irrational fear to diminish. Mycroft could endure the embers just fine, but a full-on wildfire was never easy to recover from; he was constantly burned, constantly scarred by invisible blemishes that insisted on hurting, even after years of suppression and mental override.

So vivid!

Neither of them spoke in the aftermath or when Mycroft eventually turned around, so that he was facing the man that opened his arms to Mycroft invitingly. He was by no means forcing Mycroft to accept the embrace, nor was he insinuating that Mycroft wasn't strong enough to overcome this episode by himself.

Greg just knows his baby and how to be gentle.

"And leave you like this? No. No, sorry. I won't."

And in this phrase you perfectly capture his steadfast strength.

Thankfully, the lingering kiss that found its way into his hair some seconds later suggested otherwise and tame his paranoia back into submission.

When Mycroft fell asleep again he didn't dream of unspeakable horrors or crushing inadequacies as he did before, but of warmth, acceptance, and the kindest brown eyes he'd ever known.

Awww!!!!

And I'll just add on here, the hitching of the sneezes pretty much put me over the edge.

I adore you!

[TaurielRiver]

This is all so lovely, Spoo! I love the idea of Mycroft awaking in his slightly disorientated, feverish state, feeling so ill and having just been dragged through a nightmare. He’s so vulnerable, poor baby... Greg's gentle, patient, soothing approach was just what was needed.

In the past, Mycroft would have immediately removed himself from the physical comfort (just because the very idea of someone touching him so intimately [and without explicit permission] was absurd) but he adamantly attempted to stay still.

I love the conflict between Mycroft having been almost desperately adverse to expressions of affection/emotional intimacy for so long, but at the same time being so very much in need of this kind of comfort from his partner...

"Yes. Forgive me for waking you. I had desperately hoped to avoid it. Do go back to bed."

"And leave you like this? No. No, sorry. I won't."

Awwww, Greg... The most perfect, loving, stubborn response in the face of Mycroft's more formal (but SUPER adorable!) "forgive me"...

he bent until his forehead pressed into Greg's chest, considering he hadn't time or energy to pull away as he had before.

"Hhh'NGSCHhhish! hh--ihh'heh…hih'TGSCHHhh'oo!"

"Bless you," Greg offered, quietly, and waited until Mycroft tended to his nose so he could tuck Mycroft's head beneath his chin. "You poor thing."

Poor, exhausted Mycroft!! This is so incredibly sweet… these two are just too perfect for each other!

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Just adding my kudos. Cally, AngelEyes and TuarielRiver all have given such detailed praise I can only echo their sentiments.