Confrontation (BBC Sherlock, Mystrade)

[bangbang]

So every time I write or post Mystrade, I tell myself it'll be the last time because after 3 multipart stories and however many drabbles I don't want to get repetitive or reuse past situations/headcanons, but every time something reminds me of an idea or half-finished piece and I come crawling back. 

This was inspired by talking with @Spooabout my past headcanons for Greg - I brought up this incomplete idea I had started while my drabble thread was still active, and she demanded I finish it. So this is for Spoo, from the depths of my never-seen-the-light-of-day Mystrade folder. It turned out a little longer than drabble length so I stuck it here. Enjoy!

Confrontation

Sally had never shied away from confrontation – she was ready to stand up and argue with the best of them (and often did). But when she barged into Greg’s office and found him pacing and having a hissed row with Mycroft Holmes, she considered scuttling back down the hall and not looking back.

Greg’s temper was infamous around the Yard; and Sherlock Holmes’s brother apparently ran the country in addition to shacking up with her boss, so when both men paused their snapping and whipped round to face her, she shifted from one foot to the other and said, “Um – do you want me to come back?”

“No, you’re fine,” croaked Greg, who was clenching and unclenching his fist as though he was on a white knuckle ride. He had come in with a filthy cold at the start of the week, and had seemed even more volatile than usual as it worsened (Sherlock had almost received a clip round the ear the day before, and she wasn’t confident that the glass on the vending machine had cracked by itself.) “We got anything on Montague yet?”

“Um. Yeah, that’s what I was coming to tell you,” she said, keeping one wary eye fixed on Mycroft, who had let out a long huff of annoyance (although it didn’t seem to be aimed at her) and very pointedly stared out the window.

“Go on,” Greg said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “give me the bad news.”

“His car’s been found near the ferry terminal in Dover,” she said, wincing at her boss’s thick sniff. “Parking ticket is a day old. He could be anywhere in Europe by now.”

“Fuck,” Greg growled, and then, as it seemed to sink in, “Fuck.”

Mycroft tutted slightly, now inspecting his nails, and Greg shot him a look that made Sally shiver in second-hand discomfort (not that Mycroft seemed to register it.) Greg slumped down into his seat, scrubbing both hands through his already-mussed hair in frustration. “Any of the ferry staff recognise him?”

“The team down there are still investigating, but they’re not too hopeful of a positive ID – five foot ten, brown hair, medium build, he’s not exactly distinctive looking.”

“Right.” Greg rubbed a hand over his face, looking grey and worn out. It was late; she was tired herself and half the office seemed to be propped against the coffee machine. Montague was dangerous and there was an element of desperation creeping into the search.

“Will I alert Interpol?” she prompted.

“Fuck. Yeah. Pass along his description, known aliases – how the fuck did he manage to get on a ferry without his passport?” Greg ground his teeth, squinting headachey at his computer screen. “Actually, leave it to me. It’s late; tell everyone they can go home, no point in sticking around now he’s not even in the country. Fuck.”

Failure always weighed hard on Greg, she knew, and she gave him a sympathetic sort of glance – which turned into a wince as Greg’s brow furrowed further and his eyes unfocused. Her boss didn’t get sick too often but when he did it seemed to bowl him over completely, and this cold was no different.

“huhh’RRDSCH’hah!” Greg flung forward into hastily raised hands, and took another massive breath before giving into a second, a little more muffled by his fingers but still harsh and damp. “hhh’RRSCHMhh!”

“Bless you,” said Sally, wondering whether to offer anything other than a blessing; from the way Greg remained stooped, the sneeze had been a bit more productive than the investigation. Before she made up her mind Mycroft had stepped sideways and, looking almost bored, had snapped a travel pack of tissues from an inside pocket and was holding them out.

Greg removed one hand and snatched the top one, which was conveniently poking out; he blew his nose hard and pointedly didn’t look to the man at his left.

“Do you want me to stay and give you a hand?” she suggested, secretly hoping that if he did, Mycroft would make himself scarce. The elder Holmes had always been unerringly polite to her and he seemed to make her boss happy, but right now Greg’s office had the atmosphere of a shark tank and she had no desire to get in the middle of their domestic.

“Thanks, Sal.” Greg gave her a watery eyed grin. His nose was a painful-looking red at the tip and the bulb, his nostrils still twitching slightly. “But it’s fine. Get home, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Night, boss.” She gave Mycroft an awkward nod – he was leaning insouciantly against the windowsill now, ankles crossed and looking for all the world as if he was at Wimbledon, if you ignored the tightness to his jaw.  “Bye.”

“Good evening, Sergeant Donovan.” His voice carried a trace of hoarseness as well, and she realised he hadn’t actually spoken since she’d come in. She scanned him quickly, but he looked as immaculate as ever, and moreover was watching her with a slightly raised eyebrow.

“Bye,” she repeated and slid out the room, uncharacteristically rattled and grateful to escape the tension.  

--

Greg hammered on his keyboard, huffing and puffing through parted lips. His last sneezes had done nothing to ease his congestion, and it was getting really bloody annoying not being able to breathe through his nose.

Another thing that was really bloody annoying was Mycroft, who was hanging around his office like a bad smell. (Not that Mycroft would smell of anything other than expensive cologne and power, even if Greg could smell anything, which he couldn’t, because of aforementioned blocked nose.)

“Go home,” he snapped, “I’ll be a while.”

He heard the rustle of fabric as Mycroft adjusted his stance. “I have no intention of leaving until you do the same.”

Greg ground his teeth again. He knew he was in a foul mood; both the case and his cold had left him grumpy and he had been trying not to take it out on his team all day. Mycroft, however, was perfectly capable of defending himself, and was also being really bloody annoying, so he seemed an appropriate target for Greg’s ire.

“Look. I don’t swan into your office, intimidating your team –“

“My team are all ex-fieldworkers,” Mycroft pointed out, “you’d have a hard job.”

“Can you shut up for one bloody minute and let me finish? Point is, I let you do your job, so why don’t you let me do mine and go and helicopter parent over Sherlock instead?”

There was a short silence, broken only by Greg smashing keys to no effect. “Why isn’t this fucking computer working?” he snarled, mostly to himself, and resisted the urge to punch through his screen.

“You’ve got keyboard lock on,” Mycroft said, rather coldly, and Greg knew instantly that he’d hit a little far below the belt with the Sherlock comment.

He sighed and hit the glowing button. “Go home, Mycroft,” he said, with a heady snuffle. “I’ll get this done faster without you breathing down my neck. And you’re only just getting over this too.”

“Precisely. Which is why I understand how wretched you must be feeling.” Mycroft stepped up behind Greg’s chair and laid a hand on the leather. “Forwarding Montague’s information to Interpol won’t take long. I’ll wait.”

“It’s not just that,” Greg growled, “I’ve got to file the paperwork, and organise the rest of –”

“Not at half past ten.” There was a weary sort of flicker to Mycroft’s voice that made Greg yawn widely. “It can wait until you’ve slept at least. There’s no sense in driving yourself into the ground.”

Greg was about to give a snappy retort about time sensitive plans and how Mycroft was one to be talking about workaholics, but the incessant prickling was starting in his nose again. One downside of catching a cold from Mycroft was that it always seemed so much sneezier than ones he caught from elsewhere, and he’d been firing off harsh, explosive singles and doubles all week.

Nostrils flaring as his face twisted, he groped for the tissue Mycroft had given him earlier and didn’t quite make it. Raising his arm, he instead bent his head below to crook of his elbow and sneezed towards the ground. Unhygienic yes, but no one else was around and his nose was far too sore to think about covering with the rough cloth of his sleeve.

“huh’RAHSHH’ha!” A fine mist made him cringe slightly even as his breath hitched and gasped and then came roaring from his mouth in another cataclysmic sneeze that scraped all the way up his throat. “ha’RRDSSCH’oo!”

“Bless you.” Mycroft pressed a clean tissue into his hand and Greg blew his nose. His sneezes always registered on the Richter scale, especially his enormous cold sneezes, but they were never usually this frequent.

“Thanks.” His voice was congested enough that he had to snuffle hard and clear his throat afterwards, and he heard Mycroft sigh. “Don’t,” he said, intercepting what he imagined would be yet another apology for passing the virus along. “S’not your fault.”

Mycroft stayed silent, instead laying a cool hand along the back of Greg’s hot neck. Greg groaned at the relief, all the fight leaving him, and let his forehead hit the desk softly as Mycroft rolled his thumb over one of the tight knots of muscle there. 

“Come home,” Mycroft said in a low, soothing voice, winding his other hand through Greg’s hair, “and I’ll give you a massage.”

“In the bath?” Greg asked, foggily, unable to focus on anything except how good Mycroft’s hands felt on his sore neck and aching skull.

“In the bath,” Mycroft confirmed, still working his fingers along Greg’s scalp. “Try and steam some of this out of you, shall we?”

“Mnnn,” Greg mumbled, sniffling. “Gotta email Interpol…”

Mycroft reached over to the computer – Greg giving a little moan of protest at the withdrawn hands – and tapped out an email with a speed Greg envied. “There. All done.” He ducked down and Greg felt soft, dry lips brush against his forehead. “Hometime.”

“Manipulative,” Greg complained, even as he stood and struggled on his coat. “You know I can’t resist a massage. Shameless, you are.”

Mycroft shrugged. “It was either that or wait for fifteen minutes while you one-finger-typed an email out, and your office has abysmal coffee.”

“Oi. Leave my typing alone. And our coffee. Might not be as good as in the Diogenes but it’s caffeine.” Greg linked arms with Mycroft as they made their way down the darkened, empty hallway and waited for the lift. He glanced sideways at his partner for a second and nudged him gently. “Sorry for being such a grumpy git.”

“Sorry for coming to your office,” Mycroft said, looking a little contrite.

“And I’m sorry for bringing up Sherlock.”

“And I’m sorry for giving you my -”

“Shhh,” Greg ordered, pulling Mycroft into the lift as it came. “Massage and a bath and we’re even, yeah?”

Mycroft pressed another kiss into Greg’s hair and Greg closed his eyes as the lift descended, leaving his bad mood up in his office where it belonged.

 

[Spoo]

For meeeeee? You absolutely SHOULDN’T have. Even though I pretty much made you, hahahahahah…hahaha…haha…aNYWAY. 

So I could have sworn that this pairing was overdone/dried out for me, but Jaysus Chroist. You’ve dragged me back into the very fiery depths of Mystrade Hell, bangbang. THIS is the kind of quality and realism that I love to read when it comes to these two men; you write them so perfectly and spot-on. They fight! They swear! They tease each other! Mycroft isn’t flipping out every. time. Greg sneezes! Ahhh, it’s beautiful and domestic and maaaan. I’ve really missed reading your stuff. It’s my honest-to-God favorite.  

Greg is such a grumpy grouch (that temper tho) and I love it. Poor guy’s got a bad cold, and he’s STILL trying to catch a baddie. My hearrtttttt. His whole hissy fit with Mycroft was both entertaining and intense (and super realistic??)! And duuuuude, the whole “shark tank” analogy with Sally was PERFECT. Poor Sal! I can only imagine how awkward it must be to walk in on your boss and his boyfriend having a fight. But! I’m glad they eventually sorted it out (because who can resist a massage from Mycroft’s amazing fingers?). Also, LOLOL when Mycroft typed for Greg. Poor Greg and his chicken peck typing. 

This was an absolute joy to read, and I definitely needed it back in my life. Gahhhh.  

[Kaze Wo Hiku]

OK OK OK Let's start with fact that I normally like sick!Mycroft but GOD THE SNARK from both of them.  So delicious They are adorable even when they fight. Love the Sherlock jabs too, oh god sooooo funny!!!

1 hour ago, Spoo said:

You’ve dragged me back into the very fiery depths of Mystrade Hell,

I echo basically everything that Spoo said.  This was fun.

[Sophie<3]

Oh, that was lovely in many ways!  First of all, I thought Sally's perspective in the first half was really refreshing. And her observations about Mycroft, as well as Mycroft and Greg's interactions, was fun to read.

Secondly, while I enjoy characters being all adorable with each other, I also really, really love a bit of snark. Also, the fact that the two were having a row only added to the element of realism that makes a story so much better! Plus the fact that they sort themselves out in that last bit? Wonderful!  

And poor Greg working so hard on the case only to have his man escape! All while being miserably ill! Great scenario.

Also, that comment about helicopter parenting over Sherlock? Brilliant!  

[matilda3948]

Oh my!!   This is brilliant! Sneezy Lestrade is one of the best things in the entire world, but sneezy, tired, angry, swearing Lestrade?? 

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Ha! I am so happy I was right; I knew you couldn't stay "retired". 

This was a rather fun bit of snarky Mystrade. I truly enjoyed Sally's discomfort walking in on the two of them. Greg's helicopter parent comment was perfect and well deserved, frankly. 

It is interesting that the more things change the more things stay the same. Mycroft will always try to apologize for giving Greg his colds. I am amused that Greg thinks Mycroft's colds are sneezier than anyone else's. 

[bangbang]

Aww, guys! I'm really glad you liked it - thank you to everyone who read and commented! 

@Spoo - I am so glad you enjoyed it (it was written with you in mind, after all!) and that I'm dragging you back to Mystrade hell! I know you were pretty burnt out on this pairing so it means a lot that you loved it so much. 

@Kaze wo Hiku Thank you for your lovely comment! Sick!Mycroft seems to be the most trendy interpretation of this pairing and, don't get me wrong, I enjoy writing it! But I feel as though I've written him ill a LOT and the last thing I want is to become repetitive so I chose to focus solely on the more neglected partner in this fic. 

@Sophie<3 - Poor Greg has such bad luck; a cold AND an escaped criminal? I imagine Mycroft is gonna have a quick word with Interpol to ensure a speedy capture just so that Greg'll actually relax instead of stomping around the house sulking. And I'm so happy you like the snark - I just can't see these two as consistently lovey-dovey. They're in their forties, after all, not teenagers; they have tender moments but it's not first-love-style cloyingness. 

@matilda3948 - Coming from you that's brilliant, you write a great grumpy Greg! I love his hot temper and you know he's the kind of person who gives the vending machine a quick whack when his chocolate bar gets stuck (a trait I may or may not share...) Thanks for reading! 

@Seeking Clarity + Wisdom Well, I'm afraid you're not aaactually right, as I've no intention of coming out of retirement fully - this was just a finished piece for a friend! I'm glad you liked the helicopter comment (although Greg realises it was a bit harsh - besides, can you imagine how much more trouble Sherlock would get into without Mycroft??) Although I'm a little D: at the idea of "the more things change the more they stay the same" - I actually stopped writing this pairing because I was afraid of getting overdone and reusing my ideas, which is my worst nightmare as a writer! I try to be original in every fic/drabble otherwise I think it gets a bit boring to read (and definitely boring to write!) And yup - Mycroft definitely passes along the sneeziest colds!

Overall, I don't know if this'll be my last trip to the Mystrade rodeo, but I'm glad you all enjoyed it! Thank you again for reading and letting me know what you think. 

[AngelEyes]

I feel horrible! I am sooooo late in commenting!!! Shame on me. Because this is brilliance! I admit I may have made inappropriate girly noises when I saw your name next to a new Mystrade story! 

On March 4, 2016 at 7:43 AM, bangbang said:

Greg slumped down into his seat, scrubbing both hands through his already-mussed hair in frustration.

I love Greg's mussed hair!

On March 4, 2016 at 7:43 AM, bangbang said:

“Fuck. Yeah. Pass along his description, known aliases – how the fuck did he manage to get on a ferry without his passport?” Greg ground his teeth, squinting headachey at his computer screen. “Actually, leave it to me. It’s late; tell everyone they can go home, no point in sticking around now he’s not even in the country. Fuck.”

I also like sweary!Greg. It suits him.

On March 4, 2016 at 7:43 AM, bangbang said:

She gave Mycroft an awkward nod – he was leaning insouciantly against the windowsill now, ankles crossed and looking for all the world as if he was at Wimbledon, if you ignored the tightness to his jaw. 

Fantastic imagery! I can totally picture it!

On March 4, 2016 at 7:43 AM, bangbang said:

(Not that Mycroft would smell of anything other than expensive cologne and power, even if Greg could smell anything, which he couldn’t, because of aforementioned blocked nose.)

I love this. This is totally Mycroft. LOL!

On March 4, 2016 at 7:43 AM, bangbang said:

“Manipulative,” Greg complained, even as he stood and struggled on his coat. “You know I can’t resist a massage. Shameless, you are.”

I have this same weakness. And if it were Mycroft, well....

On March 4, 2016 at 7:43 AM, bangbang said:

Mycroft pressed another kiss into Greg’s hair and Greg closed his eyes as the lift descended, leaving his bad mood up in his office where it belonged.

Awwwww. So much love!!!!

[frolicking periwinkle]

I'm only about 2 days new to loving Mycroft. But my golly do i love this fic. 

[lsbn]

OMGGGGG this is fantastic!!!!!! Any chance there might be another part coming??