A/N: I'm starting to transfer some of my fan fictions from AO3.

request : Mycroft suffering from chronic fatigue and Greg helping him. FLUFF. No smut.

Reviews are always welcomed.

Mycroft's hands were trembling, his fingers clasping his umbrella tight. Without it he was fearful that he would fall over. His whole body felt weary and every one of his muscles seemed to be aching and twinging painfully. Today was a danger day. He should have known not to come out today.

At the age of sixteen Mycroft had been diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome. Most people diagnosed with the syndrome usually improved over time, for Mycroft however, he had only worsened.

Nowadays Mycroft symptoms varied. Sometimes he was perfectly fine, as long as he took a nap in the afternoon, he could usually push through his daily duties of running England without feeling too exhausted.

Lately though, Mycroft had been having more severe symptoms, making life for him very problematic indeed. His mobility had been reduced significantly and it now seemed that there was always one part of his body that was aching and sore.

His brother had noticed instantly, and had surprisingly been rather nice about the whole situation. Well, nice in Sherlock terms anyway. There had certainly been a lot less jibes about exercising and dieting.

Mycroft stared down at his hands miserably. They were still quaking, his arms struggling to hold him upright for much longer. Had he been home then he could have easily called for one of his help to sort the situation. Anthea would have gotten him to bed by now and he could be sleeping.

Sleep sounded utterly wonderful. His eyes were starting to flicker shut, the promise of sleep causing him to flicker in and out of consciousness. He had to shake himself awake, groaning softly as his body protested from the movement. This wasn't even a little bit good. He couldn't fall asleep here, not in the middle of Scotland Yard.

"Mycroft?"

Mycroft lifted his eyes to greet the owner of the voice. Ah. Gregory Lestrade. The last person he wanted to see right now. "Yes?" He answered, his voice sounding tainted with his fatigue.

"Are you OK? You look a little peaky." Greg's eyes swept over him, his expression concerned.

I must really look awful, Mycroft thought to himself. He felt awful. He was just about ready to collapse in a heap. He wouldn't allow it though. He couldn't show any kind of weakness, not to Gregory. He'd lose the man's respect.

"I'm…fine." Even he could tell what an awful lie that was. There was something about the D.I that made his ability to lie disappear, something that made him want to open up. Greg placed a hand on Mycroft's shoulder, his concern only seeming to deepen.

Mycroft couldn't fight back the hiss that escaped his lips as his muscles throbbed underneath Gregory's touch. "Honestly, Gregory, I'm fine. It's just been a tough day, that's all. My brother always has a terrible habit of giving me a headache."

Greg's hand slipped from Mycroft's shoulder. Despite the pain it had caused Mycroft he couldn't help but feel disappointed about that.

"Yeh," Greg laughed softly. "I know exactly how you feel. You think he'd lose some of his energy after all these years, but nope, he's still like a toddler wired on coffee."

Mycroft's thin lips pulled back to form a rare smile. " I'm sure age will catch up with him eventually. It catches up with us all, does it not?"

"I…look. I know it's not my place to pry but are you sure you're OK? You just seem really drained lately. I can't really believe it's all down to Sherlock."

Mycroft considered his options for a moment. Tell Greg everything, ask for his help. Or shut him out, deny that there's anything wrong. He licked his lips before he spoke, his voice soft and cautious. "I am not a man who likes to ask for help, however I am afraid that I need it if I am in any hope of getting out of here. Do you think you can help me?"

Greg nodded almost instantly and Mycroft's heart warmed. He knew that he could trust Gregory. Mycroft like to think he was a good judge of character. Gregory Lestrade seemed the type of man who could keep his mouth zipped about people's dark secrets, which was a good thing too, because if it ever got out that he has chronic fatigue syndrome, then it would mean the end of his career.

"I can help you." Greg said earnestly. "With anything."

Mycroft nodded slowly. "Help me to my car as discretely as possible if you would." Greg gently looped an arm around Mycroft's waist. Mycroft leaned his weight onto the older man with a tired grunt. "Apologies for this Gregory. I shouldn't have bothered you with my presence today. I knew that today was a danger day and yet I did not heed my body's warning."

"You're never a bother." Greg whispered softly. "Let's get you out of here. There's an old fire exit that doesn't get used much anymore. We can go through there. No one will see us."

Greg didn't ask for an explanation but Mycroft could tell that there were a million questions buzzing in his eyes.

Mycroft's body collapsed gratefully onto his king sized bed. By now he was in agony, his body throbbing and begging for sleep.

"Thank you Gregory. You can leave now….I'll be fine."

"Fine my arse."

Gregory's response was enough to make Mycroft crack open an eye. "Honestly, your concern isn't needed. I'm thankful that you helped me out of my rather sticky situation today, but I no longer need your assistance."

There was a dip in the bed and he felt a careful and delicate hand moving along some of the contorts of his body. The touch wasn't entirely unwelcome. "You know, we never did go on that date. You hinted at me that you wanted dinner a couple of months ago. I assume you were asking me on a date. Since then you haven't brought it up, and it's almost like you've been shutting me out. I know that I haven't got any right to pry, but I'm worried about you. It seems all I do is worry about you Holmes boys these days. Seriously, what's wrong? Are you ill? Is that why you're pale and in pain all of the time?"

Mycroft sighed. Gregory was clearly not going to drop the issue. "There is no need to worry. I'm not sick, so to speak. I have chronic fatigue syndrome."

"What does that mean exactly?"

"I get extremely tired if I don't rest, and my muscles sometimes hurt if I'm moving too much. It's problematic but it isn't anything serious. I am sorry if you feel that I have been ignoring you, for I could think of nothing better than going to dinner with you. I've just been so exhausted as of late. I want to court you properly, but how can I do that when I'm so tired all of the time. Honestly, you'd be better off putting your energy into someone who is worth it."

"Oh Myc."

Usually Mycroft would have protested about the shortened version of his name but for some reason he rather liked how it sounded when Gregory said it. It was almost endearing. He waited for the inevitable, for Greg to leave him like so many people had because of the syndrome that left him weak and fatigued. Instead of feeling Greg leave however, he felt the man move closer to him, his hands still running over the tense knots in Mycroft's muscles.

"You're not leaving?" Mycroft frowned.

" No. I'm definitely not leaving you. Right now you need someone to take care of you. I'm sure Anthea is perfectly capable of doing that, but I just don't want to leave you alone, not when you're clearly in so much pain. You don't think you're worth it, do you? Why? Just because you have to cope with this…this syndrome? Let me tell you that you are completely worth it. We don't have to go out anywhere to have dinner, we can stay here. I can cook you up a little something when you're feeling up to it. For now I'm staying right here, OK?"

Mycroft smiled sleepily and relaxed against the body that was now spooning his. "OK." He whispered. "Thank you."