Stockholm isn't the Capital of Sweden
The whole world was a mass of ridiculously gyrating colours and shapes, and half remembered words escaping his own lips with voices returning from somewhere underwater. Lestrade blinked slowly, sluggishly, his head hurt and it was hot, like the building was on fire.
Fire. Oh God, what did Moriarty blow up this time?
He strained every muscle in his body and lurched upright, half-staggering off the surface he was laying on before a sharp pain in his wrist jerked him back. Lestrade stumbled backwards and collapsed back onto what he assumed was a bed and let out a weak, agonized moan. He felt nauseous... and incredibly dizzy.
So, slight concussion, most-likely drugged and in a burning building? Lestrade's day was just getting better and better! Funny, because he couldn't see or smell any smoke...
He lay, breathing heavily for a few minutes to fight down the nausea before remembering the throbbing pain in his wrist. He turned his head a little. He was handcuffed to one of the bedposts. That would explain why he couldn't extract himself from it.
A sudden gust of wind blew through the open window, chilling Lestrade to the bone, leaving the weak and miserable man trembling. He gripped the damp, tangled sheets wrapped around his body and furrowed deeper into them like he hoped to lose himself in them.
Then the door opened and a suited man walked in. Moriarty?
Lestrade could hear the man sigh and tut at him although his vision was still too fuzzy to make the man's features out. The man strolled over to his side and sat himself on the bed just by his thigh.
"Of course," Lestrade gave a great start at the man's voice. "only you would stubbornly insist on going to work with a flu, Lestrade." Mycroft's voice sighed at him reprimandingly.
Lestrade shivered when he felt Mycroft's agile fingers, cool against his burning forehead as the government agent threaded his fingers through his hair in a gentle massage. Lestrade squinted his eyes, trying hard to remember the actions that led him up to this point. And, more importantly, why was he handcuffed to the bed?
For the life of him, he couldn't come up with a plausible explanation.
"You seem to have trouble thinking." Mycroft noted, retracting his hand. Lestrade gave a muffled noise of protest, missing the attention already. "You came down with the flu a few days ago, I am led to believe." Mycroft pushed himself off the bed to go close the open window. "I heard about it during my meeting with the Scandinavian embassy." After shutting the window, Mycroft turned and leaned against it casually.
Lestrade turned, with no small difficulty, to keep an eye on the man.
"Figures, I'd get back to London to find you passed out in your office down at the Yard." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the DI, almost waiting for an explanation.
Lestrade followed his gaze and realized that he was still in his dress shirt, though, now thoroughly soaked through with sweat and the top two buttons had been undone, baring a few square inches of skin. If he had been in good health, Lestrade would've straightened his shirt, or pulled the sheet around his shoulders self-consciously. But he was sick and the atmosphere was beginning to pinwheel back into a hot area again. He couldn't bring himself to care, even if he tried.
He just blinked blankly. "Wha-..?" he inquired intelligently before errupting into a fit of violent coughs that left him curling into himself and gasping for breath.
Mycroft was at his side in a flash with a glass of cool water. Lestrade tried to take the glass from him but was deterred with a stern look. Mycroft snaked his free arm around Lestrade's shoulders and held the weak man up as he brought the glass to his lips. "Drink." he ordered firmly.
Lestrade tried to glare at the man, he really did, a feat that he failed at spectacularly when he was dazed, confused and about as strong as a newborn kitten. Mycroft just chuckled warmly at his attempt and pressed the glass of water to his lips firmly. "Drink." he repeated and Lestrade obeyed.
When his throat stopped feeling like it was plugged up with sand, Lestrade turned his face away from the glass, spilling a few drops onto himself before Mycroft got the point and put the glass onto the nightstand. When Mycroft turned his attention back to the ill copper, Lestrade was jingling his handcuffed wrist with a healthy amount of curiosity. Mycroft decided that they were getting somewhere.
"You will forgive me, but I did promise Dr. Watson that I would keep you in bed until you were well, whatever the cost." Mycroft informed him. "Apparently, you didn't believe me so I had to take drastic measures."
Lestrade blinked at him dumbly. "You handcuffed me." He declared as if he just realized the fact. Mycroft nodded. "To the bed." Mycroft nodded again. "You're a bloody kinky sod." Lestrade grumbled, still too dazed to work himself into a proper fit of embarrassment.
Mycroft laughed. "I did not wish to cause any agitation, but you were slightly delirious and I thought it prudent to ensure that you wouldn't wander out of the window, or anything." He peered intently at Lestrade. "You thought the building was on fire earlier today, in your delirium."
Lestrade blinked. Oh yeah, he was thinking something along those lines, wasn't he? "Then, I suppose you won't be surprised if I ask you to introduce your twin?" he tried to joke.
Mycroft smiled down at him and slipped himself between the sick man and the bed, setting Lestrade's head on his lap as he leaned his back against the bed's headboard. "How are you feeling?" he asked when both were comfortable.
"I will never fear rollercoasters again." Lestrade responded, deadpanned. Mycroft laughed.
They sat in comfortable silence, Mycroft stroking Lestrade's silver hair as the DI stared at the ceiling. "Where are we?" Lestrade asked suddenly, breaking the silence. "I don't know this room."
"We're at a hotel near the Yard." Mycroft responded slowly. Seeing Lestrade's questioning look, he continued. "I did, initially, bring you to your flat, but I couldn't find the living room couch under all those papers and take-away boxes, much less your bed."
Lestrade just grunted. "It was a long case." he defended in a low drawl. "Even Sherlock was having a hard time of it. He solved it and we wrapped the case up-... at least, I think we did. I don't remember doing it." he trailed off.
"Yes, that was yesterday." Mycroft told him helpfully.
"Must've stayed late to finish writing up reports, then." Lestrade mused, nodding. "Yeah, don't think I ever got home. Donovan was telling me to-..." Lestrade's eyes glazed over for a moment before he turned onto his side and curled up, snuggling into Mycroft. "...I actually don't remember what she was telling me about. Don't tell her, though." He let out a quiet giggle that was muffled into Mycroft's thigh. "She'd kill me." Lestrade let out another amused noise. "And I'm entertaining thoughts about dancing spoons." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "No, wait, that's Beauty and the Beast."
Mycroft shook his head with a chuckle and listened to the DI ramble on about nonsense for awhile longer before Lestrade fell into silence, presumably exhausted himself out but not sleeping. Mycroft leaned down and pressed his lips to Lestrade's burning forehead. "You're an amusing patient." he teased.
Lestrade blinked up at him. "You're a kidnapper." he shot back, half-accusingly. "What kind of hostage situation is this?" his mock-stern expression melted and he smiled affectionately.
"I haven't even made my demands known." Mycroft chuckled back, still running his fingers through Lestrade's damp hair.
Lestrade let out a weak laugh and kissed Mycroft's free hand. "I love you, you know that?" he murmured sleepily.
Mycroft blinked, his face carefully impassive. Then his features softened. "I think you, my dear Detective Inspector, have developed a severe case of Stockholm syndrome." he teased.
Lestrade blinked blankly at him, obviously the term held no recognition from him in his illness. "What?" A copper who had handled many hostage situations, how the mighty have fallen.
Mycroft chuckled. "Nevermind." Lestrade raised his eyebrows inquisitively. "I love you too."
Lestrade smiled. "Ooh, I think you're beginning to develope a serious case of Lima syndrome, Mister Holmes." he mimicked Mycroft with a mischevious smirk. "Why are syndromes related to hostage situations always named after Capitals?"
"Hm, don't know." Mycroft responded, preferring not to launch into a serious lecture while Lestrade was only half conscious.
"Seriously, though, can you take the handcuffs off? My wrist is kind of getting sore." Lestrade jangled the wrist in question.
"I don't know." Mycroft inclined his head with a feral smirk. "I think you look quite fetching in them."
Lestrade rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath along the lines of 'kinky son-of-a-...!'
The End