Hello all! This is my submission to the Summer Mystrade Exchange that started about a month ago over on Tumblr. I am gifting this fic to user Sunjata ( .com ), and I hope she likes it!

My Tumblr can be found here: .com

This was the basic prompt I had from her to work off of: "I have a soft spot for angsty or unrequited Mystrade. I want my heart broken (and maybe put back together again, haha)."

He was nervous.

It was ridiculous. Mycroft Holmes was never nervous. He worked closely with the Queen, for heaven's sake. He had been in meetings that literally stood in the way of nuclear war before, and succeeded in standing in the way. Not once, in any of these, did he get close to breaking a sweat. Yet here he was. His knee was bouncing under the table, his hands threaded together because he didn't know what else to do with them.

The small velvet box was heavy in his pocket. Also ridiculous, because its' mass was less than the wine glass sitting in front of him. Absently, he pulled it out and, holding it down in his lap, flipped it open and gazed at the ring inside of it. It was simple, a gold band with three small diamonds built into it, on the inside of the band (they were originally going to be on the outside but he second guessed himself and thought that was a bit too much). Snapping the box shut, he slipped it back into his pocket with a small sigh.

It had been seven years since Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had come into his life and gotten his little brother off drugs. That alone had given him an unfamiliar feeling of admiration for the slightly older man. He looked out for Sherlock in a way Mycroft couldn't; in a way the stubborn younger Holmes wouldn't allow him to. Five years later, Sherlock was gone. It wasn't suicide, not really, but not many had been aware of that at the time. With their mutual connection severed temporarily, Mycroft had assumed that was to be the last of their association. It wasn't, however. In fact, surprisingly, they had gotten closer. Their annual meetings, which were all business in Mycroft's eyes, began to get more casual. He gained a friend.

What he didn't realize at the time, however, was that it was more than that. It had been from the start, really. Reflecting back on it now, it made sense, even if it hadn't at the time. But by the time the mess with Moriarty had been completely sorted, and Sherlock was back in London and back in their lives, he and Gregory had become intimately involved.

Now here he was, about to propose to him. Marriage was something Mycroft had never considered himself set out for, but when he thought about that bond with Gregory, it made the most perfect sense. They were already living together, and had already become an inseparable part of each other's lives, so making that bond official in the eyes of the government was the next step. After all, while his reach went far, there were some things even he could not do unless they were bound together in matrimony.

His mobile buzzed in his pocket, pulling him from his thoughts. Shifting, he pulled it out and the screen lit up with a message from the man his thoughts were already on.

'Hey. Sorry, this case has me running a bit behind. I'm about to finish up here; I'll meet you at the restaurant shortly. Love you. –Greg'

Mycroft typed out a swift reply before pocketing his phone again with a small nod. Gregory's work had been overwhelming recently, keeping him out later than he himself usually was. It was rare for Mycroft to be the first one home from the office. However, his other half had fallen into a bizarre string of murders that he'd had to bring Sherlock in on, and they were still working at it almost a week later. It seemed like they were getting closer to resolution, and things were looking more and more suspicious, but they hadn't reached an end point yet. However, he knew that he'd be able to wrestle away from the crime scene shortly. Especially with their dinner plans. That was the good thing about Sally Donavon; she'd become a lot more helpful recently as far as Gregory's job and their love life were concerned.

Mycroft thought he would only need to wait another fifteen or twenty minutes. So when it was forty-five minutes later and the older man had not shown, he was beginning to become concerned. Paying his bill, Mycroft stood and walked swiftly out to where his car was waiting, lifting his mobile to his ear and calling him.

Straight to voicemail. That was even stranger. Grimacing, and his heart racing more than his cool exterior let on, he instructed his driver to take him to the Yard. He gripped the handle of his umbrella tightly, all sorts of scenarios running through his head. There was no way Gregory would just not show. The other man had not once stood him up. That's just not how his personality was, so there was no way he'd start now. With no communication, and no way to get through to him, the chance of there not being an issue was slim.

Mycroft continued to keep a calm exterior as he strode into New Scotland Yard and up the elevator to the proper floor. When he got off, the chaos around him almost threw him off balance. Sharp blue eyes darted around the floor, watching officers snapping into phones and darting around desks. There were a few familiar faces, but no one of consequence, until finally he spotted Sally Donavon over at her desk. He went over to her immediately, his steps faltering and slowing as he took in the state of her.

She had her head propped in her hand as a physician knelt on the floor in front of her, tending to a bullet wound on her thigh. Her clothing was disheveled, clad with rips and dirt and blood. She had a sheen of sweat across her head, and her hands were clenched tightly. Mycroft's breath hitched in his throat as he looked at her, especially because he had yet to see Gregory. Swallowing with a different type of nervousness now, he took the final few steps and cleared his throat. Sally's head jerked up, eyes wide, and she bit her lip when she saw him.

"Mr. Holmes," she said softly, by way of greeting. He nodded, placing a hand on the edge of her desk and looking down at her.

"Sergeant Donovan," he responded, his voice level. "Where is Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

She knew they were together. Even so, Mycroft was ever formal. He always used his full, proper title when discussing him in public (especially at the Yard), even though Gregory had insisted he didn't have to. Sally didn't respond right away, which worried him immensely. He had to grip his umbrella tightly next to him to keep his stance steady. Then, still without speaking, she motioned the physician away and stood, beckoning him to follow as she slowly headed for her boss's office. She shut the door after they had both walked in, and Mycroft wandered over to Gregory's desk out of habit, before turning and regarding her again.

"Please… Take a seat, Mr. Holmes," she motioned as she continued to stand, favoring yet ignoring her injured leg. He shifted his weight unsurely, before finally pulling back his lover's rolling chair and sitting down in it.

"Sergeant, what's going on?" he asked again, knowing more and more that he would not like the answer. He had three ideas, all of them plausible, but there was not enough information to point him in the right direction. So, like so many others, he was forced to wait and be told.

"The Detective Inspector was…" she started, her words weak. "Lestrade was… Mr. Holmes, he was kidnapped."

Mycroft closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose. This was both good and bad. The only good thing out of it, at the moment, was that he was alive, at least. As far as they knew, anyway.

"Sir, we cornered in on a suspect, but they got the drop on us. Shots were fired before we could act. They grabbed him and held him at gunpoint so we couldn't get close." She was practically barreling through it now, as if trying to get it over with so she wouldn't have to say it again. "They pulled him into a getaway car and…that was it. They were gone."

There was a ringing in his ears that made it hard to Mycroft to hear what else was being said. He was able to make it out, but just barely.

"We're running the plates on the car now; Dimmock was helping on the case and he was able to get them. We haven't… They haven't made contact yet. We don't know anything. I'm… I'm so sorry, sir."

He could feel her eyes on him, waiting to see if she'd get a response. Well, she wouldn't. Mycroft's eyes were glued to the desk in front of him, not really looking at anything as his brain ran the information he was just provided with over in his head again and again. The more he thought about it, the more he began to panic. His whole body felt hot and he couldn't breathe. However, he still didn't show any of this outwardly, apart from how white his knuckles were from gripping the chair tightly. That tension was the only physical sign of distress. The rest was inward, and distress didn't even begin to cover it.

After a moment, Sally stood and left the office, shutting the door and leaving him alone. Only then, did his breathing become irregular. Bringing a hand up to his face, he covered his mouth lightly and shut his eyes. A single tear slid down his cheek, and his body shook with silent sobs as he allowed himself this brief, private moment of panic and weakness. The velvet box lay forgotten in his jacket pocket.

Greg woke with a groan in complete darkness. He felt dizzy and nauseous. His whole body was heavy, and it didn't feel like his. He tried glancing around the room, making out a few objects, but it was too dark to get a grasp on where he was. It was cold, and it was damp… His harsh breathing, as weak as it was, echoed throughout the room. So it had to be a fairly empty and spacious place. A warehouse, perhaps? He wasn't sure… His mind was jumbled.

What had happened? He was working the case, trying to wrap up so he could meet Mycroft for dinner. The case… They'd found the perp, but… What? He couldn't remember. Frowning, he tried moving, only to find out that his hands were bound by rough rope behind his back and his legs wouldn't budge. He was tied to a chair. The rest of it came back to him once that realization set in. He had been bloody kidnapped. Fuck.

Footsteps echoed in the distance, causing him to freeze. He strained his eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness, but to no avail. He was still spinning, from what he could only gather was thanks to the chloroform they probably used when they'd captured him. He clenched his fists tightly, trying to get feeling back in his fingers, but they were completely numb. The footsteps continued to get louder, and a dark figure moved into his view, before stopping completely. He gazed over at it, where he could tell it was someone of average height, rather skinny…

His attempted assessment was interrupted when a light was shown into his eyes without warning. He cried out and shut his eyes tight, practically reeling from the sharp pain that shot through his head. Laughter sounded in front of him, and he gritted his teeth and breathed deeply, trying to recover. The key was to stay calm. He was trained for this. Sure, it had never happened before, but he had the proper mindset to deal with it. He just had to find it now.

"Detective Inspector," a smooth male voice clucked once the laughter stopped. He had an accent. It wasn't heavy, so Greg was having a hard time pinpointing it. But it was a start. "What a pickle you've gotten yourself into. Dear, oh dear."

He said nothing. He refused to succumb to the goading his kidnapper was trying to pull him into. He wasn't stupid; he knew this tactic.

"Aww, the strong silent type, I see. Well that's okay. I'll have you squealing soon enough."

Another set of footsteps sounded. These ones were heavier and more rushed, and Greg's heart started beating faster. The steps got close and then circled around, and he could sense a presence behind him. Then, a heavy, huge hand slammed down on his shoulder, causing his whole body to lean sideways.

"See that we get Mr. Lestrade cozied in, hmm? I have a call to make."

The even footsteps walked away, leaving Greg alone with whatever brute was behind him. He opened his eyes again, having recovered from the bright light, as he felt the bonds around his ankles being untied. He knew this game too well to think that this was a good thing. Then, he was hoisted out of the chair and drug across the room. He tugged against the man, grunting softly at his attempt, but was met with more force that no doubt would bruise his bicep.

He was shoved to the ground hard, his knees connecting with wet concrete, and he sucked in a harsh breath at the new pain. Then, the hand grabbed the back of his head, and before he could cry out or try to move, he was thrust forward and shoved head-first into some of the coldest water he could ever imagine.

Mycroft wasn't sure how long he sat in Gregory's office inside the Yard. He sat motionless in the chair, barely acknowledging the noises going on around him, staring off into nothing. For the first time since Sherlock had started becoming addicted to cocaine, he was at a loss of what to do. His Gregory had been kidnapped. He was lord knows where, having lord knows what done to him. No results had come back on ID-ing the man who took him, and no phone call had been made to the Yard yet, so lord knows what on Earth they wanted. The plates that were run came back as stolen, which he could have anticipated the moment he was told they were running them. Someone who's going to kidnap a Detective Inspector is not going to be so careless.

Donovan brought him a cup of tea at one point, which he accepted wordlessly, nodding at her as he brought the mug to his lips. It wasn't great, nothing compared to what they had at home, but he could really care less at the moment. The hot liquid had its attempt at calming his nerves, and he tried to sort himself and gather his mind.

Long after the tea had been consumed, the door to the office was flung open. Mycroft's head darted up to take in a wide-eyed Donovan. He stood quicker than he thought, knocking the chair backwards where it slammed against the wall with a clang. His assessment was quick; they had something. The way her face was, her breathing, the commotion behind her…

"What?" he asked, his voice croaking from lack of use.

"The kidnapper," she said, tilting her head to have him follow. "He's on the phone."

That was all that needed to be said. Mycroft was at the sergeant's heels in an instant, following her over to her desk, where the phone was off its cradle and muted. She flung her hand out to silence those in the immediate area, and the sudden lack of any and all movement and sound was almost deafening. If he had the time to, Mycroft would've been impressed. Then, quietly, Sally took the phone off mute and put it on speaker.

"Tell us what you're after," she said calmly, her voice not betraying a single bit of emotion. Silence on the other end. She was gazing up at Mycroft, whose blue eyes flicked from her face down to the phone, and then back at her again. There was a recorder sitting on the desk next to the receiver that had been turned on to capture the extent of the conversation.

"Things that you cannot supply," a male voice finally replied. Smooth, confident, light with amusement. He had an accent. It was faint, which means he had been speaking English and probably living in England for some time now, but it was there. Mycroft's eyes slanted as he listened. "However, lucky for you – or should I say, lucky for your Detective Inspector over here – you have just the man who can."

That accent sounded familiar. Korean. Mycroft grimaced at the realization, and with what was just said. His mind was piecing things together, and it was not looking good.

"Then, by all means, tell us which man you are referring to," Donovan replied.

"I believe he should be there with you. After all, his beloved Greg Lestrade is in danger." He was talking about Mycroft. Of course he was. It clicked. They had just gotten done dealing with top secret negotiations with Korea in regards to a high-profile criminal, and it was coming back to him personally. Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes and sighing shakily. He needed to call Sherlock. He needed to call… He had so many calls to make. But now he had footing. Now he had ideas.

"Mycroft Holmes, I know you can hear me," the man cooed, giggling softly.

"What do you want with Mycroft Holmes?" Donovan asked, trying to keep control of the conversation.

"Oh, he knows. He knows all too well. Even now, he probably has men at phones and behind desks that can start working on contingency plans and negotiating and searching… Well, let me tell you, Mr. Holmes. They will not work. You know what I want. And if you value your dear Detective Inspector's life, you will give me what I want. You have 48 hours. I'm being more than generous."

Before anyone could say anything else, the man was gone. Cursing, Donovan stopped the recording and looked up at him.

"To what was he referring?" she asked sternly, standing again. Mycroft shook his head.

"Highly classified," he managed to say, his voice wavering. "I… I cannot say."

"Then how in the hell are we supposed to get Lestrade back?"

"I'm already working on it. Just have people ready, Sergeant."

Turning, Mycroft stormed out of the room and towards the elevator, already on his phone and talking to people. He knew exactly what the kidnapper wanted. He couldn't give it to him. He had to figure something else out. He would figure something else out.

Greg's body continued to ache. His lungs were on fire, and he was gasping for breath. Cold water drenched his shirt and hair, dripping down his body, and he could not stop shivering. When he'd tried fighting back, he was met with a well-aimed punch to the face and gut. He could taste the metallic tang of his blood in his mouth, and then before he could compose himself, he was under the water again.

He coughed harshly as he was finally shoved back into the chair and bound once again. His head fell back, thumping against the back of the chair, but he was already hurting so much that it didn't make any difference.

"How are we feeling?" the smooth voice asked, having come back in the room. The brute, which had been gripping his shoulder tightly, released him and shuffled away a little bit. Greg coughed again in response, and a giggle sounded from in front of him. "I see. Well, if you would talk to me that would be much appreciated. You see… I need you as leverage. So, we may as well make the best of it."

"What…d-do you mean?" he asked, his voice thin and gravelly. He needed to know. He had to find out what he was even doing here.

"Your dear boy, Mycroft Holmes, did a bad, bad thing," the man said. Greg froze, and his breath hitched in his throat. This earned another giggle. "Oh yes. You're here until Mr. Holmes gives me what I want. He better hurry, though. If he doesn't, I can't promise you won't suffer for it."

He could feel hot breath on his cheek; the damn man was right in front of him. He remained frozen, teeth gritted. He couldn't hold back the jerk as a hand was on him, though, until he realized that his phone was getting pulled out of his pocket. As it was turned on, the screen lit up the area around them. Greg took the opportunity to see everything he could.

They definitely were in a warehouse. The floor was wet, and there was a small pool over to the side that he had just been more than acquainted with. There were crates behind it, and over to the side, and a long table. Apart from that, the room seemed empty. The man in front of him finally had his face illuminated. He was Asian… That explained the accent he was trying to pinpoint. What did any of this have to do with Mycroft? Who had the power this man supposedly had that knew about their relationship? He seemed a bit younger than Greg, and his face was smooth and calm, almost…manic.

"I'm so glad we have your phone. After all, we have to give Mr. Holmes the proper incentive." He motioned to his right, and the brute came into view. Brute was the perfect description, because this man was huge, and looked dumb. He had something in his hand… Greg couldn't tell what. The calm man held up the phone, and he could hear the ding saying that the video camera was going off. Christ, they were recording him.

"Mr. Holmes. It would be horrible of me to keep things from you, so here we are. Say hello, Greg."

Greg gritted his teeth, but looked up at the phone, more so Mycroft could see him than anything.

"Your Greg isn't much of a talker, Mr. Holmes. It's a shame; he has such a lovely voice. But that's okay, I have ways of hearing it…"

This seemed to be the brute's cue. The next thing Greg knew was pain. Terrible, searing pain, and a wetness that his conscious mind could only conclude to be sweat or blood. Or both. Before long, his screams echoed through the empty warehouse, combining with gleeful laughter.

Mycroft sat out on his balcony, a glass on brandy in one hand. His eyes were closed as he felt the soft, summer breeze go by. It was a lovely night, the kind of nights he and Greg would recline out under the stars and either talk for hours or never say a word. It was this that made him unable to enjoy the rarely lovely weather that was going on. They had gotten nowhere. It had only been a day, but it had felt like a lifetime. And the longer time passed with no idea of their location, the less likely they were to find his beloved in decent condition.

The thought of it made a lump form in his throat. He had to keep a clear head. He was a Holmes, this was what they excelled at. But inside, he was panicking. A shaky hand brought his glass to his lips as he swallowed a decent amount of the burning alcoholic liquid, and he sighed as he stared up at the stars. He remained silent, sitting there for an unknown amount of time, until his phone buzzed and lit up next to him. Arching an eyebrow, he reached over with his empty hand, and the name on the screen almost made his heart stop.

Gregory

Nervously, he opened the text. He knew it wouldn't be from his partner. No… His captors must have found his mobile. It was with reluctance that he opened it, to reveal a video that started to download. The wait time seemed ridiculous, but once it finally started playing, he wished he'd never gotten it.

Greg's screams came through the speaker on the device, and Mycroft's icy eyes widened immensely as he watched what was going on in front of him. The things that lurking individual was doing… Cutting his perfect skin, digging in deep. There was so much blood. The cries coming from that lovely voice caused tears to slide down Mycroft's cheek, and he couldn't hold back the sob that sounded as his brandy glass fell to the ground and shattered.

He sat frozen long after the video was over. He was staring at a now black screen, but he couldn't move. Seeing what had transpired caused his brain to shut down for what was probably the first time ever in his life. Finally, he forced himself to reboot. His eyes hardened, though his tears had not stopped. With renewed vigor, he fired off texts, and forwarded the video to his brother. He didn't want to… But he needed Sherlock's assistance. With both Holmes brothers on the case, as much tension as there was between them, surely the kidnappers could not stay hidden long.

They had to hurry. If they put Gregory through that amount of torture the first time, he honestly didn't know what they would do next or where they would plan to heighten their attempts to next. The clock was ticking.

Greg didn't know how much time had passed. He didn't know how he was still alive. They had beat him, cut him, suffocated him… He knew for sure that he had broken ribs, and at least one broken arm. He'd lost so much blood he'd spent a good majority of his time unconscious. It was hard to breathe, and he could no longer hear or see straight (probably a concussion). His captors were keeping enough water in him to ensure that when they induced pain, he would audibly scream. However, he knew he was extremely dehydrated.

The main man was getting more and more irritable as time passed. His punishments became more severe each time as a result. That had to mean that whatever time frame he had set for his demands was quickly approaching with no results. Greg could feel his body tremble. He was numb, but he had been cold… He no longer wore a shirt, making the damp air combined with cold water he'd been shoved under chill him to the bone.

Pain. Stern voices. He couldn't make out the words anymore. He whimpered as he was cut yet again, his eyes getting hot and prickly to contrast the numbness the rest of him felt. He was going to die. In his heart, he knew it. While he was beginning to make peace with that, he yearned to see Mycroft one more time. Just… once more. One more kiss, one more chance to tell him how much he loved him. Was it too much to ask?

Probably. Screaming. Demands. More pain. Unconsciousness.

"We found them."

Mycroft barely registered the words being spoken to him. He hadn't slept a wink since the whole ordeal had started. Here they were… Two hours left and his beloved was to be executed. If he hadn't been tortured to death already. He used all the resources at his disposal, and still had not achieved the desired results.

"Mycroft Edwin Holmes," a voice yelled at him. He blinked, coming back to focus. Sherlock.

"Mmm?" he registered half-heartedly.

"You fool. Pay attention. We found them. A team's on the way."

The words hit him. In an instant, Mycroft was up. He snatched his umbrella and strode out, his brother and John Watson moving alongside him. Sherlock filled him in on the details he had been too distracted to hear the first time around. Even then, and as they met up with the squad and made their way, he prayed they weren't too late. He was not a praying man. But this once, just this once, he was.

Everything after was a blur. The squad went in. There were shouts, shots fired, running. Mycroft didn't blink at any of it. He searched frantically for the one person in the warehouse he needed to see. The longer he went without finding him, the more terrified he became. And then…

There he was. Bound to a chair that had been turned over, Greg was laying on his side on a damp concrete floor. He was bare from the waist up, and covered in so many cuts and bruises it was hard to see any of his normally perfect tanned skin. And the blood… Dried blood, fresh blood, it was everywhere.

"Gregory!" he shouted painfully, running over and falling to his knees in front of the man. Long, trembling fingers worked to try and remove the binds, though it was proving difficult because they were damp from blood and perspiration. After many frustrated whines, he got them off, and pulled the limp older man into his arms. Unfocused brown eyes slowly opened and met his horrified blue ones, the beginnings of a sideways smile playing on his love's lips.

"M-Myc…" Greg croaked, barely audible. "Thank…goodness…"

One of his arms shifted as if he was trying to reach up, but he wasn't successful. Then, his eyes, those gorgeous eyes, became unfocused again and he fell limp. Mycroft froze, eyes darting over his features frantically. He wasn't breathing. Gregory wasn't breathing.

Never before had Mycroft screamed the way he started to in that moment. The medics showed up far too slow, and when he was finally pulled away from Greg, he sat motionless in the floor. He felt helpless watching them wheel him away. He wasn't breathing. He….

Someone was grabbing him. Someone was speaking. Mycroft didn't care who. He found that he didn't care about anything in that moment.

There was a bright light. Beeping. Pain. But… not the same kind of pain as before. With a grunt, Greg Lestrade tried opening his eyes, and was assaulted with more light that caused him to reflexively shut them again tight. He grit his teeth and inhaled swiftly. Bad idea.

The pain intensified, and he could hear the beeping accelerate slightly.

"Gregory?"

The voice came from far away. But he could never mistake that voice… Taking a steadying, but more shallow breath, Greg tried again. Finally, getting his eyes open, he came face to face with Mycroft, who looked exhausted and scared and relieved all at the same time.

"H-hey…" he managed with a cough. Soothing shushes. He found himself able to relax.

"Don't speak, darling," Mycroft whispered gently, reaching out and resting a hand on one of his arms. "It's okay. I'm here. You're alive."

The 'thank goodness' was implied, but Greg could see it in his partner's face plain as day. The relief he felt was immense. He wasn't dead. He honestly didn't know how he wasn't. He could gather that he probably wasn't the only one who was shocked by that fact. Soon, the pain started to melt away with a sigh, and he closed his eyes for a moment before regarding the other man again.

"Your pain medication has been administered," Mycroft explained. Greg attempted to nod in acknowledgement, to let him know he understood what was being said. "I thought I'd lost you, Gregory. You have a concussion, a broken arm, three broken ribs – one of which almost punctured your lung – and they had to do a blood transfusion."

Mycroft's usually calm, milky voice was trembling as he spoke, and his eyes were shining with unshed tears. Greg just gazed at him, and attempted a smile.

"L-love you," he managed to get out. He didn't care if talking hurt. He had to say it. It's all he had thought about during whatever length of time he was captive and tortured, and he had to say it.

"I love you too," Mycroft replied with relieved, breathy laugh. He stood and pressed a gentle kiss to the older man's forehead, and Greg found himself humming happily. "Sleep, darling. You're safe now."

"But…"

"Sleep, Gregory. Please. I'll be here when you wake, I promise. I'll always be here."

Mycroft continued talking, but it slowly became more muddled as Greg started to lose consciousness. This time, however, there was a smile on his face. He was safe. And yes… Yes, Mycroft would always be there.