A/N: Some Mystrade fluff. Couldn't sleep until I wrote this. Feel free to follow me at my tumblr (same username as it is here!) for updates/ficlets/other things!
"You cannot sleep, can you?" Mycroft's voice was soft against the skin of Greg's throat and he shifted slightly, curling closer to the gray-haired cop underneath him. He was draped over the detective inspector, his pale limbs twined about him and his head underneath Greg's chin.
Greg closed his eyes briefly and then opened them. "No," he admitted quietly. "I've, uh, had issues with insomnia - not being able to sleep - since I started as a copper." Greg stroked a hand up and down Mycroft's back, although he wasn't certain whether he was soothing the politician or himself.
"I apologise, Gregory," Mycroft murmured. "For not seeing it sooner." Greg shifted underneath him, looking down at him with a fond, chiding expression.
"Mycroft, we've only been dating three months," he told him. "Most of the times you've spent the night it's been right after you got back from a trip, when you've been up for four days and are bloody exhausted." Mycroft's arm wrapped itself more firmly about Greg's middle.
Suddenly Mycroft shifted off of Greg, sitting up. Both were at least half dressed in pyjamas, Greg's cotton to the other man's silk. Greg had removed his shirt (slept better that way - when he did sleep), but Mycroft kept his on. "Come with me," he urged softly. Greg nodded, trusting him inherently. Mycroft clasped one of his hands with his and twined the fingers together expertly. It felt strange to Greg, even more intimate than sharing a bed.
They left the bedroom and went to another room farther down the hall. This was one Greg hadn't been in before. That wasn't unusual, with the size of Mycroft's flat. He was forever discovering nooks and crannies he had no idea existed. Mycroft pushed the door open easily and dragged Greg in with him. Greg stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening.
The room was simple yet elegant all the same. There were bookshelves lining the walls, filled with a wide variety of old-style books. The floor was carpet, plush and soft under Greg's feet. What was the most surprising to Greg, however, was the fancy piano in the middle of the room. It was obviously the highlight, with a light positioned to illuminate the keys. The lighting was harsh, making Greg cringe against the departure from the softer light of the hallway.
Instead of a normal piano bench with enough room for one or two people to sit, there was a much larger bench. It was high and comfortable enough to sit on the edge, but had plenty of room for someone to lay down with space to spare. Mycroft let go of Greg's hand and closed the door behind them. He flicked a switch and the room went from bright daylight to a blissful sort of twilight, Greg blinking as his eyes adjusted to the change.
"What's this?" he asked. Mycroft walked towards the piano and sat down on the elongated bench. There was more than enough room for Greg, but he wasn't certain what Mycroft wanted. They had only been dating three months and there was still so much that Greg felt he didn't know about the enigmatic man who ran the British Government. There were also pieces that he had learned that he knew no one else was privileged enough to know. He was thrown out of his thoughts by Mycroft's soft voice.
"Come here." Mycroft patted the bench next to him, his expression warm and eager at the same time. It melted years of stress from his features and Greg smiled. He walked over and sat next to Mycroft, pressing their thighs together. Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "Lay down, if you please, Gregory." It was an order phrased as a request, as was almost anything Mycroft said. It was just another thing to get used to as his boyfriend.
"Sod off, you," he muttered amicably. "Say what you mean and I'll do it. Not a mind-reader. That's your talent." Lifting his head he grinned at Mycroft. The politician returned the expression with a smirk of his own. Obediently Greg laid down, discovering that what he thought was a hard bench was actually rather comfortable. He shifted awkwardly for a few moments until his head was propped against Mycroft's thigh, low enough that when Mycroft rested his fingers on the keys he wasn't hitting Greg's face. The rest of him was stretched out on the luscious - whatever it was. The bench.
They sat there in silence for several minutes, Mycroft's long fingers stroking Greg's forehead and down the sides of his face. It was a comforting gesture and Greg leaned into it, feeling strangely cold when Mycroft stopped. Moments later he began to play. Greg blinked rapidly, startled. He had heard that Mycroft played the piano (posh instrument, suited him), but he had never imagined that he would ever hear him play.
And play he did. The music was soft, some type of posh classical lullaby, Greg supposed, and it hypnotised him as effortlessly as it would an infant. There was something magical in the way that Mycroft's elegant fingers stroked the keys, dancing from white to black, his thigh muscles shifting occasionally against Greg's head as he worked the pedals. He felt his eyelids grow heavy and his body grew limp, submitting to what it had long been denied. It was no more than two minutes (one minute and forty two seconds, Mycroft told him later) before he drifted off to sleep.
The beep, beep of a monitor woke him up. Greg scowled at the monitors surrounding him. It had been such a pleasant dream, one of his favorite memories of their nearly year-long relationship. That night had been the first of many. Whenever Greg spent the night at Mycroft's place (which was every night Mycroft was there, might as well make it official), Mycroft would lull him to sleep. It was always a different melody, yet each lulled him to sleep as fast as the others. Sometimes Greg made it a game, to see how long he could stay awake without Mycroft noticing. One night he had made it through the entire piece - short, about five minutes. Mycroft had carried him back to bed, taken less than thirty seconds to deduce that Greg was still awake, and hummed soothingly into his ear until Greg finally succumbed to the need to sleep.
On the nights Mycroft was not there Greg poured over paperwork, digging through the perplexities of cold cases and setting some aside to show Sherlock later on. One of those files had led to the chase across London that had ended up with a bullet in his chest and two graze wounds (one on his shoulder, one grazing his abdomen), landing him in the ICU. He had been intubated and sedated for the majority of the first week. It was only the second day he had been awake, and the nurses assured him he had at least another two weeks in the hospital until the wounds began to heal.
There was the visible advantage of dating the British Government. Private room, good food - if it wasn't for the wretched gown and the blasted monitor, it was almost like being back at Mycroft's flat. Except without Mycroft. Greg sighed, his mind drifting back four months to another memory.
"Gregory..." Mycroft's voice was hesitant, cautious, and he refused to meet Greg's eyes. Greg could feel his heart thumping faster in his chest. "I fear we need to have a talk."
"Oh bloody hell," Greg snapped. "You are not dumping me." He was gratified to see that the horror that crossed Mycroft's face was legitimate. So he wasn't thinking of dumping the wrinkly old copper that had followed him home one day, over a year ago. Or rather, the one who had picked up his younger brother and not immediately bashed his head in. Some days Greg wasn't sure there was much of a difference.
"Of course not," Mycroft assured him. "The thought never crossed my mind." Greg watched him silently, still wary, and Mycroft cleared his throat. "I fear I am not being a good partner to you. Balancing my work for the country and my duty to you has - proven more difficult than anticipated."
"Mycroft." Greg's voice was soft and serious as he scooted closer to the taller man, taking his hands and twining the fingers together. "If you ever have to choose between me and the country, you would choose the country. I know that. It's one of the things I love about you." Mycroft froze and Greg eyed him speculatively, suddenly worried he had made the wrong choice. Did Mycroft want him to fight for him? Fight for his time?
Suddenly Mycroft's long, nimble hands were cradling Greg's face as the pale blue eyes searched Greg's intently. There was a whirlwind of emotions there, flashing past so fast that Greg could only identify a few. Fear, hope, dread, love, affection. So much in such little quantities. Wordlessly Mycroft pressed his lips to Greg's and that was the end of the conversation. "Thank you," he whispered later, his face hidden in the hollow of Greg's throat. "Thank you." Silently Greg rubbed his back, comforting the man who seemed so strong but carried some of the world's worst burdens.
Greg had meant what he said, truly. He just hoped he would be strong enough to handle whatever came his way when the country had to take precedence. Currently, where he had not slept in two days (bar the sedatives), his mettle was being tested. The doctors tut-tutted at him when they came by. The nurses threw him disapproving looks. Greg was inches away from strangling the lot if they didn't stop hinting at his need for sleep. He wasn't that bloody stupid, no matter what they thought.
Anthea had shown up within an hour of him regaining consciousness, apologizing that Mr. Holmes was unavailable and out of the country for at least the next several days. Greg's heart had fallen at the thought, and he wondered if Mycroft even knew he was in the hospital in the first place. He would not put it past Anthea to hold back the information until whatever national crisis Mycroft was dealing with was resolved. The country came first, after all.
Hours later, Greg was still laying in the bed, staring at the ceiling. Was the price too high? Was it truly worth having a relationship with someone who couldn't be there if you needed them. Someone who was at the beck and call of an entire nation - of an entire world, sometimes. He closed his eyes and searched for the elusive beast that was sleep. It wouldn't come. It never did, unless his body was physically about to give out. Thanks to a week spent heavily sedated, it was nowhere near that point.
His phone buzzed and he ignored it, glaring blackly at the wall as if it was to blame for the problems that kept Mycroft away from him. It beeped again, notifying him that whomever had called had gone straight to voicemail. Greg glanced at it occasionally, waiting for the notification that he had a new voicemail to appear. After ten minutes he gave up, assuming that the person had somehow deleted their message.
It was then that the light, cheerful beep (god Greg hated that beep right now) made itself known and he dialed into his voice messages, curious as to who would go to the effort of leaving such a complex message. His supervisors were an option, but even they knew he was in the hospital and not getting anything more than desk duties for weeks after that. He hated the thought. Desk duty not only drove him crazy, but Sherlock as well. The chaos that greeted him when he arrived after taking time off was not worth it.
The message beeped, and started playing.
"Hello, my dear Gregory. I am sorry to the deepest depths that I cannot be with you right now. I cannot imagine what you must be going through, and I am not able to be by your side to support you throughout it. You told me a long time ago that if I must choose between country and you, the choice would be obvious - my country is sacred to me. However, it is not as easy of a decision as you made it out to be. Over time, my decision became obvious. My decision is to choose both. I will be with you as soon as I can. Until then, I hope this is enough to ease your mind. Sleep well, my love."
Music began playing in Greg's ear, and even he could hear as Mycroft slowly began to gain confidence. Playing on an unfamiliar instrument, then. He was startled to recognize the piece Mycroft played. It was the first song Mycroft had ever played for him, the soft, velveteen tones echoing in his ears. The sentiment of what Mycroft had said and the music combined threatened to choke him and Greg had to struggle back tears. It was the single most romantic thing anyone had ever done for him, and he had no idea what he had done to deserve it.
Greg drifted off to sleep with the phone clutched to his ear, a smile on his face, more relaxed than he had been in weeks. It was worth it. It always was.