Scrabble.

The one minute time limit passed an age ago ad Mycroft is still no closer to completing his move.

Opposite him, Greg sits patiently and watches the little crease between his partner's eyes deepen in frustration as Mycroft orders and reorders his tiles fruitlessly.

Greg says nothing and Mycroft appreciates it.

Every turn is the same, produces the same amount of anxiety and requires the same degree of meticulous concentration.

Greg had suggested chess, but the scrabble board was already being set up with the single-minded ceremony of a general who was sick of being beaten and refused to lose this time.

It was not a game, Greg has finally come to realise, and must not be treated as such.

The shirtsleeves were rolled up five turns ago, and the ibuprofen taken prematurely. Mycroft regrets this now, his migraine taking hold as he moves his B in front of his T, then back again. He rubs his temple and blinks hard, forcing himself to concentrate properly. It wasn't hard, it shouldn't be hard, he was just being stupid. He shifts and slouches, resting his chin on his hands and frowning down at the letters refusing to fuse into something coherent.

Greg says nothing but waits with unending patience. He watches the pulse in Mycroft's wrist twitch and wishes he would stop putting himself through this. His own letters are already good to go, have been ever since Mycroft began his turn – fifteen minutes ago, now – although Greg is not playing his best game; it wouldn't be fair to play against Mycroft's disadvantage.

He prefers the Sunday Times' Crossword – less competitive (although it took Mycroft several months to stop taking it personally each time Greg found a word.) He discovered that as long as they had their separate tasks – Mycroft throwing out a wealth of synonyms and Greg choosing and fitting them into their proper place – they could spend quite a pleasant morning working methodically through the puzzle without the stress and frustration that had so confused Greg in the beginning.

Unfortunately, they seem unable to reach that point with Scrabble.

To be fair to him, Greg had fully expected Mycroft to have given up and gone for a long, solitary walk within five minutes of taking this turn, and is quietly proud that he is persisting. They are making progress, even if it is only half a step at a time.

Mycroft shifts and sits up. His eyes narrow and Greg notices the lack of rise and fall in his chest – he has reached the point of the final decision and the wait is almost over.

His long fingers twitch, reach out, pull back… his lips twist as he considers his move –in the same breath knowing that he could do better and knowing that he can't. Greg watches Mycroft deflate as he concedes defeat, letting out the long-held breath with a soft hiss and committing himself fully to the word.

Greg's eyebrow twitches as the tiles go down. They both know that it isn't an accepted word. Mycroft meets Greg's eyes with a flicker of guilt.

Greg marks down his seven points, smiling to himself when he sees Mycroft relax in his peripheral vision. He turns a blind eye when Mycroft sneaks a look as he picks out his new tiles, and busies himself with his own word.

Equinoxes…

There is a deflated sigh on the opposite end of the board as Mycroft considers his letters.

Greg lays down 'ensue' and settles back for another wait.

Rollercoaster

Mycroft's long fingers gripped the metal bar with the same unyielding strength with which he clenched his teeth as the car climbed slowly higher and higher - each half a foot marked by the sharp 'clack!' of the tracks.

He had no idea how or why he had allowed Greg to coerce him onto this ridiculous contraption, he owed him nothing and had no need to pander (for once), nor had he any idea why his answer to the flippant question, "D'you fancy it?" had had to be an embarrassingly chipper, "Yes! Of course!" complete with verbal exclamation marks et al.

As they drew closer to the summit, Mycroft decided that this most definitely marked the beginning of the end - both of physical life (considering the rickitiness of the stupid contraption) and or his sanity. As far as he was aware, senility hadn't been a common occurrence amongst the previous generations of Holmeses, but there was always a first time for everything.

The decision had been regretted immediately upon having the bar pulled down a little too snugly across his lap, but Mycroft had made the decision to just Sit It Out. After all, his apprehension was entirely unfounded; if it wasn't safe, it wouldn't be permitted - that was the rule. Of course, there were always anomalies, freak occurrences which resulted in untold horror and death … But one shouldn't think of such things, especially when one is about to be fifty feet up in the air, particularly when one is about to drop from fifty feet up in the air down to ten at a rate of at least ten thousand miles an hour….Not that Mycroft was prone to exaggeration when nervous, not in the slightest.

Anyhow.

Mycroft knew that in ten minutes his feet would be back on the ground, he would be in one piece and then they could forget it ever happened - ten minutes of grin and bear it and then…

The car stopped and Mycroft's resolve broke.

Teetering on the peek, his eyes clamped shut, he gritted his teeth and his fingers tightened so hard they burned as they waited.

Whoever invented rollercoasters was a sadist.

Anticipation tightened with fear several notches more. Mycroft was almost tempted to open his eyes, but he doubted that would help.

He barely felt Greg's hand close over his, nor hear the words murmured into his ear above the wind, "Ready, love?" before they were plunged down and up and around and through - their screams melding into long sound of exhilaration.

It was Mycroft's idea to rejoin the queue as soon as Greg had pulled him out of the car.

Sickness

He can't remember the last time he had called in sick (the times he had been persuaded to call in sick don't count) but as he lies there - a cool hand tenderly stroking his clammy forehead, Greg vaguely thinks that he wouldn't mind contracting a horrible sickness more often, especially if it meant chicken soup out of a tin (Mycroft had tried and failed to make it fresh - the kitchen was closed until further notice) and a husband who returned home promptly.

The woman in the box is talking some nonsense about nothing in particular - Greg isn't really listening, he's too busy counting the beats of Mycroft's heart with one ear and listening to the tuneless hum rising in his husband's throat with the other, the rhythm of the hand through his hair adding a pleasant percussion to their own private symphony - soothing the ache in his head as effectively as any painkiller.

He closes his eyes and allows his mind to drift - not caring that thoughts and feelings and everything between were swirling behind his eyes in a nonsensical knot. It was quite nice not to have to care. Everything that was important was already certain - nothing else needed considering.

The melody begins to peter away into a soft, irregular hum, and the hands slips from Greg's head to drape over his shoulder - limp with half-sleep. There's something about dozing on the sofa with a duvet when one is ill… Greg sighs, lips twitching sleepily into a contented smile, and nuzzles against the sleeping Mycroft, nose just resting against the loosened knot of his tie.

He makes a mental note not to recover too quickly and vaguely wonders what the best way to contract an incurable-but-not-fatal disease would be… Maybe he'll ask Sherlock.

Cuddles

Sometimes it was just necessary.

After a long day, or a particular week, or even just because, sometimes it was just necessary to cuddle.

Sherlock would scoff, John would fidget, Anthea would smile secretly and Anwen would blush and look away, muttering something about OOC…

And they wouldn't care.

Why should they?

Sometimes it's just necessary.

Fuck! Even if it isn't - even if it is entirely inappropriate to the situation, (which, more often than not, it is,) who has any right to say so? They are in love and everyone should know it, especially them. Why should they deny it? Why should propriety get in the way of just being them?

Sherlock protests, but Sherlock doesn't understand. John has tried (and failed) to explain, to demonstrate….Sherlock still doesn't understand.

Neither Greg nor Mycroft care, and why should they?

Mycroft likes being that much taller; he likes resting his chin on the top of Greg's head as they stand - cuddling - here, there and everywhere. He likes the way Greg is nestled between his shoulder and neck, and the way he only has to tilt his own head a quarter of a fraction to kiss the top of Greg's. He likes the convenience and the intimacy and the easiness, in every order they come in.

What Greg likes best is that that space is his - even in the middle of all the possible angst and drama and complication and nonsense, that space is still his - and Mycroft would never deny him. It gave him access, when appropriate, to Mycroft's most erogenous spot, but - above and beyond - it was the place that said 'I love you. You are mine and I am yours, and you are welcome here.'

The warmth of a cuddle - both physical and emotional - is always desired; just to be close, and to know that you can be close… If anyone had tried to explain before, they both would've scoffed. There's something to be said for closeness, for feeling familiar hands press against you back without discomfort, just because it is right.

Impossible and unnecessary to explain.

If anyone had said to either of them before…

But what says 'I love you' better than a cuddle?