A/N: Why am I writing this when I have at least three stories to update? Short answer: because I want to. Longer answer: I suddenly realized that I've been ignoring my favorite DI for far too long, and also I need some epic Mycroft/Greg bromine that is NOT slash. So here you go. I'll say there's one more part, but with me, you never know. There might be more, or not. Enjoy!
It wasn't what Greg would have chosen to do with the rest of his evening, not after the day he had. A shower, a strong drink, and a soft bed were much preferable to that. Yet a promise was a promise, especially when it was one made to Sherlock. It had taken some effort to get the consulting detective's trust, and he wouldn't want to break it by being flippant.
Mycroft Holmes, here I come, Lestrade thought to himself, grumbling. Although I really don't see why you'd need a simple DI to assist you. According to Sherlock, all of England's forces are your minions, including those at the very top. Well, heeere goes. The DI marched into St. Barts, flashed his card, and pretty soon found himself in the hospital room, face-to-face with Mycroft Holmes.
"Gregory," the government employee greeted politely. "How's my brother? Dr. Watson?"
Greg smirked a bit. The brother's might be forever quarreling, but they were both worried about each other. "They're quite well, considering the circumstances," he replied easily. He took a good look at the other man. Physically, he was very pale, but it was the look in his eyes that worried the DI. He looked haunted.
"Is there anything I can do for you, Mycroft?" Greg asked sincerely. "Something to eat, or drink perhaps?"
"Get me out of here," Mycroft answered, his tone almost desparate.
"Uh, that's not quite my department. What are they keeping you in for, might I ask?"
"Some nonsense about shock. I'm perfectly fine. Someone's just out to keep me nice and miserable."
"It's not so bad here," Greg joked. "Room service, breakfast in bed, and all that. Though the food is awful, I'll give you that."
"Sherlock would argue that that's perfect for my diet," Mycroft jibed back. "Though, seriously, the noise. The chatter. The smell. And the people."
Lestrade regarded the younger man thoughtfully. "I suppose that all would be magnified with your sensory issues," he mused.
"Pardon?" Mycroft asked dangerously.
"If Sherlock has sensory issues, you must have it even worse than him. Nothing to be ashamed of, you know."
"Alright, call it what you will. Just get me out of here!" His last words held a not of hysteria. Greg looked at him worriedly. "Alright. Let me talk to your doctor."
The doctor was duly summoned. "Are you family?" he asked Greg.
"A friend," he said, glancing sideways at Mycroft.
"Well, usually we'd like to talk to next of kin," the doctor began.
"I understand, but his parents are abroad at the moment," Greg said patiently.
"Anyone else?" the doctor probed further.
The DI noticed the discomfort on the British Government's face. "His brother is, ahhhh, otherwise occupied at the moment. Look, I just want to know of he can go home now."
The doctor turned to Mycroft. "Mr. Holmes, you're blood pressure is still a bit wonky, and we're a bit concerned about your other symptoms. You've had three episodes of vomiting, and one episode of near fainting. Otherwise you're fine, but it would be advisable to remain for a night of observation."
"I want to go home," Mycroft said firmly.
"Not advisable, but I can't stop you. I would suggest that you have someone drive you, and that you shouldn't be alone for the night, in case anything gets worse."
"I'll take him," Lestrade interrupted.
"Thank you, Gregory, but that's not necessary," Mycroft said politely.
"I didn't say you had a choice," Greg shot back. The two men looked at each other mulishly, until Mycroft caved. "Fine," he said, grudgingly. "As long as I get to leave this hell hole."
The DI watched in amusement as the British Government sulked like a teenager. In short order, he had the younger man bundled into the passenger seat of his car, and began driving. He let the silence stretch, peering occasionally at the younger man, who seemed to be sunken in his morose thoughts. He turned into Mycroft's street and drove up to his mansion, but the other man continued staring into space.
"We're here," he said gently. Mycroft didn't respond. Greg laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, trying to bring him back to Earth. He didn't expect Mycroft to startle so badly, that all his limbs jersey, and he nearly hit Greg in the face.
"I'm sorry," the DI breathed. "I just wanted to let you know that we're here."
He watched Mycroft compose himself in under a millisecond, and secretly admired him for that. That was one hell of an Iceman facade, but, as Greg was coming to realize, indeed nothing more than that.
"My apologies, Gregory. My mind was otherwise occupied," Mycroft said smoothly. He automatically began rooting around for something, and the DI realized he was searching for his umbrella. "Um, Mycroft, I think you might have left your umbrella at home," he said neutrally.
"Ah, of course. My bad." The government man began striding towards his house. Greg followed.
"Thank you for you assistance," Mycroft said, without turning around. "Have a safe trip home."
"You can't seriously believe that I'm just going to leave you here yourself?" Greg asked him in surprise.
Mycroft turned around, looking confused. "You did your job, Lestrade. I know my way around from here."
"No, I didn't. I said I'll keep an eye, and I meant it."
Mycroft gave him a condescending smile. "You do know I have plenty of staff who can do the job just as well," he said.
"And I also know that you'll never call them. You and Sherlock, you'll never ask anyone for help, you arrogant idiots," Greg said firmly. "I'm staying the night. I'm sure the British Government has an extra pair of pajamas for emergencies. I can take the sofa, if there's no extra bed."
Mycroft observed the older man keenly, as if deducting him for the first time. Finally, he nodded grudgingly. "Come on in," he said graciously. The DI followed him.
Mycroft stopped short as they entered the front hallway, his eyes darting to and fro anxiously. "No, wait, the security," he muttered. "I didn't get a chance to repair it..."
"Security?" Greg asked, bewildered. Mycroft shook his head. "Don't worry about it. Uh, come on up, let me take you to your room."
As he climbed the stairs behind his host, Greg realized that the man's steps were getting increasingly unsteady. At the top of the stairs, Mycroft stopped short, and stared at the paintings on the walls. Greg took a look, and was shocked to see the blood covered faces staring back at him.
"No," the younger man said, his voice quivering. "Noooo," he moaned, and made a sound as if he were about to retch. He ran into the nearest bathroom, and Greg listened to the most unpleasant sound of the British Government puking his guts out. On instinct, he ran towards the bathroom.
The door had been left ajar. Mycroft was sitting in the floor, his shoulders slumped, his face gray. "Get...get me out of here," he whispered frantically. "I can't..."
"What is it?" Greg asked gently, kneeling beside him.
"The East Wind is coming. Coming to get me..." The man replied, as if in a trance.
Greg stood up, and held out a hand, which the other man reluctantly took, and helped him get up.
"Well, since this place doesn't seem to be agreeing with you, I think we should try my place," he said, keeping his tone light. "I have some tea and biscuits, too, if you're in the mood." While talking, he gently steered the other man towards the door.
Something was off about this house, Greg realized, and it was getting to Mycroft. Perhaps it was reminding him of the events that had occurred earlier in the day. He got a nearly unresponsive Mycroft back into his car, and began driving.
After only two minutes, Mycroft snapped back to himself. "Detective Inspector," he called to him, a sneer in his voice. "Kindly return me to my home. I had a mild digestive issue, but I am perfectly fine now. There's no need for your unnecessary concern."
Greg didn't answer, only silently drove on until he found a place to park temporarily. Then he shut off the engine, and turned to Mycroft with the stern expression he always used on suspects. "Mycroft Holmes, please tell me, how long have you been suffering from PTSD?"