Gregory Lestrade opens his eyes to a white room, he can hear a insist bip, it's annoying, but not as the pulsating pain in his chest. The inspector tries to rise his hand to the hurt, but it gets pulled back by some kind of wire. He puts his head hard against the pillow, remembering. There was a shot. He was shot.
— Well, fuck.
— It would be wise to stay still, Gregory — a very deep and tired voice comes from his right. Mycroft Holmes looks like hell, he was crying, as the red eyes shown, the bags beneath them of some time without sleeping, the formal t-shirt was a complete mess. The tall man grabs the sick hand and bounds a little to see him from closer — It would be great if my husband stayed alive for our one year anniversary.
— Your husband is putting a lot of effort on it — the grey haired man smiles sweetly, the pain making his grab weak — You look terrible, Myc. Sorry to make you worry.
— I thought you were going to die, Gregory, I was so scared when Sherlock told me what happened — Mycroft was always so cold, trying to play cool, sometimes Gregory forgets how fragile his beloved is.
In a effort he rise the other hand, ignoring the pulsating scream on his body, and place it on the still wet cheek. Mycroft shut his eyes, felling the hot palm on him, right after the operation Gregory was so cold, enough to make his husband ignore all his logic and question with he would ever be hot again.
— Everything is going to be ok, now, love — the government officer want to tell him how many times he almost died in less than two days, how terrible the shot was, and how miraculous his recovery was, but Mycroft just agree, now Gregory was awake and Everything was better — Don't you worry about me.
Impossible enough, he wanted to say, but again decide against it, just laying his head on the fragile hands, holding them. The big and always rough hands, like the man was working breaking rocks day and night, stayed on the well treated skin for a while before he jumped in a memory.
— The Cardiff killer, he shot me! — for the lack of surprise on Mycroft's expression, it wasn't news — We have to get him, it might have evidence in the place I was shot.
— Stop the agitation, Gregory — Mycroft put on of the hands on the not hurt shoulder and pushes the man down delicately —, me and the boys will handle it, don't worry.
— So John and Sherlock are boys now? — Gregory accepts being calm down, dark eyes playful on the other's.
— Of course they are — Mycroft sits, still holding one of the husband's hand. In a glance through the glass wall of the hospital room the detective and the soldier walk in their direction, as worried, angry and tired as the government officer —, our boys.