PRESENT DAY

Greg carried the steaming mugs of piping hot coffee to the table. It was half past midnight and except for a student who sat bent over his books at another table, probably drinking coffee by the litre, the café was empty.

"Thank you, Gregory."

Mycroft sighed through his nose and blew carefully at the hot brew in his mug before taking a sip. A corner of his mouth curled in a soft smile. The perfect amount of milk and sugar, Gregory always knew how he liked both his tea and coffee. The warm feeling in his stomach not only came from the hot brew but also from knowing that of late he could consider this loyal, trustworthy man who sat across from him his friend.

"Feeling better?"

Mycroft nodded. After another sip he sat the mug down and looked at his counterpart. "I didn't see it coming," he said, knowing there was no need to explain that he meant Sherlock overdosing.

Greg scratched his chest. "Me neither. And I did see him less than twenty-four hours ago."

"You did?"

"Yes, he came into my office, babbled something about a client who had," he made quotation marks with his fingers, "misplaced his mother-in-law."

Mycroft snorted. "Misplaced?"

"That's what Sherlock told me." Scratching his chest again, Greg took the mug and drank from his coffee before he continued. "He stayed maybe five minutes, prattling something about this mother-in-law and left. He didn't appear to be particularly depressed. It was rather the opposite. Like he was onto something."

The coffee was the perfect temperature and Mycroft even closed his eyes to enjoy the flavour.

"This is really good coffee, Gregory." He downed the rest and set down the mug.

"The last time I saw Sherlock was two days ago. He", Mycroft blushed slightly, "he played a prank on me."

"A prank?" Greg grinned. "What did he do?"

Mycroft shrugged, embarrassment evident on his face. "He smeared something to the door-knocker at Baker Street. I guess it is obsessive behaviour that I straighten the knocker without even knowing I'm doing it."

"Um, okay. You lost me. What did he smear on the knocker? Something yucky?"

"No, it was actually something acidic that turned my thumb and my index finger blue for a few hours. It could only be removed with honey, of all things. My dear brother is experimenting to devise a more elegant means of tracing stolen money."

"Well, the current methods aren't very good. I give you that," Greg agreed. "But dyeing your fingers blue..." He laughed again. "Anyway, it is a bit odd that Sherlock would start taking drugs unless..." Greg's eyes went wide and he slapped his forehead.

"Gregory?" Mycroft studied his friend who quickly pulled out an envelope he had been carrying around in the side pocket of his jacket.

"I'm an idiot! Here, read this." He slid a cream coloured envelope across the table top.

Mycroft pulled out the folded piece of paper and quickly read it. Wrinkles appeared at his forehead.

"Why on earth would Doctor Watson and his wife move to Canada?" He folded the paper and handed it back.

"Beats me." Greg spread his hands. "But I can imagine that Sherlock would be distraught about that prospect."

The Government official nodded. "A logical assumption. I wonder what Sherlock said to anger the good doctor so much that he isn't even here."

Now that Mycroft mentioned it, Greg wondered why John wasn't at Sherlock's side. Each time the mad detective had been hurt in the past John had literally hovered over him in full mother hen mode until he was better.

"You called him?" he asked.

"I did, twice, and I left a message."

The Inspector hummed. Had Sherlock really been able to upset John badly enough to keep him away once he learned about this? He had serious doubts.

Seeing that Greg had finished his coffee as well Mycroft stood up. The men didn't talk while walking back to Sherlock's room.

Nothing had changed during the thirty odd minutes they had spent in the café. Mycroft was about to sit down again, when Greg stopped him.

"Wait. You have been here for hours, probably came straight from the office. Why don't you go home, get a few hours sleep, take a shower, change and come back here. You're going to feel better. I can stay until morning. Don't have to get back to work before noon so there'd be still enough time for me to have a kip."

Mycroft considered the offer. He knew he wouldn't rest peacefully but knowing that Gregory was staying with his brother was the next best thing to being here himself.

"I think I'll take you up on that offer. I'll come back at six, if that'd be okay with you."

Greg scratched at his chest again, cursing under his breath, before he shrugged out of his jacket. Mycroft's eyes went wide.

He was right in front of the inspector with two long strides. Before Greg could react, Mycroft grabbed his shirt and began unbuttoning it quickly with deft fingers.

Greg's mouth fell open on the sudden assault.

"Myc, what are you doing?"

Even before he had finished the question, the shirt was open and Mycroft literally ripped it from his torso.

"There!" Mycroft pointed at a spot on the right side of Greg's now exposed chest.

The inspector looked down and was surprised to discover an angry red mark.

"What the hell?"

Mycroft put on a pair of surgical gloves he took from a box on the table at Sherlock's bed and carefully felt inside Greg's jacket. He pulled out a folded piece of paper that looked like it had been soaked in some solution. The solution had first soaked the lining of the jacket and then the shirt before coming in contact with the Inspector's skin.

"It appears to me you too have fallen victim to Sherlock's dedication to experimenting on people."

Mycroft went to find the nurse on duty, asking for an analgesic cream for Gregory to put on the mark to sooth the irritated skin. Greg immediately sighed with relief when he applied the cream.

"Well, now I only need a shirt before I start my watch." He smirked.

To his surprise Mycroft shrugged out of his own jacket, took off his waistcoat, tie and eventually his shirt to offer it to Greg.

"I only wore it for the few hours I stayed here. Since I'm going to wear my coat and scarf going home, nobody will notice."

Greg blinked owlishly and Mycroft took a step backwards.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you."

Shaking his head, Greg took the shirt before Mycroft could change his mind. "No, thanks, it's fine. I'm just a bit surprised." He put on the shirt and almost groaned when the soft material came in contact with his skin.

"I don't think I ever wore a shirt like this. It cost what? A hundred quid?"

"Two-hundred," Mycroft told him and Greg swallowed.

The shirt fit well enough. It was a little tight at his chest and shoulders and the sleeves were half an inch too long but Greg didn't give a fuck as long as he could wear this soft, posh shirt for a few hours. He blushed, wondering for a moment if it was kinky to enjoy wearing his friend's shirt. But since it had been offered willingly and he needed something to wear while he stayed with Sherlock, he pushed the thought aside.

"Is the shirt enough or do you require my waistcoat too?" Mycroft asked.

"The shirt is fine and I would feel more than just a bit odd wearing a waistcoat."

Mycroft got dressed and put on his coat. Once he had tied a scarf around his neck, no-one could suspect that an item of his clothing was missing.

"I don't think your jacket or your shirt can be saved at the dry-cleaner," he remarked.

"It's a shame, I really liked that jacket." Greg shrugged. "But it didn't cost that much."

"I insist on compensating you for the damage."

"Sherlock can do that, once he's back on his feet. I like the idea of him owing me a favour."

Mycroft nodded but Greg had the feeling that he might still get a new shirt and jacket anyway.

"Good night, Gregory. I can't even begin to tell you how much I appreciate that you're staying here."

"Sleep well, Mycroft. See you in a bit."

Greg watched his friend leaving the room and closing the door behind him quietly, before he tried to get comfortable in the very uncomfortable chair next to Sherlock's bed.