Thanks to the lovely Micaela for beta-ing!
"You do realize I have several people being paid to sit around and do nothing while you insist on carrying on with this charade?" Mycroft said in his pseudo-irritated voice as he shakily knotted his tie.
Greg grinned. "And I have a team pulling overtime back at the Yard while receiving no extra financial compensation so that I may carry on with this charade. Capitalism, eh?"
Mycroft couldn't hide the smirk this brought to his face, though he made a very valiant effort to. He had been given another round of chemotherapy that morning, but you wouldn't have known it by his appearance. Other than the faint trembling in his hands and his ghostly pallor, he looked completely normal. Greg could almost forget about the chemo port hidden beneath the smart waistcoat.
"There now," Mycroft said as he pulled on his suit jacket. He stood up and surveyed the room he had inhabited for nineteen days. "Shall we be off?"
Greg nodded. "Sure, Fiat's down in the lot."
Mycroft wrinkled his nose. "Really Gregory, you ought to have a sensible car. You know the statistics of accident survival in convertibles as well as I, if it were to flip you would have better odds in an oversized biscuit tin than that contraption. You really should sell the thing."
It was the argument they had been having since the very beginning, Greg's car was the bane of Mycroft's existence. Despite the fact Greg could drive about as well as the Stig from Top Gear, Mycroft was absolutely convinced he would crash into a building and decapitate himself. As stupid as it was, Greg loved that car. It was the only thing he had never been willing to compromise with Mycroft about.
"Yeah well, who are you to tell me what to do now?" Greg challenged.
It was a dirty thing to say and Greg regretted it the moment he said it. He couldn't help but take some satisfaction from the shocked look that crossed Mycroft's face before it returned to its usual stony countenance. He knew it was childish and cruel to bite at the sickly man, but the pain and frustration from the past few weeks had chosen to take that form for their catharsis.
"No one," Mycroft whispered, his words as brittle as tinder.
It was petty, but after their silent drive back to Mycroft's flat Greg did not visit the man for several days. Mycroft was just on bed rest (which meant working from home in Mycroft-speak) Greg reasoned, there was nothing he could do that Anthea hadn't already done. He would be fine without Greg for a few days.
Fortunately there had been a string of high-profile assaults recently that his team had been assigned to cover (although Greg had to chastise himself for thinking of the crime rash as fortunate for anyone) that kept his attention. Tired of Holmesean behavior, he had sworn he would not call Sherlock in to investigate this one. By day nine of digging through mountains of paperwork and doing countless interviews with slimy politicians even Sally was begging Greg to call "the freak" and get it over with. But no, Greg was determined, and on day eleven Greg found the restaurant receipts placing the Swedish ambassador within a block of four of the assaults as they happened. The mousy little man was hauled in for questioning and broke down immediately; confessing to hiring thugs to attack men from the embassy he thought his wife might have been cheating on him with.
Greg was proud of himself and his team, they had the case wrapped up almost immediately.
"Drinks on me at Oliver's," he said to his team, who let out a deafening whooping cheer.
He grabbed his coat from behind his desk, grabbing his mobile off the desk as it beeped.
8:00 chemo appt.
Be at the flat at 7:10.
-A
Greg groaned, he had forgotten about Mycroft's appointment the next morning. He looked out the window of his office at his bright-faced team, very much in need of a pleasant evening. And Mycroft seemed to be doing well without him, wasn't he?
Could I possibly skip tomorrow?
Post-case celebration
Will probably be hungover.
-GL
He knew how silly that sounded, but in that moment he did not care. He deserved a night to treat himself. Her reply was swift.
Jerome will take him.
I must insist you retrieve him after.
11 sharp.
-A
Greg quirked an eyebrow, but he knew better than to argue with the femme fatale. She could easily kill him without ever looking up from her Blackberry, he was sure of it. And in her and Mycroft's world, an "insistence" was as good as a government mandate. Oh well, he thought. Hangover or not, sleeping past 11 wasn't an option anyway.
Or so he thought. He blearily opened his eyes the next morning to the sound of his screeching alarm clock. It had seemed silly to set it for 10, but now it sounded like a death knell. He really needed to stop drinking so much.
He cleaned himself up a bit and drove to the hospital. Mycroft had been given two rounds of chemotherapy already and had suffered minimal symptoms, so Greg wasn't worried.
But as soon as Mycroft got in the car, Greg's worrying kicked into overdrive. Mycroft's eyes were gazed over and some of his gingery hair was stuck to his brow with sweat. He looked positively green around the gills and his right hand twitched in his lap.
"My, you alright?"
Mycroft nodded, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
"I'll remind you I have a no vomiting in the Fiat rule I take very seriously," Greg said, half-joking.
"I'm fine," Mycroft said, his voice like sandpaper. "Just drive."
Greg obliged, taking the quickest route he knew back to Mycroft's flat. As soon as Greg pulled up to the curb, Mycroft threw open his door and retched into the gutter. Greg was somewhat impressed with how neatly the man got sick, not getting so much as the tiniest drop on the car. After a minute Mycroft pulled out his pocket square and dabbed at his mouth before removing his seatbelt and exiting the car. Greg furrowed his brow and made to follow, but Mycroft stopped him with a gesture of his hand.
"I'll be fine, just need to clear my system so to speak," Mycroft wheezed.
Greg frowned. "Are you sure?"
"Perfectly normal side effect."
"Uh-huh." Greg was unconvinced, but from the look on Mycroft's face he knew he wasn't getting past the front door. He sighed. "Alright, but I'll come back in a few hours to check on you, yeah?"
Mycroft nodded quickly as his eyes bulged slightly and he pressed the pocket square to his lips before turning on heel and nearly sprinting for the building. Greg winced and shook his head before getting back into the car.
"My?" Greg called. No reply. He tiptoed into the flat. Mycroft hadn't answered the door when he had knocked; Greg had been forced to use the spare key he still had. He stood awkwardly in the hall, unsure of what to do. He held a bouquet in his hands – calla lilies, Mycroft's favorite. He had said so on one of their trips to Holmes Manor.
"Calla lilies," Mycroft said, fondling one of the snow white blossoms. "It's funny, they look so delicate yet they can thrive in almost any climate. And once you've planted them, don't even dream of getting rid of them. No matter how much you cut them back they always return stronger than ever."
"Hmm, sounds like a quality a Holmes would admire – being an insistent pest," Greg quipped. "You're far too predictable Mycroft."
"Am I?" Mycroft asked with a quirk of his brow. He glanced around slyly before pulling Greg behind an old oak tree and kissing him deeply.
He pulled his head back several moments later and began to go to work on kissing Greg's neck.
Greg moaned lightly as Mycroft's lips brushed against the sensitive spot behind his ear. "Okay, maybe not that predictable," he murmured into the hollow of Mycroft's ear.
Greg wandered into the bedroom. "My?" he called again. He tossed the flowers onto Mycroft's dresser and crept towards the bathroom door which was slightly ajar. He nudged it. "My?"
There was Mycroft, head resting on the smooth porcelain rim of the toilet. His hair was mussed and his tie was askew, his jacket and waistcoat had been discarded already. He cracked his eyes open slightly and let out a little moan when he saw Greg. A tear rolled down his cheek.
Greg crossed to the man and knelt down. "Hey," he whispered softly, pushing a small tuft of hair off Mycroft's sweaty forehead.
"So tired," Mycroft mumbled.
Greg nodded sympathetically. "Do you need to stay in here for a while longer or do you feel up to getting into bed?"
"Bed," Mycroft whispered, but didn't move a muscle.
"Need a hand?"
Mycroft closed his eyes tightly and nodded. Greg's heart ached.
"Okay, up we go," he said, draping one of Mycroft's arms across his shoulders and hoisting him into a standing position. They shuffled to the bedroom where Mycroft laid tentatively across the bed. Greg rummaged through the dresser for a pair of pajamas, which he handed to Mycroft.
"I'll go get you some water," he said, giving the man some privacy.
He went into the kitchen and got a glass of water. For good measure, he also grabbed one of the large cooking pots from the cupboard in case Mycroft needed to be sick again.
When he returned to the bedroom Mycroft had gotten the pajama trousers on and was working on the last two buttons on the shirt. He looked up at Greg appreciatively when the detective set the glass and the pot beside him. Greg turned to go back to the kitchen to look for some crackers or something he could get Mycroft to eat later. He stopped at the door when he heard Mycroft say something.
"What?" Greg asked, turning back towards the bed.
"Calla lilies," Mycroft repeated. He looked at Greg in awe.
Greg shrugged his shoulders. "Give me some credit here My. I do know your favorite flower."
Mycroft continued to look at him. "Yes, you do. Of course you do." His face fell and his eyes clenched shut again. "Oh Gregory, I'm so sorry. I-" he didn't finish that thought, the sentence dissolved into soft sobs.
"Hey, hey," Greg said, walking closer to the bed. "It's okay."
Mycroft snorted slightly, were the situation any different Greg would have laughed out loud at such an undignified sound coming from Mycroft Holmes but it was just too heartbreaking right then.
"I've acted like a complete ad utter bastard and you've been nothing but kind to me. Really Gregory, I don't deserve having someone like you in my life." He looked up at Greg through tear-laced lashes.
Greg smiled lightly. "Nah, I drink too much and I can be ornery as hell when I want to be. I think we're pretty evenly matched."
Mycroft looked down for a moment before tentatively reaching for one of Greg's hands. Greg held his breath as the nimble fingers became entwined with his own in an achingly familiar way. Mycroft brought the clasped hands to his mouth and placed a trail of soft kisses across Greg's rough knuckles.
"Oh My," he whispered, reaching his other hand up to stroke the sallow tear-streaked cheek before him. Mycroft's eyelids slid closed.
After a few moments, Greg broke the silence. "Scoot over."
Mycroft obliged, making room for him. Greg slid into the bed and pulled Mycroft into a firm embrace. Mycroft looked up at him, his gaze sliding over Greg's lips before making eye contact, silently asking for permission. Greg dipped his head slightly.
Their lips met slowly, and the resulting kiss was tender and sweet though very short, for Mycroft's lung capacity was not what it once was. They broke for breath, both smiling broadly.
"You should really get some sleep," Greg said softly, the scene from earlier coming back to him. The man had been through hell that day, his body needed rest.
Mycroft nodded worriedly. "Please don't leave me though," he said, his voice childlike.
Greg snorted lightly. "Not bloody likely. I'm afraid you're stuck with me for a while Holmes."
Mycroft smiled and snuggled down, resting his head on Greg's chest.
"Good," he whispered.
