The fifth change actually made him worried…

Beta: OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles

Worry

Mycroft Holmes walked down a wide corridor leading to his office, a ringing 'click' resonating from the walls every time the tip of his umbrella came in contact with marble floor; every second step he lightly stomped it with his umbrella. Mycroft was in a good mood, a rare occurrence on Thursdays, but he had just returned from the manor that belonged to the Homes family, where he had a very pleasant lunch with Mummy. He loved talking to her; it was almost the same as communicating with Sherlock but without the angry undertone to his interlocutor's words. A clever and witty opponent in a verbal battle was such a rarity in the modern world.

Mycroft was whistling a simple tune under his breath, almost too quietly to actually be heard; his eyes glistened with barely hidden amusement. A minor office worker he met on his way seemed a little freaked out by a cheery Mycroft Holmes, but he could not care less, he was used to intimidating people – loved it actually. He switched from whistling to humming, a tune – quick and cheerful, as he made the last five steps to his office, opened the door and closed it with a soft click as an ending note to his melody. He smiled slightly, making his way to the desk and sitting down in a comfortable chair. The office was alight with warm morning sunlight streaming through large wall sized windows.

He looked down at the desktop, taking in all the documents, carefully organized and sorted by importance, a surveillance report on Sherlock in the middle right before him. The older Holmes brother always got his daily reports in the morning, and, if Sherlock got a new case, he was informed immediately and updated on his brother's progress every couple of hours. This report, Mycroft realized as he scanned it with his eyes, was depicting how Sherlock had gotten a new case just twelve hours prior and cracked it during the night. He might have been impressed be it any other detective but his brother. Even if he was insolent and absolutely impossible to deal with because of neglecting any rules of social interaction, Mycroft had to acknowledge his genius, as well as Sherlock, albeit reluctantly acknowledged his.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and was about to toss the document on the desktop when his eye caught the name 'Lestrade' at the bottom of the page. The DI was on this case with Sherlock. Mycroft had him put under surveillance as well, but not as obsessively as his brother; the politician only got reports about the man's activity once a week – on Friday evenings. Mycroft turned the page and read the last paragraph of the report. And suddenly his mood was not as cheery as before. He reread the paragraph, just to be sure, and blindly reached for the phone on his desk. His PA answered in a second.

"Inform my driver, I'm leaving immediately." He told her, carefully putting the file back into a neat pile and turning it so it faced downwards.

"Where are we going, sir?" She asked.

"I am leaving; you are staying in the office. Cancel the meeting and organize a new one for tomorrow." Mycroft stood up, disconnected, and left the office, his pace so quick and precise that it almost seemed hurried.

With the same pace he entered a hospital precisely fifteen minutes later. Dealing with the nurse on the reception was easy since he'd already phoned the head of the hospital and used his influence so that he'd be able to see a patient without any hindrances. He waited for the hospital elevator to reach the required floor, watching red numbers change on the display, and tapped the floor with his umbrella impatiently. Mycroft tried not to analyze his own actions and the impulse on which he had rushed from his office to here, skipping an important meeting. Contrary to his own beliefs, the politician understood that in this situation it'd be better to stay in the dark concerning his reasons. It worried him, this sudden inability to stay calm and unconcerned.

The elevator stopped and the doors slid open, repressing all thoughts but one. Gripping the wooden handle of his umbrella tightly, Mycroft counted down the numbers of the doors he passed on the way to his destination. He hesitated before the one he needed, his hand freezing halfway to the handle.

Mycroft heaved an exasperated sigh, catching himself before he rolled his eyes. It was stupid. The politician opened the door, quick, precise – as always. He entered quietly and looked around before stopping his gaze on the hospital bed and the patient lying there. Surprised hazel eyes stared back at him.

"Mycroft?" DI Lestrade asked, shock morphing into joy as he eyed the visitor.

"Gregory," Mycroft greeted, deciding that the situation called for a less official treatment.

"I wasn't expecting to see you," the DI admitted with a smile. He was half sitting in a hospital bed, looking slightly pale but altogether fine.

"I was informed that you were…injured on your last case," Mycroft said casually, coming up to a chair beside the bed. He sat down, crossing his legs and leaning both hands on the umbrella.

"Yeah," Lestrade admitted, a frown clouding his face for a second. "But it's not as serious as it seemed at the first glance. You okay? You look strange."

"I'm not the one lying in the hospital bed." The other man retorted.

The DI winced:

"I'm in perfectly good health but the doctors insist that I have to stay the night. I don't see how that would change anything. Except maybe I'll get a backache, it's not exactly comfortable here."

"Well, it seems you'll have to endure."

Lestrade let out an exaggerated sigh.

"Don't act like it's such a torture," Mycroft chided softly.

"But it is. Seriously. Have you never spent nights at the hospital?"

"I prefer my own small persona clinic. It's nice there," Mycroft replied, twirling the handle of the umbrella between his palms. He felt relaxed and at ease, away from the politics - and for most of the times he hated been away from work. But he didn't mind it then. He glanced at Lestrade, who was looking down at the covers with a frown on his face as a replacement for a pout. Mycroft leaned back in his uncomfortable chair and asked:

"Did you catch that criminal?"

"What criminal?"

"The one that attacked you, obviously."

"Of course," Lestrade scoffed as if the mere idea that he did not was offensive. "I wasn't made a DI for nothing, you know."

"I'm quite aware of your talents, believe me." Mycroft replied, but somehow it came out differently from how he planned it in his mind. That sounded almost inappropriate.

Lestrade lifted his eyebrows, eyes widened comically, and sent him an amused smirk. Before the other man could say anything Mycroft announced:

"I have important negotiations in half an hour and you need to rest. I suppose it's time for me to leave." He stood up, leaning on the umbrella.

"I don't need rest. I'm fine. And, really even if I did, trust me, your presence is far from tiring. Quite the contrary, actually." Lestrade smiled up at him.

Mycroft gave him a small smile as his own as an answer, and after a quiet goodbye left the hospital room. He felt much better than when he was walking the same corridor before. Probably he had overreacted when he first found out about Gregory Lestrade's injury, but he couldn't help it. He had to see with his own eyes that the man was treated and there were not going to be any serious consequences to the injury. On his way to the lift he took out his phone from the inner pocket of the jacket to make a call to the head of the hospital. Physically Lestrade was fine and Mycroft found no reason to prolong his mental torture.

The DI was discharged and was at his own flat by the evening of that day.