Mycroft's mind was preoccupied as he travelled in the back of the black town car with Greg. He had made some calls to various people after leaving the hospital, to see what he could dig up on Jim Moriarty and his current whereabouts and dealings. He obviously wanted to insert himself back into Sherlock's life somehow, and Mycroft was more than a little worried about how Moriarty might try to do that.
"You OK, Myc?" Greg asked, placing a hand on the man's knee.
Mycroft gave a sincere smile. He was grateful to have Gregory close by, and he felt lucky to have found himself enjoying a relatively stress-free relationship. He rested his own hand on Gregory's.
"I'm fine, Gregory. Thank you."
Greg nodded, giving the knee a squeeze. Mycroft drew in a quick breath at the increased contact. Greg noticed and smiled. "Look," he started, "I know that you have a lot on your mind. This Jim Moriarty guy clearly has a history with Sherlock and you and none of it good. It's OK if you just drop me back at the Yard so you can do what you need to do."
Mycroft shifted in his seat and turned to face the detective. Greg saw in those blue-grey eyes, blown pupils and desire. He felt his own level of arousal increase in response and was about to speak again when Mycroft leant in and pressed their lips firmly together. Breaths quickened and hands began grasping and jacket lapels and collars. Greg deftly flicked open Mycroft's waistcoat and slipped his hands inside, sliding his fingertips so tauntingly close to bare flesh, separated only by the expensive shirt fabric.
After a short while, Mycroft pulled back and, staring deep into Greg's deep brown eyes, he leaned his forehead to the detective's. "What you do to me, Gregory." he stated, breathy and panting.
"My office has instructions to contact me immediately should there be any update on the situation." Mycroft gave a hand signal to the driver in the rear mirror, and the driver nodded.
"I think I would like it very much," he continued, "if you would come back to my place with me."
John slipped into Sherlock's hospital room, unsure whether he would find the detective awake and alert or sleeping again. He needn't have worried though, because Sherlock was sat up in bed, ruthlessly deducing and bossing around a poor nurse who looked flustered and more than a little tearful.
John rolled his eyes. "I apologise for my friend, nurse." he began, noticing the young girl's bottom lip wobble, "He is not himself right now." The nurse nodded and smiled at John's accompanying wink as she exited the room.
"You really should be nicer to the staff, Sherlock." John said, taking the seat next to him and pulling it closer. However this discussion went, it was going to be tricky and he didn't want Sherlock to think he was deliberately distancing himself from his friend.
"She needed to know that her boyfriend was seeing the radiographer, John. The male radiographer!" Sherlock tried a smile but his face settled as uncertain. John, of course, didn't miss this for one second. "How are you feeling?" he asked, changing the subject while still avoiding the real 'elephant in the room'.
The young man shrugged. "Been better." he replied, his deep baritone sounding gravelly and harsh. "Can I leave yet?"
The question sounded more like a plea made by a small child who wants to go home to Mummy, and in that moment, John was reminded why they were there.
"Soon, Sherlock. The doctor said maybe later today, but more likely tomorrow. It depends how you are, you know that."
Sherlock nodded. Of course he knew. It wasn't the first time he had been admitted to hospital after an overdose although he freely admitted to himself that it was the first time the overdose had been intentional. He looked at John, noticing that he was looking edgy, as if he had something to say but couldn't figure out how to say it.
"You know, don't you?" Sherlock said, realising what the 'thing' was. It was obvious really. Greg knew, Mycroft knew, it stood to reason that one of them would have told John.
He lowered his head, not willing to meet John's eye, and he realised that he actually felt scared. Scared of what John would think; what John would do; how John would react.
Would he laugh? Would he be disgusted? He wasn't gay. John had repeated time and time again that he wasn't gay and he was never Sherlock's date. Always so adamant to make sure everybody knew. And then there was Sarah, of course. Would he mock? Would he... Sherlock shuddered at the thought... Would he leave?
John reached across and lifted Sherlock's lowered chin with his hand. Hands which had softened back into kind doctor hands after the harshness of being army hands.
As John raised Sherlock's head, he looked at him; really looked at him. In Sherlock's eyes he could see every emotion that the young man felt and it was new. It was new to John to see such intensity of emotion from Sherlock Holmes. He saw pain and uncertainty. He saw a little lost boy who so desperately wanted not to get hurt. He looked right at Sherlock Holmes and he saw love. And more importantly, he felt it.
"Sherlock," he began, swallowing around a lump in his throat. "Sherlock, it's OK. It's all fine. I am not leaving. I will never leave you."