CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A/N Spoilers and whatnot in Chapter One. This is dedicated to the lovely Greek chorus who have liked it from the start, egmon73, Lizlemler, Lavender_And_Vanilla, Elizabeth Rx and everyone else who took the time to read. Now I'm off to scour Pinterest for some new ideas…

When Mycroft returned home later that day he was met with the most delicious smells emanating from the kitchen and, even better, his Gregory who, flushed from the stove, took no hesitation in wrapping Mycroft in his arms and kissing him tenderly.

"I've wanted to hold you again all day," Greg confessed. Mycroft rested his head on Greg's shoulder, inhaling his sweet warmth and feeling the solidity of his body. This was real, he couldn't believe how much he had missed this and how lucky he felt to have it back. The kitchen timer chimed and they broke apart.

"I hope you're hungry," said Greg.

"Bloody starving, actually," Mycroft replied.

They ate at the kitchen table, Mycroft surprising Greg with his appetite as he polished off a second gargantuan portion of Greg's lasagne.

"It's been ages since anything tasted that good," he sighed contentedly and reached for his wine glass. The wine was rich and fruity and made him feel relaxed and warm.

Greg stood up to clear the table and Mycroft grabbed him round the waist, pulling him onto his lap.

"Leave that," he murmured, his hands sliding under Greg's shirt to stroke the warm skin underneath.

Greg smiled to himself. He loved the playful expression on Mycroft's face, it had been far too long since he had seen it. Mycroft also had a habit of biting his lower lip when he was concentrating. It drove Greg crazy in the best way, and he was doing it now, concentrating as he unfastened Greg's belt and unzipped him, his hand closing round his fast-growing erection. Greg nuzzled Mycroft's neck, knowing where all the pressure points were, seeing his fair skin stain pink with heat and pleasure, feeling him hard against his hip.

"Let's go to bed, "muttered Greg, Mycroft murmuring his assent.

Upstairs, Greg held Mycroft by the shoulders.

"What about your heart?" he asked anxiously.

"Oh, bugger my heart!" exclaimed Mycroft. "It's fine, Gregory. My heart isn't broken any more. Not now you're here with me. Please, darling…"

"How can I resist?" smiled Greg, drawing him close.

Greg was showered and dressed and halfway through his second cup of coffee when Mycroft materialised in the kitchen the next morning. He looked like an attractive yawn on legs wrapped in silk as he sat at the table and poured himself some black coffee. He smiled at Greg who toasted him over the rim of his own cup.

"Morning, sleeping beauty."

Mycroft tried, and failed to look indignant.

"It's all my fault. You, Detective Inspector, are too bloody irresistible for your own good. What are you doing today?"

"I'm off to Hampstead." Greg lifted up his backpack which Mycroft knew was stuffed with paper, pencils and other drawing paraphernalia. "I'll pick up something for dinner on the way back."

Mycroft smiled. "Wonderful. I think I'll go back to bed. Take care, Gregory."

"Always," said Greg, kissing him goodbye.

Greg had gone to Hampstead Heath sketching with his dad. His dad had explained how nearly all human life passed through there and could be captured on paper if only you were prepared to sit, wait and watch. Greg was lucky that morning, he found a vacant park bench, pulled out his sketchbook and pencil and waited. It was a warm day for the time of year, birds were singing in the trees and the centre of London with all its grubbiness and vice seems a long way away. Greg relaxed and just watched.

A pretty woman with long legs and her auburn hair tied back in a ponytail smiled at him as she ran past. With a few deft strokes of his pencil he had captured her essence, fluidity and grace on paper. In another life, he might have returned the smile, always in hope, but never now. Other people strolled by his bench, dog walkers, young lovers with eyes only for each other but no one stopped to sit which pleased Greg a great deal. Even better, the pretty runner passed him by again and he was able to flesh out the sketch of her to add to the others he had made that morning.

Thinking he had just about enough material to keep him busy for a while, Greg tucked his sketches into his backpack. Out the corner of his eye he could see a dishevelled man with a definite twitch approaching. Definitely time to go, he thought, I can't be bothered with that kind of thing on my own time. However, the addict had a formidable turn of speed. Greg didn't get up quickly enough and was quickly jammed against the armrest of the bench.

The stench emanating from the man almost made Greg vomit but what was worse was what was pricking into his side. With a sick certainty, he knew what it was and how his life would now be measured in minutes. Or seconds.

"This is a commando knife, Detective Inspector," hissed the man, his foul breath making Greg cough. There was increased pressure and a white-hot pain. "If you move, you forfeit a lung at the very least. But where would be the fun in that?" His accent was Eastern European.

"Why me?" gasped Greg. Sweat was pouring down his face now but he was sure that that wasn't what was soaking into the waistband of his jeans.

"My old boss wanted you dead because of your association with Sherlock Holmes. If he hadn't jumped, you would be dead by now. My new boss wants you crippled to hurt someone else. You can't believe how they rejoiced when they found a chink in Mycroft Holmes's armour. You, of all people."

Greg cried out as the knife twisted again. He could feel blood pouring now and it made him feel light-headed. Worse again, it looked as if the Heath was utterly deserted. His assassin grinned, noticing.

"No one is coming to save you, Inspector. I'm extremely good at what I do. One-deft-cut…and you will never walk again. I wonder just how loving your boyfriend will be when…"

Greg heard the loud crack, but apparently only he knew what it signified. The grip on him was released. Hard to hold on, thought Greg in the way of the mildly delirious, when half your head's been shot off.

It was the runner. She tucked the nine-mill handgun in the waistband of her trousers and rushed over to him.

"Sorry, sir. I should have got here quicker. DC Wilson, Diplomatic Protection." She pressed on the wound where the knife had been with her sweatshirt and both hands. Greg couldn't speak.

"There's an ambulance on its way. Try and hold on, Inspector."

Everything was getting hazy and it was getting darker. There was something important he had to tell her but he couldn't get the words out, couldn't say the name he loved so much. Greg heard the sirens approaching as the world went black.

He awoke to see a very familiar, very concerned face hovering over him.

"Welcome back, Greg," said John Watson. "You had us worried for a minute there."

"John! What…Ow!" Pain ripped through him as he tried to sit up.

"Yeah, sorry, mate. Had to put a few stitches in your side where that mad bastard stabbed you. We thought it was a lot worse but a lot of the blood was from the guy who tried to kill you."

"Where's the woman? The one who saved me?"

"She's gone, mate. Brought you here, made sure we contacted Mycroft and disappeared. Lucky she was there."

"Luck my arse," snorted Greg. "He's put me back under surveillance. Wait till I get a hold of him."

Just then Greg heard the loud patrician tones of Mycroft Holmes in full British Government mode. Greg would have laughed, but it hurt too much.

"Tell me where Gregory Lestrade is right now, you horrible little man or I assure you, you will be very, very sorry indeed."

"Christ, John. Let him in before he deports half of your department."

Greg had never seen Mycroft so dishevelled or so upset. Only extreme stress would have brought him out of the house without a tie or jacket. He took Greg's hand in his and kissed it frantically.

"I couldn't believe it when I got that phone call, that you'd been stabbed. I've had the torment of the damned till I got here. Oh, love, are you all right?"

"He'll be fine, Mycroft," said John in his best bedside manner. "Just a few stitches and he's lost a bit of blood. I'll come around to yours in a few days' time to take the stitches out. Till then, stay off work, Greg. I'll give you a prescription for antibiotics and pain killers."

John looked sternly at Mycroft.

"Make sure he takes them."

"Don't worry, John. I will."

"I'll get the paperwork started for your discharge, just hang fire for a while." John left the cubicle as Greg looked at Mycroft.

"Diplomatic Protection? Really?"

"Lovely girl," mumbled Mycroft, refusing to make eye contact. "Old friend of Anthea's. I'm sorry, my love. We only just got new intelligence about a possible threat. I honestly didn't have time to tell you about it and look what happened. You almost died. I knew something like this might happen, I'm dangerous to be around."

"Don't talk bollocks, if I hadn't had my head in the clouds he'd never have got near me. Great use of the Government's resources." But Greg was smiling when he said it, thrilled by the idea that Mycroft would do something like that for him.

"It's common for one's, er, spouse to be protected to a greater or lesser degree, my love. Very common for senior personnel."

"Well", said Greg, hissing as he sat up in the hospital bed. "we can't have you lying to the Commissioner, can we?" He reached out to the dressing tray and snagged a roll of dressing tape off it.

"I had hoped I'd do this somewhere a lot more romantic, and I had hoped you wouldn't look so bloody worried."

"Gregory, you're not making any sense. If you had died today, I would have died tomorrow. And I didn't have time to tell you…"

Greg put his finger on Mycroft's lips.

"Shhh. I need to ask you something. Will you marry me?"

Mycroft, overcome with emotion could only nod, tears pouring down his face as Greg wrapped some of the tape round Mycroft's ring finger.

"I love you," said Greg with heartfelt sincerity. "So very much. Let's make this a proper new beginning."

The End