Chapter Text
"You should talk to someone." John suggested cautiously over the rim of his mug. Greg made a sour face at him, and stared down into his own tea, the amber liquid seeming to mock him. "You can't shoulder all this on your own, Greg. Whether it be a professional, or a friend, you should talk to someone. You know I'm all ears, and Sherlock too, though he's less upfront about it." John continued and Greg tried to ignore the fact that his hands were shaking too hard to hold his mug without spilling.
"I'm fine, John. It was a rough case, nothing more." Greg sighed, feeling as though he was just repeating the same line over and over, telling everyone the same thing. "I don't need to talk to a professional, they already made me do a psych evaluation for work. I'm perfectly fine." He said, as he set his tea down and shoved his hands in his pockets. Mycroft was the only one who really understoon, who truly got it, and right now the only thing Greg wanted to do was run home and crawl under the bed covers. Hiding under the blankets and waiting for his husband to come home was a very tempting option, but he was trying to keep up the 'mentally sound' facade to some degree, he just had to keep telling himself that he was fine and eventually he would be. Fake it till you make it, or some bullshit like that, he figured.
"A rough case? Bloody hell Greg, that was a massacre. Even Sherlock came home and cried.. Shit, don't tell him I said that." John muttered, covering his mouth for a moment before reaching out across the table, laying a hand on Greg's trembling arm. The doctor suspected that he was having some kind of panic attack, but he knew the man well enough to know not to poke at him. "Just remember, we're your friends and we love you. Hell, in six months you'll be my brother in law. You're family, Greg." John smiled gently, and Greg nodded.
"Yeah, blimey that's not far away now is it. Pink suit okay? Brings out my eyes." Greg grinned, changing the subject none to subtley. Dragging himself to his feet, Greg left the comfort of Sherlock and John's sofa, heading for the door. "Thanks for having me, mate." Greg said, a little too quietly, before rushing out fast enough to make anyone think he was being chased. Battling with the stairs, Greg took the blasted things two at a time before he reached the bottom, throwing open the front door, racing onto the street. When the crisp London air hit his face, the panic that he'd bottled up in hopes of saving face flew out like the cork on a champagne bottle, and he fumbled for his phone.
I'm so not okay. GL
It took too long to send such a short message, but he blamed it on the fact that he was walking down Baker street at an absurdly fast pace, and wasn't watching what he was doing. It had nothing to do with the giant, full blown panic attack he was fighting a losing battle with, and in broad daylight to boot. It was only a few minutes before a sleek black car had slowed down to match his speed, hovering beside him. It stopped, and the door opened, and inside was his knight in shining three piece suit. "In you get." Mycroft smiled, and Gregory obeyed, practically falling into the younger man's arms. "Breathe, Gregory. Not optional."
"M'breathing." Greg huffed into the man's lapel, his face buried as Mycroft wrapped his arms around his husband, rubbing his back in an attempt to calm him down.
"You're hyperventilating, that doesn't count." Mycroft murmured, kissing Greg's forehead softly, doing whatever he could to send the panic packing. "I've got you now, Greg." Mycroft whispered, and Greg nodded, wanting nothing more than to be at home in their big, comfortable, safe bed. "There's a good boy, nice and slow. That's the way." Mycroft praised, in a saccharin tone, but it wasn't condescending in any way, comforting rather. "We're nearly there, nearly home. Just calm down, and we'll get you home soon."
"I'm fine, perfectly fine." Greg murmured, fully intending to sound fine to match, but it came out as more of a strangled whimper. "I mean it, I'll be fine." Greg sighed in defeat, as the car pulled up outside their townhouse. "But I don't know how well my legs are going to work." He muttered softly, ashamed of himself.
Greg's legs, as suspected, were about as good as jelly, and he'd have been utterly fucked if Mycroft hadn't swooped in and saved him as he always did. It took a bit longer than normal, but eventually they got inside, and Mycroft had him tucked up in bed as promised.
"There we are, now you need to rest." Mycroft murmured, perching on the edge of the bed, his hand clasped in Greg's. Though he wanted to pitch a fight, Greg was exhausted, completely drained, and was having a hard time staying awake. "I'll make some tea, and I'll be right back. Rest."
Just awake enough to realise what was happening, Greg grapsed Mycroft's wrist tightly, fear written all over his face, plain as day in the afternoon sun that streamed in through the bedroom window. "Stay. Please 'Myc, stay." Greg begged, and Mycroft had no choice but to stay with him.
"I'm not going anywhere, darling. Go to sleep, I'll be right beside you." Mycroft murmured, petting his husband's hair trailing his fingers over his face in an attempt to send him off to sleep. "It's alright now, love. I'm here, not leaving." He assured the man, laying down beside Greg, on top of the covers. It wasn't long before the grip on his wrist went slack, and Greg's breathing evened out, and he was cast deep into what Mycroft prayed would be a dreamless, peaceful sleep.