Chapter Text
The moment Greg Lestrade sets foot in his Central London townhouse, it feels as though the barricades he’d built up to get him through this day have collapsed, and as though he might collapse along with them, too. Now, he considers himself a good man, honest- noble even, but today he isn’t so sure. His phone shines like a beacon in the night, a subtle blue LED flash tells him the British Government (who was also his husband of three years) had once again seen and heard all.
Greg picks up the work issue phone, fancier than he’d have liked, with its touch screen and myriad of gadgets, and opens the message.
HOLMES, MYC
You need only say the word, and I’ll be there. MH
How could Greg have expected any less? He looks down at his shirt, sees the blood (which is not just his own) and the dirt, and cringes at the way it clings to his skin, itching enough to make him want to claw his skin right off. The bullet only grazed him, but still it bled like no one’s business, but still, it’s worse than it looks. He should say the word, he knows that right now what he needs is Mycroft, and it’s all he ever needs. Actually, that’s a lie- he’d quite like some scotch too.
He’s fine.
It’s not like he lost three men today.
Or watched a heavily pregnant woman bleed out and die in front of him.
It’s not like he failed to save the life of a six year old either.
Five lives lost, plus one if you count the pregnant woman’s child. And he’s fine. Absolutely fine. He’s not hiding in his bed, like a child afraid of thunder, and he’s not hyperventilating either, he can breathe just fine thank you very much. The word lingers in the back of his head, tossing and turning like a ship in rough waters.
Greg lifts his phone up once more, holds it lightly between his fingertips as he looks around the room. Mycroft’s side of the bed is still perfectly made, and thankfully he’s only smearing old blood onto his own pillow, though the sheets are somewhat ruined. His husband can’t be far away, really. A mass shooting would have left the diplomat busy enough, but since their marriage, Greg is proud to say that his husband, his wonderful, caring, everything he doesn’t deserve husband has made his personal life a much higher priority.
So Greg opens the messaging application on his too fancy phone, and his finger shakes and he nearly drops the phone on his face as he types the message he knows that Mycroft is waiting to hear.
Please come home, I need you. GL
’There, it’s done,’ Greg thinks to himself, before aimlessly putting the phone down wherever it lands, somewhere on Myc’s side of their very large, very comfortable bed. He could stay here forever, he muses.
But then.
There is panic clawing, a painful, tight knot in his chest forms and once again he finds himself unable to breathe. Tears still yet unshed prickle and pull at the backs of his eyes, and he hates this, hates everything. He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t even speak and then—
Silence.
Strong arms encircle him, hold him close and keep him safe. Mycroft is home where he should be, where Greg needs him and finally it’s alright. The Detective Inspector lets out what can only be described as a wail and sobs, sobs until there’s quite literally no tears left in him.
The last time that Mycroft had seen Greg cry, properly cry, had been when Greg’s mother had died, and that was nearly five years ago, and though it’s not unexpected or unwelcome, it’s certainly not easy to watch.Mycroft holds his weeping husband, knowing that there is likely nothing that he can say, and very possibly nothing that he can do either. “It’s alright, Gregory. It’s over now.” Mycroft whispers into Gregory’s blood matted hair. He needs to get his husband into a hot shower, and dress his injuries and make sure he’s going to be okay, but right now he doubts the man’s ability to even walk the eight paces across the bedroom to their bathroom.
After god knows how long, Greg falls silent. There are no more tears, only slight hiccups every now and then. Mycroft knows beyond a doubt, that this does not mean that Greg is okay, even if he’d like to believe it. It’s the calm before the inevitable storm, and Mycroft would very much like to get the caretaking out of the way before the storm rolls in and clouds gather over his already heartbroken husband.‘’I’m going to run the shower for you, I’ll not be long.’’ Mycroft tells Greg, easing out of his vicelike grip. He lays the man down gently, tucking the blanket around him just to be sure, before kissing his head sweetly and heading into the bathroom.
“Mmm.” Greg murmurs a pitiful response, but he just can’t bring himself to say anything more, because there is nothing more to say, nothing he can do to change the day’s events, nothing he can say that won’t end in him crying hysterically once more. He’s got his back to the door, and though he can’t watch, he listens intently to Mycroft’s footsteps against the carpeted floor. He listens as he sound changes as his husband’s fancy leather dress shoes hit Italian ceramic tiles, listens as his wedding band clinks lightly against the stainless steel tap. Greg listens as the water runs, and by the sound of it, the pressure is hard enough to blow him away.
“Come on, dear.” A far away voice calls from the bathroom, over the whoosh of the water. Mycroft walks back to the bed and helps Greg sit back up, sighing lightly as the other man winces and groans, and holds the wound on his stomach tenderly.
“Day from hell.” Greg murmurs half-jokingly, as Mycroft just about carries him into their en suite, and eases him into the bathroom and sets him down on the closed toilet seat lid. Deft fingers undo his buttons, and his shirt is gently stripped away, carefully easing the bloodstained fabric from Greg’s muscular chest. The amount of blood on his shirt is frightening, but most of it isn’t even his, which is both a very good thing, and absolutely awful at the same time.
He will likely receive bravery medals, his name will be in the papers, people will know what he did. But in his own mind, he is simply the man who failed to save six lives, he may be brave but he is not a hero. He’ll never tell Mycroft, but of course he’ll know, there will be reports and he can bet his life savings that they’ll be forwarded straight to Myc’s desk. But the words will never come out of his own mouth. He’s so lost in his tormented head that he almost doesn’t notice that Mycroft has stripped him down to his pants, and is on his knees before him, removing his shoes. “I’m fine, Myc.” Greg attempts, but he can’t say anything more than that, there’s a knot steadily forming in his throat and it’s enough to silence him.
“Yes, dear.” Mycroft says softly, and eases his definitely not fine husband up against the vanity so he can strip him of his boxers. The water is still running away, and though it’s not like they’re going to have issues paying a high water bill, Mycroft still doesn’t like to waste it. When he is sure that Greg isn’t going to fall over, or pass out, he takes off his own clothes extremely quickly and tries to block out the voice in his head that is telling him that even his socks cost sixty pounds, and that throwing them into the corner of the room is just not on.
“Pretty boy.” Greg grins sheepishly, but the light in his eyes is gone. God, his cock has never been so limp in his life, but you can’t blame a man for trying, can you?
“You’re hilarious.” Myc responds, his face deadpan, maybe a little sarcastic, and still Greg’s eyes are a deep, hollow void, and not the ice blue crystals they usually were.
“Killjoy. “Greg grumbles, gasping as Mycroft leads him to the water, eases him under the shower’s spray.
“Jesus, just—“he grunts, struggling for air as the water washes away the blood of all the people he’s failed. Mycoft just holds him tightly for a moment before he leans his man against the wall, hoping it’s enough to keep Greg upright long enough.
Their eyes meet for a moment, while Mycroft is sponging away a stubborn spot of blood on Greg’s shoulder, but neither of them say anything. The air is so thick with sadness and anxiety that you could cut through it with a knife, and Mycroft knows in that moment, that this day is going to continue to haunt them both for a very, very long time.
It hurts like hell, but eventually Greg is showered and the wound is cleaned, and they’re out of the shower. Mycroft wraps a fluffy, black towel around his husband’s shoulders and eases him onto the edge of the bath. He kisses Greg’s forehead gently as he wraps his own towel around himself, and sets about drying his husband because his hands look to be as heavy as lead.
Once they’re dry, Mycroft guides his husband to the armchair in the corner of their room, and tucks a blanket around him, towel and all as he changes the bed sheets and replaces the blankets and covers for clean ones. By the time he’s done, Greg looks as though he’s not far away from falling asleep sitting up.
“M’fine Myc,’ really.” Greg murmurs, in a worn voice, as though he can read Mycroft’s thoughts. He’s definitely not fine, and the look on his husband’s face tells Greg that it’s completely obvious. ‘’I’ll be fine.” He amends, and attempts a smile that struggles to reach his eyes.‘’I know, Gregory.” Mycroft assures him, before pulling Greg to his feet. He lays him down on the bed, still naked, and begins to dress his lower half, but leaves the bullet graze uncovered so that he can dress it properly.
Eventually, after what feels like an age, Greg is dressed in a thin white t-shirt, and a pair of tracksuit pants. Betadine is smothered over his injury, and Mycroft covers it neatly with gauze and seals it with tape, before lowering his shirt and tucking him into bed.
With Greg taken care of, Mycroft dresses quickly and crawls into bed beside him. He holds the broken man gently, being careful not to hurt him anymore than he is already, and kisses the back of his neck lightly. ‘’I love you very much, Gregory.” He says softly, but there is no response from Greg, who is already bordering, skating on fine line between sleep and wakefulness.
Greg has heard him, but sleep is tugging at him, and he’s too far gone to say anything himself.
If Mycroft is correct, it won’t be a peaceful night’s sleep, but he’ll be there to keep guard.