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“Do you want to call him or should I?” The flashing blue of the police lights cast a rotating illumination on John’s worried face.
“Christ,” Greg groans and scrubs a hand across his brow. “I guess I should call him.”
Sherlock pops his head around the side of the ambulance like some sort of awkward situation sniffer dog. “Call who? Who would you call?”
“Your brother.” Greg lets out a weary sigh and leans forward as the technician pokes at the gash on the back of his head. His head is angled down for the technician to do her work but Greg can peer up through his lashes to watch John and Sherlock.
“Mycroft? Why in God’s name would you call Mycroft?”
John and Greg exchange a well-practised glance of frustration before John speaks up. “You do realize that they’ve been dating for, oh, three months, give or take? You do know that, genius?”
“Four months,” Greg mumbles in the background.
Sherlock’s face goes slack, his eyes unfocused and gazing into the empty space between where Lestrade sits on the back of the ambulance and John stands next to him. He takes a moment to shake off the dumbfounded look. “Deleted. It was unimportant. And disturbing.”
“You’re an arse,” John helpfully volunteers.
“And why would you call Mycroft anyway?”
Greg’s head shoots up in disbelief and the technician behind him tuts in annoyance. “I got shot!”
“It was a graze!”
“And getting shot contributed to me getting a head injury!”
Sherlock rolls his eyes and twists his mouth into a snide “O” shape. “You’re a police officer. It’s a known hazard of your job. And it’s hardly my fault you fell down.”
“I fell down because I got shot!”
John manages to intercede before Sherlock can open his mouth again. “All right, pipe down both of you.” Surprisingly, both listen to his gruffly-barked command. Greg flops his head into his hands while Sherlock petulantly crosses his arms. The tech goes back to cleaning gravel from the gash on the back of Greg’s head. John watches Sherlock glare at the back of Greg’s head for a moment before he gives in. “Jesus, I’ll call Mycroft then, shall I?” His phone is already in his hand when Mycroft’s steady voice cuts through the noise of the crime scene.
“And why do you think you’d ever need to call me?”
This time, Greg’s head whips up so fast the technician nearly stabs him with the nozzle of the bottle she’s using to clean his wound. He attempts to wave her off but she’s already given up and retreated to the front of the ambulance.
“So, you were watching, huh?” Greg tries to stand. He even manages to bend his knees, to use his palms to press his hips up a scant few inches away from the back of the ambulance, before the throbbing in his head and the sudden tunnel vision make him think twice. He sits back down as gracefully as he can.
Grace aside, Mycroft sees and observes and is quickly at his side. “The CCTV footage was brought to my attention.” He slips a hand to Greg’s shoulder and scowls at Sherlock.
“This is not my fault!” Sherlock looks to be two seconds from stomping his feet like an aggravated toddler.
“Of course this is your fault!” Mycroft snaps back.
Greg reaches out and grasps Mycroft’s arm. At least he can do that without feeling like he might pass out. “Mycroft, it’s fine. It’s not Sherlock’s fault.”
“See? Even those who inadvisably rush headlong into danger can see they only have themselves to blame.”
Mycroft steps toward Sherlock with a growl but Greg tightens his hold on Mycroft’s arm and John steps between the two brothers with ease of long practice. Greg’s hold is a token obstacle at best, but it’s reassuring to know that Mycroft restrains himself because Greg wants him to. John’s hands are clamped around Sherlock’s biceps, knuckles turning white, as he maneuvers Sherlock backward.
“I am going home to my very patient wife and I’ll drop Sherlock at Baker Street on the way, shall I? Good.” John steers Sherlock, who is still spitting insults as he walks backwards, all the way past the police cordon and to the street.
Mycroft watches them go, taking the time to assure himself they are well and truly gone, before he turns back to Greg.
“Are you all right?”
“They’ll send me to A&E for stitches and the concussion but I’m fine. I swear.” Greg looks down to the ragged tear across his ribs. A dark slick of blood stands out against the stark white of Greg’s shirt. “It’s just a graze.”
Mycroft pulls his arm from Greg’s grasp and reaches out to delicately run his fingertips along the jagged edge of the torn fabric, careful not to press into the wound. Greg lets him touch, lets him reassure himself, until Mycroft takes a steadying breath and drops his hand.
It’s only because Greg knows Mycroft so well, not as well as he’d like but still much better than he could have imagined just a few months ago, that he sees the small, pinched frown and slight flush for what they truly are. Mycroft is upset and afraid.
“It really is just a graze. I’ve had paper cuts that hurt worse than this.” It’s an exaggeration but Greg would have denied he felt it at all if it would have brought a smile to Mycroft’s face.
“I dislike things that happen outside my control.” Mycroft’s voice is quiet and deadly calm. It’s the voice Greg imagines Mycroft uses to end international political negotiations.
“Well, I dislike being shot so it’s neither of our best days.”
Mycroft lets out a huff of laughter at that. A comfortable silence grows between them until the frustrated emergency tech comes back.
“Detective Inspector, we should take you to A&E. A doctor should evaluate your concussion and you likely need stitches on both wounds.” Her delivery is crisp and efficient. It’s phrased as a suggestion but her tone leaves no doubt that it is not a request.
Mycroft clears his throat. “I can take him. I have a car and driver here.”
“You can do that. But the ambulance has admitting privileges. If you drive him yourself, you’ll have to wait longer to see the doctor.” The tech steps back with palms raised in a surrendering gesture. Mycroft’s lips thin and press tightly together as he contemplates the back of the ambulance.
Greg tugs firmly on his elbow, pulling his gaze from the vehicle. “You go in the car. I can make the trip myself.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to abandon you.” Mycroft looks genuinely torn between the indignity of crawling into the back of the ambulance and leaving Greg alone for the short trip to the hospital. That look causes the corners of Greg’s mouth to twitch up.
He uses his hand on Mycroft’s elbow to steady himself as he rises to his feet. “I’m sure. They don’t even have a radio back there. You’re better off in the car.” Greg wants to stretch up and brush a kiss across Mycroft’s cheek. He nearly does. That must be the head injury talking because there’s no way he’d live down even a chaste kiss if his team saw. It’s not that he lacks the courage, it’s just that they aren’t really to the public displays of casual affection just yet. Maybe next time he gets shot. The tech helps him up into the ambulance, but Mycroft keeps a steadying hand at his back.
Greg watches as Mycroft strides back to his car, looking unhurried and relaxed, until the doors close in front of his face. And how Mycroft manages to beat the ambulance to Royal London, he’ll never know.
***************
The sun is already slanting across his pillows when Greg wakes up. Well, when he wakes up for good since Mycroft jostled him awake enough to count to ten or to say who the prime minister is every few hours throughout the night and early morning.
As much as Greg would love to hate him for that, because who honestly follows doctor’s orders anymore, he can’t bring himself to be too upset. Especially not now that he can smell coffee and a fry up coming from the kitchen.
His side aches and he has to remind himself not to carelessly scratch across the back of his head as he rolls out of bed. It had only taken three stitches to close the deepest part of his head wound, and another four across his ribs, but he still could tell he’d been in a fight. Aches and pains radiate through his limbs and he feels every day of his time on the force.
When he makes his way to the kitchen, Mycroft is standing with his back to Greg. And what a back it is. He looks long and lean and miraculously unwrinkled in yesterday’s clothes. Or some of yesterday’s clothes anyway. He’s forgone the jacket and his sleeves are rolled up to just below his elbows. The sunlight catches the light blond hairs on Mycroft’s wrists as he turns to face Greg, plates covered with a full English in each hand. And how Mycroft managed that when Greg knows he had no food in is another bloody marvel.
Mycroft puts the plates on the kitchen table, which is much cleaner than Greg remembers. “Sit,” he murmurs before turning back to the stove.
It’s not the first time Mycroft has cooked him breakfast, both in this flat or in Mycroft’s much posher postcode. There’s something about the quiet domesticity of slow mornings together that pulls at Greg’s heart in a deeper way than anything else they do together. The sex pulls at something else entirely and the heated arguments feel domestic but not in the same way. The egg yolks are gummy but not runny and Greg loves that Mycroft cooks them the way he prefers instead of Mycroft’s favored scramble. Years of failed relationships have been enough to teach Greg that it’s the small, everyday expressions of care that make a partnership work, that make it worth the work, and not the grand gestures that come at anniversaries and holidays.
He’s halfway through his breakfast before he looks up at Mycroft. And how did that happen so quickly? Time seems to be slipping in and out around him, so maybe that concussion isn’t as healed as Greg had hoped.
Mycroft picks daintily at some toast, just butter and no jam, and sips an oversized mug of coffee while the rest of his breakfast goes cold. Mycroft never eats much but it’s second nature for him to keep up appearances. He’s got the Times spread out in front of him. He reads it like he doesn’t know every headline days before it hit the presses. Greg inches a bare foot forward until he can sneak his toes into Mycroft’s trouser leg. They have to be ice cold against Mycroft’s shin but his only response is to hum over the rim of his coffee mug.
They finish breakfast in silence, Mycroft clears the plates, and shuffles Greg to the beat up sofa he bought at a charity shop after his divorce.
“Don’t you have to work? Aren’t there countries that need bullying in the name of the crown?” Since he doesn’t know exactly what Mycroft does, it’s become his personal mission to elaborate Mycroft’s daily tasks into increasingly absurd scenarios. It doesn’t seem to bother Mycroft nearly as much as when Sherlock does it.
Mycroft pulls him down and arranges them so that Greg is stretched out on his side with his head resting against Mycroft’s thigh. Mycroft’s fingers play across Greg’s fringe, far from the stitches closing his wound. He even remembers to position them so that Greg’s bullet wound would be facing up and not under pressure.
“No. All countries and their leaders have been given the day off so I can stay here with you.”
Greg laughs and presses his lips to the perfectly pressed crease in Mycroft’s day-old trousers in a quick kiss. “You take a day off so the rest of the world comes to a halt?”
“That’s a rather simplistic explanation but, essentially, yes.”
There’s no blanket across his legs but Greg thinks he could fall asleep like this anyway. He closes his eyes, wraps a hand around Mycroft’s knee, and pushes his cheek against hardness of Mycroft’s thigh. “The best part is, I almost believe you.”
Mycroft keeps silent, with fingertips still playing across Greg’s forehead. Greg can feel himself drifting off, exhaustion and a full stomach pushing him over the edge. His body grows heavy and sinks into the lumpy couch cushions.
“You’ll get a crick in your neck if you sleep like this.”
Greg presses harder against Mycroft’s leg. “Don’t care.”
“Remember that later.”
Greg drifts off to the sound of Mycroft scrolling through his phone and quietly typing out emails one handed.
***************
Greg does have a crick in his neck when he wakes up. He sits up and tries to rub it out without inducing Mycroft to say “I told you so”. He does get a raised eyebrow for his trouble but Mycroft looks so devastatingly handsome with a raised eyebrow that he can hardly complain.
“How long was I out?” Greg stifles a yawn even though he’s not really tired anymore.
Mycroft stretches his arms overhead, hips lifting up from the sofa and legs going stiff in front of him. “Just over three hours. You completed two sleep cycles.”
“Shit, your leg must be all pins and needles.”
“It’s fine, Gregory.”
“Still, bit rude of me to pass out for hours when I have a guest. And now the day’s half gone.” Greg stands up from the sofa but doesn’t actually have anywhere to go or anything to do once he’s on his feet.
“I’m not a guest.” Mycroft rises to meet him. “And you have nothing to do today but recover.”
Greg huffs out a laugh. “It’s not like I got beaten to within an inch of my life or anything. It’s just a couple minor cuts.”
“And a concussion.”
“And a concussion.” Greg rolls his eyes even as Mycroft bends his head to press soft, dry lips to Greg’s.
Mycroft pulls back quickly even though Greg would be happy to turn that kiss into a lingering caress. “Anthea brought a change of clothes while you were resting. Do you mind if I use your shower?”
“I thought you weren’t a guest? No reason to ask.” It’s that easy domesticity, like breakfast or like sleeping next to each other, that Greg wants to encourage. Plus, teasing Mycroft is always a well-earned bonus.
On his way to the loo, Mycroft stops to pick up a leather satchel sitting discreetly just inside the front door.
“If I was kipping on your lap, did Anthea pick my lock to get that in here?” Greg calls after him.
There’s no answer but there’s also no damage to the doorknob or lock when Greg gets up to check so there’s no harm done either way.
When Mycroft reemerges, Greg is laid out across the sofa with a rerun of Kitchen Nightmares playing in the background just for lack of anything else to do. Mycroft is damp around the ears and his hair curls on his forehead. Anthea’s brought him a pair of smoky grey slacks, a fresh white button down, and a camel colored cashmere jumper. His feet are bare and Greg thinks he looks like he just walked out of some 1950s magazine. All he needs are slippers and a tumbler of scotch. Maybe it’s not all Mycroft needs.
“Did you ever smoke? When you were younger?”
“Only in moments of the highest stress.” Mycroft is never thrown by questions that come out of thin air. “Sometimes I still do.”
“Really?” Greg pulls his head up from the arm of the sofa. “I haven’t noticed the smell on you.”
Mycroft leans over the back of the sofa, resting his forearms along the cushions. Greg rolls onto his back to watch him. “I haven’t had the need to smoke in the time we’ve been seeing each other.”
Greg grins and the gash in the back of his head throbs. He really doesn’t care at the moment. His stitches can pull all the way out and leave him bleeding if it means he can stare up at Mycroft smiling serenely down at him. “Are you saying I’m keeping you off the fags?”
Mycroft is the only person Greg has ever met who can perfectly affect the expression of rolled eyes without actually rolling his eyes. “I was trying to compliment you.” Those long fingers brush across Greg’s cheek before Mycroft straightens and adjusts his sweater. “Do you want lunch?”
Faced with Mycroft’s freshly groomed and posh presentation, Greg suddenly feels sticky and dirty in his pajamas. “Not yet. I should get washed up and put on some actual clothes.”
“Why bother? We’ve got nothing on the rest of the day.” Greg’s smile widens when Mycroft so casually lumps their plans together.
“You’re just going to sit around here with me all day and watch the dust grow?”
“The hospital released you into my care. I do not take such responsibilities lightly.” Only a few months ago, Greg wouldn’t have been able to tell if Mycroft was joking or not. Now he can hear the slight change in Mycroft’s tone that indicates a private jest. How many people, Sherlock excluded, know that tone? Greg is ridiculously happy he’s one of the few, maybe the only one currently in Mycroft’s life, again Sherlock excluded because fuck him anyway.
“Well, your responsibility is washing up now.”
“Don’t get your sutures wet.” Mycroft’s usual well-practiced, impassive expression folds into a look of genuine worry for just a moment.
Greg smiles back at him, attempting to be reassuring. “I’ve had plenty of stitches in my time. I won’t shower, just rinse off the sticky bits. Promise.”
Mycroft snorts out a laugh Greg has come to recognize as genuine amusement and Greg smiles just a little bit brighter for having made Mycroft happy.
***************
The afternoon stretches on, and Greg manages to weasel his way out of lunch. He hopes Mycroft doesn’t notice it’s because he’s feeling nauseous, but he also knows Mycroft is much more perceptive than even Sherlock. It’s a futile hope. At least Mycroft doesn’t say anything about it.
A shorter nap while Mycroft watches a history documentary pushes away the nausea and Greg wakes up hungry. He manages to badger Mycroft into letting the two of them walk to the corner chippy for supper. The grease on the chips and the crunch of the batter soothe Greg’s stomach even further. Like the first meal after an all-night bender, even if it’s been years since he’s indulged that heavily.
“Have you ever gotten really, properly piss drunk?” Greg asks around a mouthful of chips.
Mycroft blinks slowly at him before answering. “During my first year at university, I liberated a bottle of brandy from my father’s library and drank the decanter. The after effects put me off repeating the experience. Though I do still enjoy brandy.”
Greg laughs at him. Really at him instead of with him. “I think I spent most of my first year at uni pissed as fuck. And you only did it once.”
“I would have liked to have seen you like that.” Mycroft’s eyes gleam with a predatory edge but his voice remains even-tempered.
“Really? Would have gotten me drunk and taken advantage of me back then?” Greg’s still teasing but the idea does make his skin prickle with possibilities.
“Never.” He sniffs indignantly. “At least not without your permission first.”
“Always such an honorable boy, our Mycroft.”
“Always.” Mycroft’s smiling again and they’re back to laughing with each other even if it’s not out loud.
They make it back from supper unscathed, but Greg is tired again. Not the kind of tired that makes him want to go to sleep but the kind that makes him sit on the couch and stare aimlessly at the telly or just at the wall.
Luckily, Mycroft doesn’t seem to mind the brain fog that’s descended over Greg. He’s pulled a plain brown portfolio from the mysteriously-delivered satchel and is turning through pages with a concerning amount of “confidentials” stamped on them. Greg continues to stare, to drift, until he feels Mycroft’s hand squeeze his thigh. It takes him a few seconds to pull his gaze from those long fingers wrapped around his jeans, up Mycroft’s arm, and to his face.
“We should go to bed.”
“I don’t know that I can go to sleep.”
“You don’t have to. Just lie down for a bit until you can.”
Mycroft maneuvers him back to the bedroom and is popping the buttons on Greg’s jeans before he really comes back to himself.
“You don’t have to stay. You’ve missed an entire day of nation building or redacting reports or whatever it is you do.” Greg lifts his arms obediently as Mycroft can pull the jumper over his head.
“Nonsense. Do you know how much leave time I have accrued?” He’s joking again but Greg needs him to be serious, to be sure.
“I mean it, Mycroft. I appreciate you being here all day today but I can handle myself overnight. I promise.”
Greg’s down to his pants now and Mycroft pulls away to take care of his own clothes. He doesn’t respond until his jumper is carefully folded on top of Greg’s bureau and his shirt is hanging wide open. “I know. And I mean it. I want to stay.”
“For how long?” Greg makes an effort to keep his voice level, to keep calm, but who knows how much is the head injury talking here.
Mycroft doesn’t pause, he doesn’t hesitate. He does slide his fingers around Greg’s hips and give a gentle squeeze. “For as long as you need me.”
Greg nods, throat suddenly full of dry cotton, and climbs into bed. He leaves enough space for Mycroft to curl behind him. The light clicks off and Mycroft’s arm settles low across his hips, far from the sutures on his side. Greg can feel warm breath across the back of his neck and it soothes him.
“I may need more looking after tomorrow.”
That breath pulses across Greg’s skin. “Yes. I am aware you have a head injury.”
“It could take some time to fully recover.”
Mycroft flexes his fingers in that narrow dip just below Greg’s hip bone. “Yes, it could.”
The darkness makes this half-hidden conversation just that much easier. “So, you’ll stay?”
“For as long as it takes.” Mycroft’s lips brush lightly against the fine hairs standing up across the back of Greg’s neck.
“Good. I want you here.”
The press of lips on his nape is much stronger this time. It’s the sealing of an unspoken covenant in flesh and bone. An agreement without hard and fast rules or boundaries, but something to be explored and pushed to its limits. Greg likes the way it feels, both against the vulnerable skin and pressing tight against his heart.
He drifts off with Mycroft’s comfort and heat surrounding him and sutures aching where his skin is pulled tight. It’s the best possible way to fall asleep, under the weight of promises fulfilled and adventures yet to come.