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“Sir, you’ll catch your death, sitting out here in the rain.” Anthea tilts her own umbrella back so that she can get a good look at him. Seated on a stone bench in the so-called Garden of Meditation in a light rain. Soaked to the bone. Two hundred pound umbrella, untouched, leaning on his leg. Two thousand pound suit, ruined. Handmade shoes, ruined. Hair, plastered to his head, and under other, less serious circumstances, she wouldn’t have hesitated to let him know that he looked like a drowned opossum.
He doesn’t respond for several minutes, choosing instead to stare off in the distance, in hopes that she’ll go away. When she doesn’t, he lets out a small sigh. “One cannot catch one’s ‘death’ from water, or else we’d get sick when we showered.”
“Well, it won’t do you a bit of good for the Detective Inspector to wake up and find that you’ve been sitting out in the rain.”
Mycroft turned and looked at Anthea, eyes narrowed. “And will he wake up? Is anything about this whole fiasco certain?”
“The doctors say that he’s-“
“The damned doctors know nothing!” he shouts, and she flinches as the sound echoes through the solitude of the garden. He sighs again, and thrusts a wet hand through his sopping hair. “This is… it is… unacceptable, Andrea.”
He so rarely uses her real name, for a moment, she thinks he’s addressing some inner demon. “I know, sir. But the… Lestrade is an otherwise healthy man. He’ll pull through.”
“We… had a row,” Mycroft whispers. “A silly row because of my silly ego. And now, that’s the memory he’s stuck with – that I don’t care for him, and that I think he’s stupid. I dismissed him, waved him off like he…” his voice breaks a bit, and he clears his throat. “Like he didn’t mean the world to me. And for what? To keep up appearances in front of a few pompous windbags from Italy? How was he ever involved with me?”
“Sir… Mr. Holmes, please don’t do this to yourself,” she pleads. She moves closer so that the umbrella covers him. “You couldn’t have known that the snipers would-“
“It’s my bloody job to know!”
“There was nothing to suggest-“
“I should have known!” he yells. “Italian security knew there was a breach, knew that there was a crazed psychopath who threatened to re-create the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre on Valentine’s Day. They assumed it would happen in America, and I had a niggling feeling that something was amiss, but I ignored it in favour of placating the delegation. When Gregory brought it to me, cold hard facts, I dismissed him. Cruelly. And look what happened – he was caught in the crossfire! So don’t tell me what I couldn’t have known.”
She knows better than to argue with him when he’s like this. This isn’t the first time something has gone wrong and he’s blamed himself, nor will it be the last. But that this is personal, that Detective Inspector Gregory Francois Lestrade is the civil partner of Mycroft Holmes, and there are no rewinds or take-backs when the minute slip in observations leads to Greg being shot in the upper left side of his chest. He collapsed in the middle of the road, not twenty feet from where he’d been rudely dismissed by Mycroft.
That it is Valentine’s Day makes it all the worse.
The rain picks up, and Anthea bites back a groan. In this state of mind, Mycroft wasn’t going to budge, and any efforts on her part would be met with stony silence or shouting. With a sigh, she pulls out her mobile, and fires off a text.
Sometimes there was only one way to deal with a Holmes.
***
“Good thing the rain has stopped, or you'd look worse than you do now.”
Mycroft looks up through his wet lashes to see his mother seating herself on the bench beside him. He frowns, and makes mental note to fire his assistant for her insolence. The idea that he, the most powerful man in the country, should be subjected to what is basically ‘telling his mummy’ is ridiculous.
“She only did what she thought was best,” Mummy says quietly, handing him a handkerchief. “You’ve managed to frighten her, and I didn’t think that was possible, given the nature of your work. Wipe your face.”
Mycroft groans, but wipes his face and stuffs the handkerchief in his pocket. “She won’t have to worry about such a thing in future.”
She puts a hand on his knee and squeezes. “I’ll never forgive you if you fire her. She called me because the most stable, rock-solid man she’s ever known is sitting on a stone bench in the rain. With his umbrella – that he’s never without, by the way – at his side, unfurled. What should she have done?”
“Minded her own business, perhaps?”
“You are her business.” His mother shakes her head sadly. “That she cares enough about you to help says much about her. Anyone can be your assistant, and keep detached from your personal life, but is that what you want? Someone who blindly follows and doesn’t ask questions?”
“Well…”
“That’s what you thought you wanted from dear Gregory, isn’t it?” She looks at him from the corner of her eyes. “Funny how that worked out.”
“Mummy, don’t!” Mycroft shifts away from her, and crosses one leg over the other. (He’s certain a therapist would have a field day with that.) “It’s my fault Gregory was shot, it’s my fault that he’s lying in hospital unconscious. Even if he does recover, we’ll never be the same. I…” He hangs his head, and breathes out heavily through his nose. “I shouldn’t have allowed this weakness. It is distracting, and pointless. I have work to do, and by allowing… this… to consume me, I am failing in my duties.” He makes to stand, but his mother’s strong hand on his arm stops him.
“Do not trivialise your love for Gregory, Mycroft Holmes.” Her voice is deadly calm, rough with anger and frustration. “You wouldn’t have married him if you didn’t care for him. You wouldn’t be out here sitting in the rain like a besotted fool if you didn’t care. I know your Grandfather – rest his soul – drummed into your head that it wasn’t an advantage to care for anyone, and you took that to heart. But he was wrong, Mycroft. He loved your Mimi so much that he died along with her. He only wanted to look brave and unaffected because he thought that’s what men did.”
“I… do love him, Mummy,” Mycroft admits. “But that isn’t going to save him. He’s going to die, and the last thing I said to him was to go make himself useful elsewhere. What kind of husband would do that? It would serve me right if he died. Then I’ll have to live with my actions.”
Mummy sighs. “So brilliant, but now you’re just being stupid. And even if I did a horrid job in my attempts to raise you, stupidity was not part of the curriculum. The beauty of Greg, other than those melting brown eyes of his, is that he is a very forgiving person. He probably thought no more of what you said minutes after you said it.”
“You didn’t see how he looked!” Mycroft growls in frustration. “Like I’d kicked his puppy. Holding that silly flower, with that besotted look on his face. And I shooed him away. He shouldn’t forgive me, and if he pulls through, he should leave me as soon as he’s able.”
“He won’t,” Mummy says with a small chuckle. “Those who choose to love us don’t do it blindly, Mikey. He knew that you thought yourself above love, and emotion, and all the other things you consider rot. You could have had a fling with him, and tossed him aside. Why didn’t you? Because you fell in love with him, despite all your… you-ness. And now he’s hurt, and you’re out here, moping in the rain when you should be in there with him, holding his hand, letting him know you love him, and need him to wake up.”
Mycroft snorts at that, at the illogic that his presence will somehow make the human body heal itself. He opens his mouth to say so to his mother, but the words shrivel in his throat.
Mummy stands, and holds out a hand. “Your husband needs you at his side if he’s to recover.” She glances at him with a tiny smirk forming on her lips. “Even if it’s not scientific, and you think it’s stupid. Him knowing you’re there is part of the healing process.”
“But…” He sighs and trails off.
“You can flog yourself later,” she says firmly. “Up, up, so we can get you out of those wet clothes. You could catch pneumonia if enough moisture gets in your lungs.”
Mycroft allows himself to be pulled from the bench, and he grimaces at the squelching sound his shoes make. Ruined, he muses. He doesn’t dare examine his clothes. His cleaner is going to pitch a right fit over this.
“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” Mummy assures him. “Andrea has everything you need. Come along, Mikey.”
“Why didn’t you just name me Mikey if that’s what you were going to call me?” Mycroft complains.
“It’s a sign of affection. And I rather think it fits.” She pulls him along the path back to the hospital.
***
Showered, dried, and in fresh trousers and a shirt, Mycroft sits in an uncomfortable plastic chair at Gregory’s bedside, holding his hand through the railing. Firmly, but not too firm, he grips the calloused hand like a lifeline. He’s largely ignoring the part of his mind that insists that this is silly and superstitious. The other part of his mind that keeps replaying the events of the morning over and over is harder to ignore. It’s my fault, he thinks, over and over, ad nauseaum. He wishes he could turn it off, that he could offer something to refute it, but the evidence of his arrogance is literally in his hand.
Gunshot wound to upper left torso. Broken rib. Nicked lung. Blood loss. Surgery. Could have been worse. And now we wait, the doctor says, as though he’s that person who will be seated in this torturous chair for the duration, holding the hand of the man he loves beyond anything he’d ever thought possible. On Valentine’s Day.
What cruel irony.
They should be out, dining on steaks, sipping expensive gin, and lingering over a decadent dessert, legs tangled under the table, secret smiles shared with each spoonful. There should be flowers on the bedside table at home – tulips, which was the flower Gregory was holding when… Mycroft sighs, and shakes off the fantasy.
He looks at Gregory, lying so vulnerably, IV in his arm, heart monitor beeping steadily (thank goodness), blood pressure cuff on his arm (pressure slightly elevated but not alarmingly so), morphine drip dispensing at regular intervals (drugged, but not heavily), and a compression device wrapped around his legs (to prevent blood clots). Excellent prognosis, he was told, and with therapy, Detective Inspector Lestrade could be back on the job in six months to a year. He wouldn’t be pleased, would chafe at the inactivity, and would double his efforts to get back to his job. Mycroft didn’t want to dwell on how Gregory’s absence from NSY would affect Sherlock…
His mobile pings an alert, and he looks at it with a sigh. Work, work, and more work. He sends off a series of texts that will resolve two of the more pressing issues, and make one worse. Spoiled diplomats were never placated easily. He sends another text, this one to Andrea’s assistant, so that the delegation from Spain are afforded every luxury at a discreet gentleman’s club.
The whole of the world could drop into the ocean for all the care I give, Mycroft thinks sourly. Grown men whinging about trivial things such as women and food, when his love was suffering so. Thank goodness his staff was well-versed in acting without question, and obeying whatever orders he gave without blinking an eye.
He sighs, and rubs a thumb over Gregory’s knuckles. Please wake up, he pleads. I don’t think I can go back to being what I was before I met you. My world was all black and white before you came into it. Cold and bleak, and… boring. With you came sunshine and laughter. How did you manage that, Gregory? What is it about you? “Gregory,” he whispers, blinking back the tears that have welled in his eyes. “Don’t leave me.”
“Oh, love,” Greg croaks, and manages to squeeze Mycroft’s hand. “Don’t cry.” He smiles crookedly, then drops back into sleep.
***
Three hours later, Greg is fully awake, and his condition has been upgraded from ‘critical’ to ‘recovering’. Mummy, in the stead of Greg’s own mother (who is too incapacitated to travel) sat for while, regaling poor Gregory with tales of Mycroft and Sherlock’s misspent youth, and became so embarrassing that Father had to forcibly remove her from the room. The Chief Superintendent and his other work colleagues have come and gone, as has the ambassador to Italy, who has vowed to reward him handsomely for his actions that resulted in saving the life of his chief aides. Sherlock and John arrived with much noise, with John going over his chart with a fine-toothed comb, haranguing the attending doctor for details of the surgery and subsequent treatment, and Sherlock skulking about the periphery of the room, one eye on Gregory, and the other on Mycroft, most likely deducing that it was all Mycroft’s fault. Mycroft knew he would be called upon to make restitution for the fact that Sherlock’s own personal detective inspector would be out of commission for at least six months. Andrea was already researching cases that would keep Sherlock out of trouble.
Finally, the room is cleared, and Greg and Mycroft are left alone at last. The bed is elevated slightly, and Greg sighs at the sight of Mycroft, standing at the window, looking out over the garden. He is the picture of calm, cool and collected, but Greg knows better. He can see the stiffness in his posture, the slight stoop of his shoulders, and the clenching of his fists.
“Mycroft.” Greg’s voice is still a bit rough from the intubation. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Mycroft’s tone is quiet, calm, with just a hint of an edge. “Just splendid.”
“If it wouldn’t hurt like hell, I’d laugh at that.” Greg shifts with a groan. “Would you at least turn around and look at me? I know I’m a mess, but-“
Mycroft whirls around, letting his anger come to the fore. “You’re a mess because of me! And don’t think that I don’t know what you’re thinking, Gregory.”
“Yeah?” Greg licks his lips and grimaces at the dryness. “Then you should be over here helping me get some water and something for my lips.”
Stunned, Mycroft doesn’t move for several seconds, while he tries to think of a reason that Greg would be softening the blow. It’s his way, he thinks. Letting me down easy. “Yes. Of course.” Mycroft takes up the cup of water, and holds out the straw so that Greg can drink his fill. When he’s done, a swab coated in lemon is swiped across Greg’s lips. Having done that, Mycroft stands at the side of the bed, unsure what he should do next. Leave? Stay? Apologise again? Christ, he thinks, shoving a hand through his dreadfully dried out hair, he sighs.
“I’m okay, Mycroft,” Greg says. “I wish you’d stop worrying.”
“I’m not worrying,” Mycroft replies sharply. “I’m just wondering what I should do next. Are we going to divorce? Remain friends? Will you want spousal support?”
With a frown, Greg shifts on the bed, groaning at the pain that comes with moving. “What the bloody hell are you on about? You’re going to leave me when I’m recovering from gunshot wound? Even you can’t be that cold, Mycroft.”
Confused, Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “I’m not… I don’t want to leave you, Gregory. I am aware that this whole fiasco is my fault, and that you-“
“Your fault?” Greg cuts in. “Why is it your fault? You didn’t shoot me or have me shot.” He looks up at Mycroft, brows lifted. “Did you?”
“Of course not!” Mycroft grits his teeth in frustration. “Why would I have you shot? That’s the most-“
“Calm down. You’re making my head hurt, which means my blood pressure is going to rise.” Greg pats the bed on his right side, grimacing as the blood pressure cuff begins to tighten. “Make yourself useful, and sit down so I don’t have to keep looking up at you.”
Mycroft rolls his eyes and lowers the bedrail. He sits down on the bed a bit gingerly, not wanting to jostle Greg’s injury. “Better?”
“Yeah, great. Now tell me what’s going on in that big brain of yours, Mycroft.” Greg shifts upward a bit, and hisses. “And be quick about it, because I’m going to be upping the morphine in a few.”
“It can wait if you’re in pain,” Mycroft offers.
“Talk,” Greg says through gritted teeth.
“Fine. It was my fault that you were shot,” Mycroft says sadly. “Had I not been so…dismissive of you, had I taken your advice, you would not have been shot. But instead, I shooed you away like a fly, and rejected your token of affection. And for what? To look important? To show that no one tells me what to do?” He huffs out a breath. “To stroke my own ego. And now look at you… shot, and out of commission for the better part of the next year. How can you not be angry, not want to leave me?”
“Sweetheart-“
“Don’t.” Mycroft refuses to let him lull him with sweet words, only to break his heart with his next breath.
“Sweetheart,” Greg repeats. “You’ve got it all wrong. I don’t blame you. Yeah, you were a bit of a prick, but I don’t hold it against you. And there was no way you could have predicted that I would cover that guy, and end up getting hit. The things you know,” he continues with a smile, “ are very scary, and the things you can control are immense. But you don’t know everything, and as much as you try, you can’t control every aspect. I distracted you, and the sniper was able to shoot. I apologise for it, and promise to never do it again. But, I’m not leaving you. I love you and-“ he breaks off, coughing.
“You’ve done too much, and your lung capacity is diminished” Mycroft tisks, and reaches for the cup of water. “Take a sip, then a deep breath, Gregory.”
Greg sips at the water between gasps, and lies back against the pillows. “Christ, that hurts like hell.”
Mycroft sets the cup aside, and puts a hand on his chest. “Better? Or shall I fetch the doctor?”
“No, just… hurts. Up the drip.”
Mycroft presses the button on the machine, and the morphine is dispensed. “Keep breathing, Gregory.”
“Am.”
“You’ll be out in a few moments, so I want to say this quickly.” Mycroft clears his throat, and presses his lips together.
“What is it, sweetheart?” Greg reaches out a hand, and takes hold of Mycroft’s wrist. “Your heart is pounding. Say it.”
“I… well, I want you to know that you mean the world to me. And I’m… I… apologise for not acknowledging you today. I ruined your Valentine’s Day, and I wish I hadn’t. Please give me another chance.”
“You’ll never run out of chances with me, Mycroft,” Greg whispers sleepily. “And you didn’t ruin anything. That I woke up to your gorgeous face is the best valentine I could have ever gotten. Do you know what you mean to me?”
“No.”
“Then think about it while I sleep. And think about why you feel the need to push me away, when you know that I won’t go.” He yawns, and lets his head loll to the side. “I love you, Mycroft Holmes. You're my very own tulip.”
Mycroft frowns and stand up. He takes the remote control and lets the bed down flat. He straightens Greg’s head on the pillow, and tucks the blankets around him more firmly. Then, planting a gentle kiss on his lips, he lets the rail back up, and settles himself back in the uncomfortable plastic chair. “I love you, too, Gregory.” He digs out his mobile, and fires off a series of texts to his assistants that aren’t in the least bit subtle about what will happen if they do not follow his instructions to the letter.
That settled, he sends a text of thanks to Andrea for her assistance, and advises her to take the evening off. He hopes she and her date will enjoy the dinner he’s had sent to her flat.
***
When Greg wakes three hours later, he is momentarily disoriented. Oh… he thinks, different, more… posh room. Bigger bed, more windows, privacy, filled with… tulips? He smiles at the thought that Mycroft heard him, and that there are colorful tulips on every surface in the room. The giant heart-shaped balloon floating in the corner that says “Happy Valentine’s Day” brings out a ragged chuckle.
But the thing that brings tears to his eyes is Mycroft. In the bed, tucked up against the bedrail, one arm slung across Greg’s waist, the other clutching his hand tightly. Snoring softly, head resting on Greg’s uninjured shoulder. Greg brings their entwined hands up, and presses a kiss to Mycroft’s knuckles.
“He hasn’t done this since Father took ill when he was twelve,” Mummy says quietly. She moves away from the door and comes into the room, smiling broadly. “I was worried he would run from you. He’s so stubborn when he thinks he’s right. But he wouldn’t be my Mikey if he behaved otherwise.”
“Mycroft,” comes the sleep-roughened reply. “Don’t you have a date with Father to see to, Mummy?”
“I do,” she says. “I just came to make sure you two were all right. Now that I see you are, I’ll go. See you in the morning. And happy Valentine’s Day to you both.”
“To you and to your husband, too,” Greg says with a cough. He watches her go, then looks down at Mycroft. “The nurse is going to kick you out of my bed, you know.”
“Only if you’re uncomfortable,” Mycroft says, sitting up gingerly so as not to bump against the IV tubes. “The charge nurse was happy to accommodate my wish to spend Valentine’s evening in bed with you.”
“Sentiment?” Greg snorts. “From you? Must be a morphine dream. Like all these tulips in my room.”
“Not a dream,” Mycroft replies, holding the straw for Greg to drink his water. “You called me your tulip, on which I will not ask for elaboration, since I’m sure I will end up blushing or openly weeping, knowing you. And while I was feeling romantic, I’ve made sure that you get a scoop of sherbet with your soup tonight. Because I love you, and can do things like that.” He manages to keep a straight face for thirty seconds, then bursts into laughter.
“I love you, you berk,” Greg says, squeezing his hand. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“I love you as well.” Mycroft says, then frowns.
“What?”
“Well, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, thank you for not dying on Valentine’s Day. It would have ruined me for next year.”
Greg laughs so hard the nurse comes in and admonishes Mycroft for inducing his coughing fit.
“Apologies,” Mycroft says, trying and failing to sound contrite. When the nurse is sure Greg is all right, Mycroft lies back down, and puts an arm across Greg’s waist again. “She’s right. You need your rest. Go back to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake.”
“You’re running the world from my bed?”
“Our bed,” Mycroft corrects. “And yes. I'm running the world from this bed for love.”
Greg has nothing to say to that, so he closes his eyes, and basks in the feel of Mycroft next to him.
The End.