Chapter Text
“Cheers,” Greg said, as John appeared from inside the pub, a pint in each hand. He lifted his glass in salute as the other man sat down and they drank in silence for several minutes enjoying the late summer afternoon sunshine.
“So,” John said eventually, “when was he due back?”
“Two weeks ago last Wednesday,” the DI replied, playing with the beer mat lying on the picnic bench. “He was only supposed to be gone six days,” he added sounding more than a little maudlin, even to himself.
“Ouch, and I complain when Sherlock disappears for a couple of days at a time.” John commiserated.
“That’s different - Sherlock could be in all sorts of trouble. Mycroft’s stuck in an office somewhere,” he was trying to be flippant but was fairly certain he wasn’t entirely successful. Realistically they both knew that though the elder Holmes was less likely to jump from roof tops and hare across duel-carriage ways after suspects, his position netted him his own sort of danger.
“Yes, an office in an undisclosed area of the middle east, where he is in all likelihood trying to stop another war.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” he said drinking deeply, “to be fair, he has sent me the occasional text or at least Anthea has.”
“Well that’s a start,” John said, frowning and reaching for his phone.
“Do I want to know what the great detective is up to?“ Greg asked, suspecting he didn’t really.
“Your guess is as good as mine, all I know is that it expressly didn’t involve me. Which,” John continued, with a smile, “is actually a bit of a relief. There is such a thing as too much Sherlock.”
“You‘ll find no argument from me on that front,“ Greg said, smile tugging at his lips, “besides it’s good to get a chance to catch up with you without the constant bickering.“
“It is - next time we should resurrect Bond and beer.”
“Yeah, that was good.”
“Until we decided to try and convert the Holmes’ brothers.” John added with a grin.
“In retrospect that was pretty much doomed to fail,” Greg admitted, smiling at the memory, even if it had been a bit of a disaster in terms of convincing anyone of anything. Sherlock hadn’t stopped ranting about improbable plots and how thick the villains were (escalating to the point where the exposition of the dastardly plot allowed Bond to escape) while Mycroft had simply made disparaging noises from behind his files, refusing to be drawn out despite their allocating the evening as a ‘work free zone’.
“I think maybe it was maybe a little too close to home for M, for Mycroft,” he corrected himself, his mood suddenly dropping again.
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” John empathised before continuing much more brightly, “that was a stroke of genius when we realised that you were dating M though, maybe even M+.”
“I know, the name kind of stuck… I mean, I can’t think of him as a Myc and I’m not about to call him Croft.” John snorted.
“They’re not really easy names to contract are they? I did try Lock once but not going to make that mistake again.” This time it was Greg’s turn to snort into the dregs of his pint.
He was still revelling in what the look on Sherlock’s face would have been when his phone vibrated and lit up on the table next to him and ‘A’ flashed on the screen. Picking it up, he opened the message and frowned.
‘Don’t order another.’
“Something interesting?” John asked, making him realise that he‘d been staring at his phone.
“Anthea. She’s suggesting that we don’t order another pint.”
“Oh, does she often send you instructions.”
“Sometimes information, occasional requests or suggestions but she’s not usually that specific when they’re on the other side of the world.”
“Which leads us to conclude…?” said a familiar and well cultured voice from behind him. He could feel the smile spread across his face even before he turned to see Mycroft standing there but the lightness in his chest didn‘t last.
“Mycroft?” he asked, his smile fading as his eyes roamed over his partner’s haggard form propped up with his umbrella.
“I really must have a word with Anthea, I had intended on surprising you.“ the other man said, making a valiant attempt at keeping his tone light, but Greg could almost feel the exhaustion that was seeping from his every pore.
“Have a seat,“ John suggested in a tone that gave the distinct impression that the GP was seeing the same signs as he was.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay, I need to get into the office but when Anthea informed me that you were here and we were going to be passing I couldn’t resist the opportunity to say hello.” Greg was momentarily disarmed as Mycroft lent over and kissed him gently on the cheek. Never one for public displays of affection, this and the gentle squeeze of his shoulder was the equivalent of being ravished senseless by the civil servant. He wasn’t about to be distracted though,
“It’s three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon Mycroft, and by the look of you, you’ve been working yourself ragged for the best part of a month - there’s no way you should be anywhere near your office today.”
“Or tomorrow,” John added sedately from where he was sitting, quietly observing proceedings.
“Please don’t be difficult Gregory,” the other man almost sighed, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. The pleading nature of his tone and the distracted nature of the gesture from someone who was usually so controlled and poised, sent another pang of concern through him. He had seen Mycroft tired before but this was more than that, he was pale as a ghost and unless he was wearing one of the old suits from the back of the wardrobe that he kept ‘just in case’ he put three-stone on overnight and couldn’t make it to his tailor, he’d lost far more weight than he had to spare.
“Just sit down, Mycroft,” he said quietly, “before you fall down. Please?” Mycroft frowned but did perch on the chair that John had pulled up.
“I do understand that I was away longer than anticipated and that I’ve not been in touch as often as I might have been but…”
“This has got nothing to do with that M,” he said, looking at him seriously, “I’ve missed you, of course I have, and I always want you to come straight home with me when you’ve been away but that’s not the point. I don’t know what you’ve been up to but you look dead on your feet, like there’s nowhere you ought to be on your way to except bed. Possibly via a good meal, before you fade away to nothing.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Gregory, I assure you I’m fine and unfortunately the rest of the world has continued to turn while my attention has been directed elsewhere, so the sooner I’m able to get back to my desk the better.”
“When was the last time you slept?” John asked calmly, seeming to ignore everything that had just been said.
“Really John, don’t be so tedious. I have already said that I am quite well.”
“And neither of us are buying it,” the doctor said quietly.
Greg watched as Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment, as though gathering his thoughts and resources for another round of protests.
“Perhaps,” he began, “I might be more accurate in saying that I have been a little stretched but unfortunately events have not allowed me as much rest as I might normally have wished for, but I’m sure things will settle down shortly.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” John pointed out.
“And I have no intention of doing so,” Mycroft snapped, but as soon as his anger seemed to peak it faded away again, as though he simply couldn’t maintain it.
“Do you have to be so bloody stubborn?” Greg snapped back at him, “We’re only asking because we care and quite frankly, you look appalling.”
“Enough,” Mycroft said, collecting himself as though to leave, “I can assure you that I will make every effort to improve my appearance before I see you next.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he replied automatically, reaching out to place his hand on Mycroft’s arm and taking a deep breath to try and calm down, “I know how important your work is, but can you honestly say you’re fit to be dealing with the kind of issues that cross your desk at the moment?” Greg hoped that logic would prevail - it was rare that his partner became roused to the kind of emotional outbursts he’d exhibited tonight but that was just another sign of the kind of state he was in.
There was a long moment’s silence where he held the other man’s gaze. It was eventually broken when three phones sounded simultaneously. His own was still in his hand and he lifted it to see what he suspected - that there was another message from A,
‘Appointments cancelled. Car outside the gate & basic medical supplies have been sent to the flat.’
The detective inspector looked up to see both John and Mycroft had read their own messages (presumably the same as his own) and saw the doctor’s mouth twitch into a momentary smile.
“It looks like we’re not the only one’s who are concerned.”
“I… really…” Mycroft blustered.
“Don’t be angry,” Greg said softly, “you know that she’s got your best interests at heart . She’s loyal to a fault.”
“I… I suppose it’s too late to capitulate with my dignity intact?”
“Never, “Greg replied with a smile, squeezing the arm in his grasp gently.
“Well in that case, I suddenly find that I want nothing more in the world than to be at home. Asleep. With you.”
“Done,” he said, leaning over and pecking him on the forehead, “but I’d like John to take a look at you first though. If that’s alright?” he looked across to the table at the other man.
“Course.” John agreed and Mycroft waved a listless and dismissive hand.
“Right, come on then,” he continued, “let’s get you home.” Standing, he placed a hand under the other man’s elbow to help him stand but watched as he seemed to reel as he straightened up. Obviously sensing that he was being watched however he seemed to shrug the unsteadiness away and offered Greg a half smile.