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The papers in Mycroft’s hand fluttered to the cluttered desk as a white, hot pain shot through his shoulder and up into his jaw. Instantly his mind called up a heart attack and all of the quick ways to get it under control, but then he blinked them away — he can’t have a heart attack. That would require his heart to beat, and it had never done that. Being born a vampire had its perks.
The next second his phone rang — Sherlock.
Sherlock never called if he could text. Mycroft answered it swiftly, his fear confirmed.
“Where?”
Sherlock was out of breath. Not good. His little brother never had to breathe either. So, it was bad then.
“St. Barts. He’s in surgery. Be quick, brother.”
Mycroft was already in the car, directing the driver. It would be slower this time of year with the snow turning the roads to slush. Christmas was gone, but the bitter cold had stayed to welcome the new year.
“I’m sorry, Brother,” Sherlock said in his ear. “I should have watched him more closely.”
Mycroft didn’t have the words to deal with the incompetence of his little brother while possibly losing one of the only things in the entire universe that actually made his existence worth the suffering. They sat in silence as the driver took the quickest route to their destination. He hung up the phone as he threw open the door to the surgical department of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.
“Lestrade,” He barked at the attendant at the desk.
When the young man didn’t automatically answer him, he expanded his presence, throwing the sense of danger into every corner of the room. The man gasped and stepped back from the man looming in front of him. He was almost consumed by fear. Mycroft could smell it cutting into the air, enveloping the room. It was suffocating.
“Lestrade. Gregory.” He tried again.
Mycroft retracted his presence and the young man seemed to calm, slightly.
“He’s still in surgery, sir,” the scared man said, and then hesitated before continuing. “It was bad, sir. The doctors don’t hold too much hope. I’m sorry.”
The British Government’s balance stumbled, then righted himself, allowing his anger to take over his features.
“Save your condolences,” he told the man, quickly shrinking in front of him. “Gregory is stronger than most think.”
Another shock of hot pain. So much so Mycroft could not keep the pain from his face.
“I need to see him. Now.”
The man shook his head. “I can’t do that, sir.”
Pity, Mycroft realized, and the anger pulled his left hand up and around the man’s throat, dragging him around the small desk.
“It wasn’t a request,” Mycroft could feel his eyes sink into blackness as he squeezed. Then a hand was on his shoulder and he released the young man.
Sherlock.
“Mycroft, stop,” his little brother said. “It won’t help him. It won’t save him.”
Sherlock was there with him. He trusted his heart with him and his little brother had failed to protect him. This was his fault. He turned on him, but the look on Sherlock’s face told Mycroft he was punishing himself enough. He pulled him forward by the lapels of his coat, threatening harm. John burst through the door at that moment and was at Sherlock’s side instantly. A look of defiance on his face. Mycroft simply shoved his brother gently away.
Troublesome little soldier.
However, Mycroft knew he was internally thankful for the firm grip Dr. Watson had taken on Sherlock’s life and, apparently, his heart.
It appeared Sherlock could be tamed — who knew?
Mycroft shuffled backwards and fell heavily into a seat.
“I need to see him, William,” he looked up at the detective. “Please.”
Sherlock nodded at his given name and pulled his brother up by his arm, guiding him down the hallway.
“You can’t go in there!” The forgotten desk attendant yelled at them, but John was already squaring up to him.
“You can make an exception, I’m sure,” the soldier said as he shoved the man back into his chair, nodding at Sherlock as he led Mycroft down the corridor.
A warmth bloomed in Sherlock’s chest at the gesture.
“Here,” Sherlock said as he snapped the lock on the door and opened it for his older brother.
The room was small, but Mycroft quickly saw that it was a backdoor to the scrub room off the main operating theatre.
“Around the corner is a one way window used by hospital management to observe,” he said, not looking at his brother.
The guilt of his misstep that led to this outcome still seared in his mind. Mycroft gathered himself and followed Sherlock around the bend. The heavily sterile lights on the other side of the glass were almost overwhelming to his eyes, but he pushed closer none-the-less.
Gregory. His Gregory was laid bare on the cold steel of the operating table, tubes, wires and machines surrounded him, as did surgeons. The scent of the Inspector’s blood permeated the small room in which he stood and he almost collapsed. It was weak, watered-down, dying.
Please. Mycroft begged silently. I’ll give anything to have him safe.
Sherlock moved back and away from his brother, letting him have his space. He knew what that smell almost assuredly meant — death.
The thought of losing his mate would be overwhelming and terrifying. Sherlock had never seen his brother terrified. Now, it was rolling off of him in thick waves. Sherlock was having trouble not allowing it to sink into his own skin. Thoughts of John, bloody and on the cusp of death swam through his mind and his knees went weak. Sherlock caught himself on the wall behind him and tried to calm his irrational fears. His mate was safe.Unlike his brother’s heart.
Lestrade was probably going to die and even Sherlock didn’t know what would become of his brother if he suffered that loss. Most of their kind find an iron bullet to the brain stem a suitable end in these cases. One of the only certain ends to their kind.
The voices inside the operating theatre echoed around Mycroft’s mind, none of them sticking. He tried to focus on the steady beat of the heart monitor.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“He can’t die, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his eyes not leaving Gregory’s face, pale and unnatural. “I don’t —He can’t die.”
Sherlock retook his place beside his brother. Suddenly, the monitors in the room with Gregory went crazy — screaming his impending death.
Sherlock instinctively grabbed his older brother, pulling him away from the glass. Fear and anger filled the small room, and he held Mycroft tighter.
“No!” Mycroft screamed at the glass, at the doctors attempting to make Lestrade’s heart beat once more. “Let me go, Sherlock! I need to be with him!”
Sherlock winced as Mycroft struggled in his grasp. He knew what his older brother would do if he released him — break through the glass, kill everyone in the room and then cling to Lestrade’s body until someone stronger than Sherlock pried him away. Then it would be an hour, maybe two, and Sherlock would no longer have a brother.
Less than a minute since Lestrade’s heart had stopped, the doctors were able to restart it. Mycroft collapsed in his brother’s arms.
“I have to do something, Sherlock,” he said. “I can’t just stand here and watch him die.”
Sherlock nodded and slowly released him.
“There is only one way, you know that,” Sherlock braced his hands on his brother’s shoulders. “If you want to save him, that is all you can do, Brother.”
Mycroft knew what Sherlock said was true, but shook his head.
“He will never agree to that,” Mycroft said. “We both know I can’t do anything without his permission. I can’t force my blood on him.”
Sherlock looked at him warily.
“You haven’t exchanged blood with him because you don’t want him to feel your burdens and your pain,” Sherlock said, looking away from Mycroft. “You have never even offered him the choice.’
His older brother sank to his knees in front of the glass and waited to hear what the doctors would say. See how much time he had left in this world.
Sherlock stood beside him, listened as the doctors decided amongst themselves that they had done all they could and began to close Lestrade up.
“Come on, brother.” He offered Mycroft his steady hand. “Let us wait for him in his room.”
The metal chair was uncomfortable and he hadn’t lasted more than a moment in it before he was up and pacing. The British Government was not used to waiting. He hated it. Sherlock and John watched from the safe corner of the private room, waiting on Mycroft to decide what he would do. Ask his mate if he would allow him to save his life, and open himself and the other man up to what sometimes seemed liked unimaginable pain, or lose his heart.
Sherlock knew better than to speak in times like this, when his older brother wore that mask of indifferent rage. He had attempted to pick a fight with him once when he wore that face — Sherlock still had the scars from that encounter.
John moved to stand, but Sherlock quickly put his hand on the soldier’s thigh and willed him to remain seated. With a simple look, John understood. A few moments later, the glass door slid open and a surgeon entered the room.
“Mr. Holmes?” Mycroft nodded and waited, holding a breathe he didn’t have to take. “Inspector Lestrade will be brought up shortly. The surgery was a difficult one and to be honest, I’m not sure he will pull through. We did all we can, but the bullets were laced with some sort of poison. We are analyzing it now, but it certainly didn’t help the situation. While it is up to him to fight, I would suggest you say your goodbyes as quickly as you can, just in case.”
Mycroft nodded at the man and then turned his back, leaving Dr. Watson to thank him for his time and skills. Sherlock took a chance and stepped up to his brother, placing a hand on his shoulder, his attempt at comfort filled the space around them. Mycroft turned to face him and nodded. It was difficult for his little brother to actively push his will so far out of his own space, but he was trying to make Mycroft feel better. It didn’t work, but it was nice to know that his brother made an effort. That meant he understood the situation. That would be important if Mycroft had to say his goodbyes to him as well.
“Mycroft.” John’s voice broke the silence in the room. “Greg’s here.”
Three nurses wheeled in a large bed, too big for Lestrade, even as he was attached to tubes, wires and machines. Mycroft watched every movement, yet said nothing. When the nurses left, John turned to Sherlock.
“Come on, Sherlock.” He took the detective’s hand. “Let’s wait outside until Mycroft needs us.”
Sherlock nodded and slowly removed his hand from his brother’s shoulder and allowed John to pull him out of the room, the glass door slid shut behind them.
Mycroft stepped up to the side of the bed and gently pulled Lestrade’s hand into his own and waited. It was a little more than two hours later when Mycroft finally felt a small squeeze on his hand. He instantly opened his eyes and sat in the chair beside the bed.
“Gregory?” Mycroft tried to control his fear.
Slowly brown eyes opened and a gentle smile formed on his lips.
“Hello, Gorgeous,” Lestrade’s voice was ragged and deep. “It’s good to see you.”
Mycroft kept himself from latching onto him in a hug. He wasn’t one for public displays of affection, but at this point he didn’t care what people thought. Gregory was the only thing that mattered.
“You — You were shot,” he told the Detective Inspector. “Poisoned bullets. Three of them. Your heart stopped —”
Mycroft stopped as his throat tried to close. His emotions were getting out of control.
Lestrade could tell and squeezed his hand tighter.
“How bad?” he asked, pulling at Mycroft’s hand to get him to look him in the eye.
When red-rimmed eyes met his brown ones, he knew the answer.
“They aren’t sure they were able to repair enough damage,” he said. “It’s bad, Gregory.”
The Detective Inspector looked away. His brave face was a false one. The pain pushing through his body was stronger than anything he had ever felt and in the back of his mind, he knew he wasn’t going to pull through this one.
“I can help you, Gregory,” Mycroft said, standing and pulling Lestrade’s hand to his lips. “I can speed the healing. It would most certainly increase your odds of surviving this attack.”
Lestrade looked at him, knowing exactly what he was suggesting. Mycroft wanted to give him his blood. It would help heal his wounds from the inside out, but it came with a price. It would connect them in a permeant way. His pain would be Mycroft’s. Every major cut, every broken bone and every other significant injury both physical and emotional. If he died with Mycroft’s blood in his system, Mycroft would die, too. No way, that wasn’t worth the chance. If it was as bad as he knows it is, he can’t take that chance. Mycroft had to survive.
“No, Mycroft,” Lestrade said. “I won’t take the chance of killing you. You are more important to me than I am. I won’t put you in danger that way.”
Knowing that was the answer he would receive, Mycroft let his forehead drop to their hands.
“Please, Gregory,” he said. “I would crawl through Hell if it meant I could keep you. There is no one else.”
Lestrade sighed and looked at the man who held his heart.
“You don’t understand, My Love,” he said. “I need you to live, no matter what.”
That triggered something in Mycroft and his released Lestrade’s hand and returned to his pacing.
“I don’t understand? You make me feel insane,” he said, his voice begged Lestrade not to interrupt. “Everything that I touch breaks, but not you. You are my solid ground. Please don’t think for one moment that if you are not in this world that I would care enough to stay in it. I have lived this life for centuries and the only thing that has ever stopped my thoughts has been you. The moment I saw you picking my useless, blood drunk brother up out of that alleyway ten years ago, I was lost. You have become my world and I do my best to blend that with the life I am so used to. These last eight years have been so blissfully calm and finally, finally after so many years, my life makes sense. I need you, Gregory. Please understand that I can’t — I can’t be without you, not over something as tedious as a few bullet wounds. Not when I can help shoulder you pain and heal you at the same time. Please.”
Lestrade seemed to be considering his argument, so he stilled and waited. It would have to be Greg’s decision. He could not force it, or it would not work. There is always a downside to blood magic.
“I’m sorry, Mycroft,” he said, tears silently rolled down his cheeks. “I can not take the chance of you dying, too. I just can’t. I love you too much to allow you to feel this kind of pain and risk your life. I’m so sorry.”
A knock at the door broke the focus of the conversation. Sherlock gently slid the door open just enough for his voice to carry to the men in the room.
“They want John to take a look,” he said, waiting for confirmation from his brother to enter.
Mycroft nodded and turned to Lestrade.
“I’ll be just outside,” he said without looking at the man in the bed.
As he slid the door open to allow his brother and the doctor to enter, Lestrade’s voice stopped him.
“Mycroft,” he pleaded. “Please, don’t go far.”
The British Government nodded without turning to look at him, and then stepped outside.
John entered and Sherlock stepped back out and slid the door shut, standing outside with his older brother.
“Hey, mate,” John said, taking Lestrade in. “How are you feeling?”
Lestrade thought about keeping his brave face on, but with Mycroft out of the room, he let it fall. All of the pain slammed into this features and John quickened his steps to his side.
“There’s a lot of pain, John,” he sobbed. “Too much. I’m so tired.”
John nodded, but let Lestrade continue.
“I can feel it, ya know? It’s an itch in the back of my mind, telling me to get it all out now because there won’t be a later.” He stared at the hand that was previously holding Mycroft’s. “I’m not gonna make it through this one. I can feel my body shutting down, John.”
There was no way for John to offer any words that would make Greg better, so he simply nodded.
“Mycroft can help. Didn’t he offer?” John knew the answer to his own question, but he wanted Greg to say it.
“He did,” Greg said. “I can’t do that, John. I can’t let him die with me. He has to live, even if I can’t be with him. He will find a way, he is strong.”
John scoffed. The sound made Greg’s chest fill with anger.
“I’m sorry, mate, but you have absolutely got it wrong,” John said, attempting to calm the rage in Greg’s eyes. “I’m no vampire and even I can sense the fear rolling off Mycroft. Look, I’m not going to say I understand your relationship, but I know what your issue is and I know how it feels to have to make that decision.”
Greg looks up at him, curiosity in his eyes.
“I made a mistake during a case. A big mistake that ended with me getting thrown off a two story building. My back was broken and most of my ribs and both my legs. I was bleeding internally and I only had hours at most. Sherlock offered, and while I knew it would be painful for both of us for a while, if I died, it would have been worlds worse for him. He would lose control, I knew it. There is no telling how many people he would have killed before Mycroft could stop him. Even then, it would have probably ended in his death as well. So, I accepted and yeah, it was excruciating for a few days, but then it eased and I understood.”
Lestrade wasn’t looking at him anymore.
“Myc isn’t Sherlock. He won’t hurt anyone,” he said, still not looking at the doctor.
John nodded. “No, he isn’t Sherlock, but I can tell you right now you won’t have to wait long on the other side for him.” Those words shot through Lestrade like another bullet and he almost tried to stand, to call for Mycroft, to seek the truth behind John’s words. He didn’t need to, he could feel that it was true.
The realization that he was going to lose Mycroft one way or the other, his world began to swim. Mycroft had to live. No matter what, Mycroft had to live. Then black spots filled his vision and he couldn’t hold his eyes open.
Another bolt of sharp, hot pain took Mycroft to one knee in the hallway outside of Greg’s room, but he pushed himself up and through the door before it had ebbed. The monitors were screaming and Gregory was convulsing on the bed in front of him. Nurses pushed around him and he vaguely heard John as he yelled for a crash cart. His entire focus was on the man in the bed. He was losing him and he was helpless to do anything about it.
This couldn’t be it. It couldn’t be over. He had lived for more than 600 years, but the last eight were the brightest. Gregory was that light and he needed to keep him, no matter what. They would either survive this together, or they wouldn’t.
Someone was pulling at his arm, but he remained unmoved, ever the block of steel.
“Give them room, Brother,” he heard Sherlock say. “They are trying to save him Mycroft, you have to move.”
He disconnected his feet from the ground and let his little brother drag him away. He allowed Sherlock to take him to the hallway, but no further. He could see Gregory, or at least glimpses around the rush of nurses and John as they attempted to revive him. Then John pulled the curtain and Mycroft almost screamed.
A moment later, John was in the doorway a small smile on his face.
“He’s back, Mycroft,” he said. “I’m not sure for how long. It’s now or never.”
Sherlock released him and he was by Greg’s side in less than a heartbeat. When Greg opened his eyes a few moments later, Mycroft pushed the others out of the room with his presence. Greg looked up at him, tired. He was close to the end, Mycroft could feel it.
“Please, Gregory, my love,” he pleaded. The British Government begged him. “Please let me help you.”
Greg reached for Mycroft’s hand and slowly brought it to his lips, kissing it.
“Myc,” Greg whispered. His pulse was slowing again, Mycroft could feel it under his fingers. “Marry me.” Greg attempted to remove the golden band from his own finger.
It wasn’t a question. It was an offer, an exchange. One that Mycroft had refused to entertain, again and again. Now, Gregory offered up his life for him to accept.
John was right, it was now or never. Mycroft slid the band off of Greg’s right hand and pushed it onto his own finger as Greg smiled.
“Yes, Gregory,” he smiled and kissed him gently. “This will be painful and the connection will be deep. I will know when you feel a strong emotion or are severely injured, just as you will feel mine. My emotions can feel overwhelming even to me sometimes. I need you to say you want the blood exchange. I need to hear the words.”
Greg smiled as his eyes threatened to close.
“I want everything you are willing to offer. I want to be yours in every way possible,” he said, and that was all Mycroft needed to hear. He used a fang to slice open his wrist and held it to Greg’s mouth.
“Just a few mouth fulls my love, that is all you have to take,” he said as Gregory struggled slightly under the pressure on his mouth. Once the required amounts of
Mycroft’s blood entered Greg’s system, his eyes shot open and looked at his fiancé. He removed his wrist and the wounds closed.
The pain began to slowly retract, and Greg watched as the sensations shuffled to Mycroft. He bore them with only a slight grimace. He kept his hand in Greg’s as the pain flowed into him.
Mycroft heard Greg gasp and he looked down, a question in his eyes.
“Oh, God, Myc.” Tears streamed down Greg’s face. “This is what you were feeling? My pain is nothing compared to this suffering. Were you that scared to lose me? My heart feels so cold.”
Mycroft looked away from him.
“I warned you that it would be overwhelming,” he said, sadly, realizing that if Greg changed his mind about being able to handle their connection, there was no going back. “I’m sorry.”
The grip on Mycroft’s hand tightened as he was pulled down to face level.
“I can feel how much you love me, Myc,” he said, their lips inches apart. “Your devotion is overwhelming and I hope you know that I feel exactly the same. I come unraveled when you whisper my name, you make me want to be everything I wish I was. I love you, Mycroft Holmes. As soon as I can get out of this bed, I will show you just how much.”
Mycroft blushed at Greg’s words as he surged forward to kiss him.
“I can feel you under my skin now and it is perfect,” Mycroft said as he kissed him again a little more roughly. “You are mine now and I don’t plan on giving you up to anyone — including God — anytime soon.”
One more kiss and Mycroft pulled away.
“I will send John in to check on you while I speak to my brother,” he said, and Greg nodded.
A pull at his mind made him turn.
“Don’t go far, my love,” Greg said, his eyes slipping closed in sleep. “Love you.”
Mycroft stepped out of the room and John understood and moved around him to check on the Inspector.
His brother met Mycroft where he stood right outside the door. Sherlock recognized the look in Mycroft’s eye and caught him before he collapsed into the floor.
Pushing away any attention, Sherlock moved his brother to an empty room and slid the door closed.
“How bad is it brother?” He asked as Mycroft came to. “Do you require blood? I can get as much as you need.”
Mycroft stilled him with a raising of his hand.
“I’ll be fine, Little Brother,” he said, mostly trying to reassure himself. “If it helps Gregory, I will endure it.”
Sherlock scoffed at his brother, remembering how incredibly painful it had been when he had interceded with John’s demise. The memories of the bone shattering pain made a shiver run down his spine.
“It will ease soon, Brother,” Sherlock said, then taking a second glance, he smiled. “He asked you to marry him.”
Mycroft glared at his brother. He always knew a little too much.
“Indeed, brother-mine,” he said, daring Sherlock to say anything else on the matter.
A few moments passed and Mycroft felt he could rejoin Greg without expressing too much pain in his features. Just as he stood, John entered the room.
“Well, Doctor?” Mycroft shuttered at the edge in his voice. The pain would be something he would have to learn to control at least until Gregory was completely healed.
“I’m not sure how we are going to explain the healed ribs, and complete stop of internal bleeding, but Greg is going to be fine,” he said, smiling at Mycroft. “He should be out of here in less than two days.”
Mycroft thanked Dr. Watson before composing himself and making his way back to Greg’s room. When he entered, Greg’s eyes were closed, but Mycroft knew he wasn’t asleep.
“Dr. Watson tells me the magic is working already,” he said. “You should only have to be subjected to this torture for a few more days.”
Greg smiled, but did not open his eyes.
“Be patient, Love, we have an eternity ahead of us,” he said, reaching for Mycroft’s hand.
He took it and settled in his seat by Greg’s bedside. The snow outside the window fluttered around as the wind picked up. It was beautiful.
“That we do, Mr. Holmes,” Mycroft kissed Greg’s knuckles, imagining a ring on his finger. “That we do.”