Work Text:
"You've got to be joking," Greg said, trying to laugh off the panic he was feeling after they were both safely in the police car. "You were sitting in a cabinet meeting when he lost his temper and stabbed you. With a fountain pen."
Mycroft winced as he turned to face the Detective Inspector. "Yes. A fountain pen can be fairly sharp, especially when propelled with force and speed into something rather soft and fleshy."
"So Anthea called me to get you medical attention. Because THAT made the most sense in this situation," Greg rolled his eyes.
"As it happened, yes. My people took care of the assailant, and rather than cause a scene with an ambulance pulling up to Downing Street, she thought it better to quietly have you take me in."
"Right, then," Lestrade laughed. He reached over and took Mycroft's hand - the one not currently holding the gauze pad to his wounded thigh - and gave it a gentle squeeze. "For the record, you're not 'soft and fleshy.' He just got in a good shot." He lowered his voice. "So, she knows?"
It was Mycroft's turn to roll his eyes. "Of course she does. She probably knew the first time we met for dinner. She's uncanny that way."
"Worse than your brother?" Greg asked dryly.
"Infinitely so," Mycroft responded. "And she has just enough power to force my hand, when required."
"Is that why she made the dinner reservation?" Greg's eyes sparkled with glee.
"Shut up and drive, my dear."