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Mycroft leant against the rail in the stairwell of 221. He was covered in mud, wet and shivering from the incredible cold that had seeped into his bones. He knew his brother wasn't in. That was easily deduced, but he didn't have the energy to climb the stairs so sunk down to the bottom step.
He heard laughter before he saw Sherlock. The terrible duo piled into the hall just the odd splash of water on them. He expected Sherlock to laugh at him on sight. Instead, he got an almost immediately worried and tentative, “Myc?” And the detective sunk down onto the step next to him. He shed his Belstaff and wrapped it around his shoulders and then his arm, holding him tight.
“I'll stick the kettle on,” John said, he climbed over them, ignoring his boyfriend's sudden caring-for-his-brother side.
“And ring Greg,” he called after him, getting his name right for once.
“What happened, Mycie? Are you hurt?”
Mycroft let his head drop to rest on his brother's shoulder. His breathing was laboured and each breath shot pain through his ribcage. “Broken ribs, I should think.” He gave a shudder. “And quite a bit of bruising here and there.”
“Can you get up the stairs?”
Mycroft shook his head. He doubted he could take another step.
Sherlock frowned and warned him, “I'll carry you, but it's going to hurt.” Before his brother could protest, he had taken him in his arms and started towards 221B. The British Government actually let out a broken whimper.
“John!” He yelled. “Get the door!”
As soon as it was open, Sherlock carried his brother through. He didn't stop in the living room, but went on through to the bedroom where he placed him gently on the bed.
We've got to get you out of these clothes,” Sherlock stated in a matter of fact tone. He bent down and started working at the laces of Mycroft's shoes. As he worked, he heard the sound of the shower being turned on. John was clearly getting it ready, allowing the water to warm.
John poked his head in. “Do you mind if I have a look Mycroft?” He asked.
The older man was laid back as he watched his brother undress him, not commenting.
“It doesn't matter if he does or not, you are. And he can't stand. He'll need the bath.”
John frowned. “Shouldn't he be in A&E?” He was already digging his phone out of his pocket in preparation to dial 999.
“No!” Mycroft objected loudly, then he continued more softly, “John. Please, no.” He grimaced. “It wouldn't be wise.”
“The kidnappers more than likely think he's dead and probably have no idea he's my brother,” Sherlock explained. “Did you phone Greg?”
“Yeah, he's on his way.”
“Get your kit, you should take a look before we try for a bath. I'm sorry, Myc, but your modesty right now isn't something I'm concerned about.”
Mycroft laughed, then winced, letting out a groan. “That's the least of my worries,” he said as he let his eyes fall shut.
John began unbuttoning Mycroft's waistcoat and shirt. The bruising was immediately apparent and made the doctor's brow furrow in deeper concern. “Jesus, Mycroft,” he breathed. “Sherlock, a hand?”
The detective helped John lift and manoeuvre his brother until Mycroft was bare, stripped of his wet clothing. He was still cold, but it was better.
John pulled the sheet up and up to his waist, to allow him some dignity, he was the British Government. “Mycroft, I really think you should be in A&E.”
“It's not worth it,” he puffed. “If they found out about 'Lock…” he trailed off.
The doctor's head spun around and he looked at his boyfriend with a question in his eyes.
“They'd come after me,” Sherlock explained. He sat down gingerly on the bed next to his brother and locked eyes with him. “I can take care of myself, Mycie. If John thinks you should...”
Mycroft found the wherewithal to glare at his brother. “Absolutely not. No hospital. John can take care of me. He's looked after you enough.”
“Hush, both of you,” John ordered.
The doctor placed a hand on Mycroft's abdomen and palpitated, trying to determine if there was internal bleeding - it was horribly imprecise.
There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock and John tensed, prepared, the doctor even pulled his SIG from his waistband. Greg charged in. “Myc?” He moved immediately to the bed, wincing on sight of the bruises. “What's happened? Who did this?”
“How did you get here so fast?”
“Commandeered a vehicle.”
Despite the pain, Mycroft smiled. “Been spending too much time with my brother.”
Greg gestured for Sherlock to move so he could take his place. The younger Holmes didn't get up, though. He couldn't bear to, so he shifted up the bed, making room for the DI.
“Tell you what, Greg you want to help? Go turn the shower off and put the bath on. The stupid sod's refusing to go to A&E.”
“Why Mycroft?” Greg didn't sound impressed.
“'Lock-”
He suddenly started coughing and John helped him to sit up with Sherlock's help as he was closest.
“Greg, mate, he's going to need that bath or he's going to get worse.”
“Alright.”
Greg ran the water so it was warm, but not hot. The whole time he was fuming at the stubborn pig-headedness of Holmses, his Holmes in particular. He'd seen John put in the position of helpless bystander to Sherlock's refusal to go to A&E on numerous occasions, but that hadn't prepared him for being in that position with Mycroft.
He wandered back into the bedroom and folded his arms across his chest. “I should be making you go to the hospital.”
“You won't win, Greg,” John said. He was holding his stethoscope over Mycroft's chest. “I would say you've cracked 4 ribs.”
“Mycroft!” Greg complained, “You're being ridiculous.”
The government official stood with John and Sherlock's help, they were carrying him, really, one arm over each of their shoulders. “You know I have my reasons, Gregory.” He changed the subject. “What time is it?”
“Do not tell him, John,” Sherlock warned, “he'll be rushing off to do something else.”
“I am the British Government, little brother. I have to 'rush off' and do things.”
“Well, you are not now. You were seriously enough hurt to come to me for help, you're not going anywhere, we'll sleep upstairs you can have our room.”
Mycroft's reply was cut off by another coughing fit.
It took a bit of manoeuvring to get Mycroft into the tub, but they did it. He hissed as his chilled flesh hit the warm water. He knew it wasn't hot, but it felt scalding.
“We'll um, leave you to it,” John said, grabbing Sherlock by the elbow. He could see his boyfriend get a bit teary-eyed at the sight of his brother in so much pain.
“No!” Sherlock yelled.
Three sets of surprised eyes turned to him. “Greg might need help if Mycroft slips or Mycie might think of something or...”
“It's okay, 'Lock,” Mycroft told him. “You can stay.”
Sherlock's smile lit up his face.
“I guess that leaves me to make the tea,” John grumbled.
“Ah, the unrequited doctor.”
Said doctor paused at the doorway. “Oh, and Holmes Junior, you might want to go and pick one of the shirts from the wardrobe, or something. I think Mrs. Hudson would freak out if she came up here and Mycroft was sat on the sofa. Well, you know…”
“Oi! I'm not Holmes Junior!” was all he had to say on the matter.
Sherlock hesitated, for all the detective cared, his brother could have sat in their living room completely starkers or wearing pink tights and a tutu so long as he was okay, but John was right - Mrs. Hudson would object. He went and quickly selected clothes that Mycroft could wear, but he elected for pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt. His brother would object, but when he inevitably surrendered, he would be comfortable.
Sherlock had been right, the British Government did object. “You can't live in those suits all the time, Mycroft.”
“I have for the last 20 years. Do you remember the first one I bought?”
“You picked me up from school and everyone thought you were Father.”
“Sherlock,” Greg said with a mildly chiding tone, “I happen to like those suits.” He leant over and turned the taps a bit warmer. “Okay, Mycroft?”
John popped back in with two tablets and a glass of water. The loo was quite crowded, so he stopped just inside the door and passed everything off to Sherlock who passed it in turn to Greg who likewise handed it to Mycroft. The government official raised an eyebrow in question.
“It's just codeine. You're not allergic, right?”
“No. I'm not allergic. John?” He called when the doctor turned. “I've had you 'kidnapped' as my brother might say, so many times and you've been more and more frustrated each time. Why are you helping me?”
John met his eyes, then shifted them to Sherlock. “I think we both know why, don't we? Because you keep me safe. But more importantly, you keep him safe.” He nodded at Sherlock. “Somehow, you always find a way.”
“That was not the answer I had anticipated,” Sherlock admitted.
“You know it's true though, love.” John reached out and ran his hand down Sherlock's arm and the detective covered it with his hand. The detective bit his lip, then nodded. “He's always tried to keep me safe. I haven't always made it easy, though.”
“Now let him have a moment with Greg, yeah?” He tugged on his arm a little.
This time Sherlock nodded, even he thought it would be weird to wash his brother when his boyfriend was quite capable.
“And Gregory, I don't want him in there too long, doctor’s orders.”
The DI mock saluted. “Yes, sir!”
Sherlock let himself be pulled from the loo by his boyfriend. As soon as the door closed behind them, he latched onto the doctor and held on for dear life.
John was surprised to find his boyfriend was shaking. “Sherlock?”
“Who would do that to him, John? For once it can't be my fault if they don't know I exist or at least if they do, they don't know my connection to him…”
He let go of the older man and suddenly made for the door.
John snagged his collar. “That isn't the wisest decision right now, babe.”
“Why?”
“He won't go to hospital because he's trying to protect you. Think what that means.”
“I can look after myself. My job isn't exactly safe.”
“If Mycroft thinks the threat is dangerous enough to keep you from it, then I will keep you from it.”
“He's protected me long enough, it's high time I protect him!” Sherlock yelled.
“I heard that, little brother.” Mycroft's voice was low and weak and Sherlock dropped his head.
Greg stuck his own head out the bathroom door. “You better get in here, Sherlock. He wants to talk to you after that.”
The younger Holmes stepped to the doorway of the loo and stopped there, hesitant. Mycroft raised a hand and beckoned him in. “If you want to protect me, stay here and do it.”
“I can't protect you here, Mycie!” The detective stamped his foot.
“No, but John can with that secret SIG of his and if you go haring off looking for trouble, he will follow which will mean I'll be without protection.”
Sherlock hated it when Mycroft was clever. But his slight resentment at the time withered away into nothing when Mycroft started yet another coughing fit, this time he coughed up blood.
“John!” Greg and Sherlock called together. The panic in their voices spurring him on.
“Jesus fucking Christ! That's it, dial 999,” John ordered. “He's not dying here of a God damned punctured lung.”
“It's not a punctured lung, John you know this.”
“It's better safe than sorry.”
“He's right, John, we are both much safer here. I've had a punctured lung before, you've already-” he coughed again, but there was no blood this time- “checked my blood pressure and that's high, if anything. I'm not confused or anxious, well, no more than normal with Sherlock as my baby brother. I'm tired, but because of a stressful week at work and you three's escapades at the Yard and going through the blender in the last few hours and as for my skin colour, I would say it was more green with bruises than blue with circulation issues.”
John stared at him for a moment. He knew all that was right, he was a doctor after all. He couldn't literally force the man into an ambulance, he was the British Government.
The doctor had been looking for an excuse to get Mycroft to A&E, but he should have known it wouldn't work. “Just... That's...” John threw his hands in the air. “Fine. You win. I surrender. Don't go to hospital. But you two,” he jabbed a finger first at Greg, then at Sherlock, “can deal with him. If it's not medical... Just... Yeah... And don't bite your tongue next time you cough. You scared these two idiots.”
“He scared you too.”
“Fine, he did.” John relented glancing at Sherlock. “Now get him out of the bath and in front of the fire before he gets pneumonia.”
Sherlock helped Greg get Mycroft out of the tub, dressed and settled into the detective's chair in John's very own warm dressing gown. After seeing that his brother was comfortably settled, he went to the doctor and wrapped his arms around him. “Thank you for taking care of him for me. He can be an insufferable, interfering arse, but he's my brother.”
The doctor held him tight.
“Sherlock, you can be an insufferable arse, but you're my boyfriend.”
Mycroft closed his eyes and tried to relax. The codeine had taken the edge off his pain at least and he didn't feel like he would shiver himself to death. He must have drifted off for a moment, because the next thing he knew, John was pressing hot tea into his hands.
“Can you try not to sleep, Mycroft? I'm not 100% sure you haven't got concussion. I know the codeine can make you drowsy but it's the best pain reliever I had here.”
Mycroft cracked his eyes open with a sigh. “If I have to sit here and do absolutely nothing, I'll go quite mad. Hand me your laptop, 'Lock.”
Sherlock was willing to do a lot for his brother at the moment, but that was pushing too far. “No.”
“But I'm bored!”
Greg glanced at John. “He's a Holmes all right.”
“I'm not giving you my laptop so you can sit and work. Work did this to you, I'll be damned sure that's the last place you're going to be, even figuratively. I'm sure John has some old board games upstairs.”
“Did you just… you mean, you want to?”
“It will keep him preoccupied.”
“And you,” John added, turning to head up to his old room. But he wasn't about to bring down Cluedo - anything but that. He rummaged through the boxes, bringing out an old Trivial Pursuit game. Oddly enough, he often won while playing against Sherlock - the entertainment, sports, and arts & literature categories evened things out a bit. He wondered how it would go between the brothers.
John began setting it up around the table and Sherlock joined him. He pecked him on the cheek before reaching up and grasping the cane off the top of the fridge, “Do you mind if he…?”
The doctor smiled. “Of course he can.”
Sherlock took it over to his brother and the older Holmes pushed himself up with it. He even managed to walk into the kitchen on his own.
John had found an old umbrella he was sure Mycroft had left here at some point. He indicated the seat with it. “Have a seat, Mycroft,” the government official laughed, it wasn't heavy, but light, in a way John had never seen before. “Yes, I remember that as plain as day.” He glanced at Sherlock. “I should have taken that cheque.”
Greg looked around the room at all three men. “Cheque. What cheque?”
“It was my very first kidnapping and your boyfriend tried to bribe me to spy on Sherlock.”
The DI settled carefully on the arm of Sherlock's chair next to Mycroft. “I'd say I'm surprised, but I'm really not.”
“I liked the way I just walked into this flat the day after we met and he immediately knew his 'enemy' was. According to Mycroft they were 'arch enemies'.”
Greg barked a laugh at that, then dropped a kiss on Mycroft's head. “I have two questions. 1) Why didn't you ever kidnap me? 2) Arch enemy, really?”
“Second question first, we were, at least I think we were and it's not are.” He glanced at Sherlock who inclined his head slightly much like the older Holmes did.
“As for the first question...” Mycroft looked slightly uncomfortable. “It didn't seem prudent considering my instant attraction to you. It tends to preclude the possibility of future dates.”
“But I was married when we met!”
“And yet I still have you. I get what I want. That's maybe why he's just as insufferable as me. Because he's always had what he wants. I wanted you, I just didn't want to admit it. 'Kidnapping' you would have made me.”
Sherlock grunted. “She wasn't good enough for you, Greg. You deserved better.” He looked at the board John had set up. “Are we ever going to start this game?”
Just then, footfalls sounded on the stairs. Greg and John went stiff, but Sherlock and Mycroft were completely relaxed - well Mycroft was relaxed as he could be.
“Anthea,” the detective elaborated on their calmness to the perplexed men.
The DI glanced between them in even more confusion.
“If you knew that that was Anthea how did you not know it was me running up the stairs earlier?”
Sherlock looked embarrassed. “It's entirely conceivable that I might have possibly been distracted. I don't know what Mycie's excuse was.”
The government official cocked an eyebrow. “Perhaps it had something to do with the near hypothermia and cracked ribs. That's my working hypothesis anyway.” He transferred his gaze to Anthea, who was standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, phone tucked under her arm. “Hello, my dear.”
“It wouldn't have killed you to let me know you weren't dead.”
“Ah, but it might have done. I am assuming because of your presence here, you located them and recognised my absence.”
With a nod, she answered. “Well, I regret to inform you, sir, that the four men that I found may no longer be alive.”
“You regret to inform me?”
“Well, I would have thought you'd have wanted to do it yourself, at least partially.”
“Hang on, if you had known he was missing, why didn't you come and get me?”
Anthea looked at Sherlock, singularly unintimidated. “Mr. Holmes would never have approved if I had involved you as he wasn't the only one aware of the threat they presented to the pair of you and I like London.” She sniffed. “I don't want to be relocated to Antarctica or something. Besides, it was only four men - nothing I couldn't handle on my own.” John and Greg were gaping at her. “What?”
“Only four men,” the DI echoed, disbelieving.
“You mean to say you've never taken 4 men out alone?”
“Well, I have,” he DI muttered. “But I am a copper, it's my job.”
“Mine is to protect him,” she nodded at the British Government. “And that is more difficult than you think.”
John jerked his head towards his boyfriend. “If it's anything like looking out for this git, then you have my condolences.”
The PA laughed. Of the four men, only Mycroft had ever heard her laugh before. It changed everything about her appearance.
In a teasing tone, Greg asked, “Where were you after my divorce?”
Mycroft smacked his arm and then winced. “Watch it,” Greg whispered he looked up at Anthea as she answered.
“Looking after him, of course.”
Then her face lit up as she noticed what was on the table. “Trivial Pursuit! I love that game. Can I play?”
The Holmes brothers spoke over each other, “She's on my team!”
The PA sauntered across the room and pulled out the last chair, she slotted herself neatly into it. “I'm worth the both of you.”
“Stuff the teams,” Greg said. “Let's go all vs all.”
“Aren't we at a disadvantage against these two sods?” John questioned the DI.
Greg turned to the detective. “Sherlock! Quick, who's Madonna?”
Sherlock's mouth worked silently and John laughed.
“Well, my brother doesn't know either,” the detective said defensively.
“Ah, see there you're wrong, baby brother. Gregory's got the album in his car.” He winced again and began coughing, the DI reached out to steady him automatically and Sherlock stood.
“That's it, you're going to hospital now, Mycroft, no more arguments. You may not be blue, but you're pale as fuck. And since these people are now dead you have no excuses. Greg is your commandeered car out on the road?” At his nod, John continued. “Sherlock go and start it.”
“Anthea,” Mycroft whinged, “Tell them I don't need to go.”
She shook her head. “Sorry, Mr. Holmes. I can’t, but I did bring you this.” She handed him a new phone. “And if you're a good boy, I'll even tell you what the prime minister had to say about your, ahem, proposal.”
Greg looked at his boyfriend, “What happened to being with me? Is getting married to the prime minister only good enough for you?”
Mycroft frowned and it took him a moment to realise the DI was joking. Knowing that didn't stop the little pang that he felt - it was sentiment tugging at his heartstrings. “Being married to you would be the only thing that could ever be enough, Gregory.”
Greg choked on the last dregs of his drink.
“What?” He spluttered. “Did you just propose?”
Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “I had planned on something a little more special than this, but, yes, what do you say?”
“Wait!” John held a finger up. “You so don't have to go to hospital if you wait.” It was the only thing that would have changed John's mind and he hadn't even known it. He charged from the flat and returned with Mycroft's little brother. “He can't miss this.”
Sherlock looked mildly irritated. “I can't miss what?”
Anthea couldn't suppress her grin. “Oh, nothing much. Mr. Holmes just proposed.
Face blank, the detective asked, “Proposed what?”
John wrapped his arm around the taller man's waist. “Oh, Sherlock you are such an idiot. Carry on, Mycroft.”
The other two were just staring at each other. It wasn't awkward or tense, but much more intimate.
“Let me ask this properly, Gregory. Well, omitting the bended knee. Will you, Gregory Lestrade consent to marry me?”
Sherlock let out a little 'Oh' of understanding and John smiled.
“Mycroft Holmes, what can I say but yes?”