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The call scares Mycroft more than he’d like to admit. He is always wary when Greg is out in the field combatting the violent citizens of their city, and has dreaded receiving a phone call of concern since he decided Gregory would be his.
“How bad?” His tone is tight as his starched work shirts, the stress barely kept at bay.
“Query broken arm.” John replies. “He hit his head but there are no contusions. He’s just a bit confused.”
Mycroft glances at the too-slow ticking clock with limpid eyes. “I can’t get out of work yet.”
“No need. He’s just been triaged. They’re debating whether to operate on the arm. Query concussion too, but nothing serious.” John’s calm, concise explanation eases the clench in Mycroft’s gut. He takes a deep breath, exhaling the shakiness away.
“Where is Sherlock?”
“Last I saw he apprehended the bastard that tripped Greg. Strangely the guy hit the back of his head and broke his nose on his swift journey to the floor,” Mycroft can hear the smug smile in John’s voice. “He’s currently nursing a very dented pride. But I haven’t seen Sherlock since I brought Greg in.”
“I’ll try his mobile. And are you okay?”
“Fine, yeah. Well except for a nasty stitch I got. Certainly a kick up the arse to get back into shape for sure.” John laughs. He pauses, talking to someone Mycroft cannot hear.
“John?” He asks warily. He scorns his failing Ice Man persona.
John thanks someone then brings the receiver back to his ear. “They’re gunna pin his arm. Shouldn’t take long, but he won’t be discharged unless someone is there to escort him home.”
“How long?”
“Hours yet, still. He’ll be in recovery for a while, especially with that concussion.” John listens to silence for such a drawn-out moment he has to check the line is still connected. “He’ll be fine. Bit dinged up but Sherlock’s had plenty worse.”
“I wish he’d just,” take that promotion, Mycroft doesn’t say. He sighs. “Thank you, John. I’ll see you later.”
“No worries mate. Take care.”
“And you.” Mycroft hangs up and drops his head onto his desk with a groan.
“Well, that didn’t go as planned,” John says to a drugged Greg in recovery.
“Oops. Had a fall,” Greg mumbles, tongue thick in his mouth.
“You’re not that old yet,” John laughs, “just a little bump. At least you’ve got an excuse to stay off work.”
Lestrade glances up at him then grins. “You’re very handsome.”
John chuckles. “Thanks. Don’t let your husband hear that.”
“I have a husband?” Greg coughs. “Am I gay?”
John holds a hand to his mouth to stifle his amused squawk. “You don’t remember him? Tall, auburn hair, has an annoying younger brother?”
“Sherlock?” Greg frowns. “Did I marry Sherlock?”
“No, silly. You married the other one.”
“Ohh,” Greg’s dull eyes light up. “Microsoft, right.”
“His husband’s name is Microsoft?” Asks a nurse as she comes to check on Greg.
John snorts. “Mycroft, but he’s close enough.”
“That is an odd name. It’s a first on me.” She hums.
Livid that the attention is no longer on him, Greg swings his legs over the bed and begins trying to stand. “Can I go home now?”
“Can’t leave without your shoes mate.” John pushes him gently back onto the bed before he flashes his arse in the shoddy hospital gown.
“What happened to them?” Greg gasps suddenly, looking at his bare feet with alarm. His voice drops to a whisper. “Did I eat them?”
John points to a carrier bag full of his ruined clothes, coat hung over the back of a chair and his shoes resting atop the bag. “They’re right here, you melt. You’ve got to stay here a bit longer and then we’ll get you home, ay?”
“Mm, take the secret squirrel’s car.” Greg accepts.
“The wh- yeah. Sure.” John shakes his head with an amused snort.
“I do love when patients come out cheery from anaesthesia. Have you ever seen this before?” The nurse chuckles.
John snorts with a nod. “I was a surgeon in Afghanistan. I did have a few funny ones. One guy asked if I was God. Another was absolutely convinced he was a cat in a previous life and kept meowing at us.”
The nurse laughs. “Now that is a good one! I recommend taking a few photos and videos, just to treasure this moment.”
“No paps!” Greg yells, having to be shushed.
“One step ahead,” John shakes his phone at her, “my fella’s been in a few times over the years with all manner of bumps and bruises and Greg here loves capturing the moment. Only fair I get him back.”
“That’s the spirit. Now Mr Lestrade, have some water and lie back down for me please.”
John and Sherlock had previously arranged to visit the manor tonight; although it has not gone as planned they will still attend to support their surrogate fathers, especially with Greg so groggy and confused. When he is eventually freed from the hospital in soft clothes Sherlock delivered, he is bundled into the backseat of a car sent by his own husband, who will meet them at home.
Albeit much clearer than his stint in the recovery room, Greg is still behaving rather loopy, and keeps poking his casted arm with interest, despite the jolts of pain it sends through the barrier of pain medication. John ends up covering the sling with his hand and distracting Greg with random Youtube videos that make him giggle childishly. John and Sherlock share identical looks over his head, and as soon as they are home, having arrived before Mycroft, they encourage Greg to regress.
“I want to watch a movie!” Greggy sings.
He is guided to the large beanbag bought after their family holiday to France, his body sinking pleasantly into it. A knock to his arm causes him to whinge, but he is soothed by the television turning on, directing Sherlock through their selection.
“No.” Greggy whines.
Sherlock skips to the next film. Greggy glares. “No.”
Several more films pass, none of them enticing, and Greggy begins to grow irritated. “No!”
“Nothing?” Sherlock sighs.
“Short Circuit!” He finally chirps.
“What’s that?” Sherlock asks.
“A film about a robot. Good pick Greggy.” John explains. The praise has the young lad beaming.
Sherlock relinquishes the remote to his partner then gets to his feet. “Oh, you find it then. I’m going to make him something to eat.”
“No food!” Greggy shrieks, his shrill voice echoing across the living room. Sherlock winces, raising placating hands as he approaches the kitchen.
“Alright, no food, but you need something to line your stomach.”
Before Greggy can complain, or worse, throw a tantrum, John wiggles the remote in front of his eyes, moving it away when Greggy goes cross-eyed. Both Short Circuit films are available, and with delight they sit back to watch.
“Here, babe.” Sherlock holds out the cup of milk secured in a safety lid for toddlers. Greggy glances at it but does not move otherwise. “You don’t want it?”
“Mm,” Greggy whines, pouting.
Sherlock stares at him for a few seconds before his face lights up in recognition. “Oh, you want me to hold it?”
“Mmhm,” Greggy nods, eyes on the telly but head turned to fish blindly for the spout. Sherlock holds it in place, tipping the cup slowly so the kid doesn’t gulp the whole thing down. His arm aches but he pushes through, swapping hands gently so not to jostle the cup. Greggy seems pleased, wriggling his hips further into the beanbag and playing with the ears of a soft rabbit toy John gives him before he leaves the room.
In the kitchen, John informs Donovan of Greg’s injury, warning her that with the severity of the break he’ll be drugged up for at least a week and in no fit state to work. She sighs, having expected as such, and wishes him a speedy recovery (and selfishly for her own sanity) then hangs up. There is work to do and interviews to conduct, but at minimum their perp will be charged with assault on a police officer.
He organises Greg’s medication into a pill box marked morning and night and sets alarms on the smart home device to ensure he receives his doses on time by whoever is closest. He’d hate for Greg to go too long without pain management and struggle.
When he is done he swaps out with Sherlock again, who has been contacted by Donovan to (very reluctantly, mind) ask for his assistance. He couldn’t possibly turn down an offer like that, and with a kiss goodbye he is out the door and on his way to the Yard. John drags the human dog bed over to cushion his bottom where he sits next to Greggy so that he can have the whole bean bag to himself, preventing an accidental jostle. He is fighting back sleep, eyes opening and shutting in long, uncontrolled blinks, not at all helped by the soothing hand John cards through his matted hair.
“John.” The man in question startles, having been absorbed in the movie as Johnny Five discovers television.
“Hm?” He turns, looking up at a harried Mycroft.
“I left work early before I could finish some of my tasks. Could you-?”
John smiles, interrupting in agreement. “Course I can. You go work. I think he’s going to go down for a nap anyway.”
They chuckle at the sight of Greggy’s head lolling, the bunny limp in his lap. His eyes have lost their gallant battle and remain closed, lips ajar to produce raspy breaths. It is a blessing they will both count, Watson shooing Mycroft off to his study to finish work for the day whilst he tidies up and arranges pyjamas and such for a bath when Greggy wakes. He leaves the baby monitor at the child’s side and clips the other to his belt loop as he goes around cleaning up his little bedroom of strewn toys left from the last time he visited.
In perfect timing, as the last wooden train is dropped into the appropriate storage bin, the monitor chimes with crackly cries. John heads back downstairs to find the boy in a pitiful state; whinging, hair mussed after a fitful rest, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot.
“Oh dear baby.”
“Owww,” Greggy whines like a kicked dog, reaching out for him. “Dirty.”
“You are dirty, aren’t you? Slipped in a bunch of ick, huh? Shall we go get a quick shower?”
“Nuh uh.” Greggy clings to John, who adjusts him so that he is wrapped around John’s middle, legs wound around his hips. “Bath.”
“Bath it is.”
Greggy laughs as he is carried up the stairs, a novelty he has not yet experienced. Or maybe he has, he’s a bit too drugged to remember. He sits on the tiles with a mermaid bath toy waiting for the tub to fill, and is allowed to squirt in some scented bubble bath.
“Come here baby.” John coos, approaching with a large plastic wrap.
“What’s tha’?”
“A bag to protect your cast. It might feel a bit weird but we can’t get your arm wet.” John opens it up, feeding Greggy’s injured arms through, then cinches it closed with drawstrings. He can’t submerge his arm but it’ll protect the cast from spillages or splashes, and John is very glad he insisted it be stocked in his home triage kit he keeps downstairs, otherwise he would have had to go at the arm with a carrier bag and some duct tape. He winces in sympathy at the sight of Greggy’s copious arm hair.
“Weird,” Greggy giggles. He pokes at the plastic experimentally which crinkles under his touch, then turns back to the mermaid toy.
John crouches at his side, unwilling to trust Lestrade’s balance right now. He holds folded toilet paper under his chin so he can brush his teeth, doing his own oral examination to check for injuries. Thankfully he is clear, and the bath is done. He aids the boy climbing in and together they lower his body into the delicious water. It smells so good Greggy wants to eat the bubbles, but instead John slips a dummy into his mouth. He has a few test sucks before he accepts it, then sits back to rest as John does all the work for him.
The grime washes off easily, his hair soaked flat to his head. Aside from a nasty goose egg and some bruises there is nary a scratch to his head, for which he is very fortunate. Things could’ve gotten a lot nastier today. John is glad to be the responsible one right now, working through the motions as he tackles the more stubborn bits of mud and, oddly, moss with a flannel. Warmth works out the knots in Greggy’s muscles, calming him after an awful sleep that he would rank as one of the worst. He feels tired just sitting up, and slightly nauseous from the medication, his eyes struggling to stay open again. John keeps an eye on him as he washes his feet.
Greggy’s head drops to his chest, flopping about before he snorts and sits back up again. He won’t last long, John knows, so he abandons the bath, hoping the soapy water will have helped some in the areas he hasn’t yet scrubbed. As John turns to lie a towel down on the tiles where he can dry Greggy safely, he hears a sluggish giggle.
“Oops.”
“Oh for god’s-!” John jumps into action and begins to drain the water, where it has already started swilling yellow as the lad empties his bladder. He tugs Greggy to his feet, dropping a poncho towel over his shoulders before lifting him out of the sullied water.
“Sowwy.”
“Did you have an accident, eh bud?”
Greggy giggles, “mm, yeah.”
John begins patting him down methodically, mindful of his arm and the various cuts and scrapes over his skin. “That’s alright. We’ll get you all nice and dry and comfy hm?”
“Yeah,” Greggy sighs. He has almost dropped back off into sleep when John removes the poncho towel and exposes his body to the cool air, which causes him to whinge and curl up.
“Easy now bubba,” John soothes. Though he has no idea where the lad’s age lies he has a rough estimate of five or below, and with all those drugs coursing through his system he decides for his own sanity and the sake of the bedsheets it is best to put Greggy in a thick pull-up. It’ll hold one full bladder tops, but when John asks if he needs to pee anymore he says no.
Huffing and heaving John gets Greggy dried, dressed and balanced on his hip. He carries him to Jawn and Lock’s bedroom, but only his cot is made, so he lowers the bars and flips up the duvet with one hand then gently tips the child back until he lands on the mattress. “Okay?”
“Owie,” Greg whines, holding his plastic-wrapped arm.
“I know matey. I’ll come back in a couple of hours to give you some more medicine.”
“Noo, medicine nowww,” Greggy’s eyes fill up, his lip wobbling.
John tuts, stroking a thumb over his cheek. He feels slightly hot, but then the pain has likely increased his blood pressure. He sends a text to the group chat for the cavalry to arrive and bid the snivelling kid a good night. Mycroft enters first, tutting and hip-bouncing John out of the way to tend to his love.
“My sweet thing. Is it hurting?”
“Mmhm.” Greggy performs his best puppy eyes for extra cuteness brownie points. It works a charm, Mycroft cooing over him as he pets his damp hair back.
“You were very brave today. I’m so proud of you.”
“Ouch Mycie.”
“I imagine so. How’s about I kiss it better, hm?”
“Yeah,” Greggy pouts. He holds his arm up and giggles drunkenly as Mycroft pulls a face of disgust at the sight of the bag, but he quickly and painlessly removes it, holding it out blindly behind him for John to take.
Mycroft holds the arm like it is delicate china and begins to kiss each finger. Then he kisses above the cast by Greggy’s elbow, on his neck where it is most ticklish, and then peppers several over his face until he is blushing fiercely. He plants one final, noisy kiss on Greggy’s chapped lips.
“Better?”
“Liddol bit,” he says, but he’s smiling, the tears gone save for a sheen over his irises.
“There we are. Oh look, here’s Sherlock.”
“Hey bud,” Sherlock greets in a hushed voice, having finished his duties at Scotland Yard. Greggy waves his cast then winces and drops it to his side. Surrounded by his family, he indulges in their fussing, allowing them to tuck him in with a soft toy under his arm, and to prevent him rolling over and knocking the plaster cast into the bars, John lines the edge with toys and a folded blanket.
“Sleep well little man.” John says. “I’ll be back in two hours.”
“Two hours,” Greggy parrots tiredly.
“I’m next door if you need me. The monitor’s on.” Mycroft kisses him once more, smooths down his hair where it has been tousled from the coddling, then leaves to get ready for bed himself. The worry of the day has taken its toll on him.
Sherlock leans down, bopping him on the nose. “Good job out there today. You caught the bad guy, didn’t you?”
“Ouch.” Greggy replies.
Sherlock huffs in amusement. “Yes, ouch. You’ll be right as rain soon enough.”
“Rain yeah.” Greggy mumbles.
“That’s it, close your eyes.”
He does, and at last he is able to sleep.