Chapter Text
His throat fucking hurts .
It’s not the only thing that hurts, no, Greg hurts everywhere from head to toe, a striking ache spreading all over his body, sizzling deep into his bones and consuming him all around, and everything that’s happened only a few hours ago feels like a bad dream.
He feels shaken up still, limbs trembling like he just had an out of body experience, and Greg can’t stop the shiver running down his spine as he remembers the tightness of the rough hand wrapped around his throat like a barbed wire. He can’t stop remembering the feeling of his lungs threatening to give up here and there, can’t stop thinking about the way the strong rush of his blood pumping against his ears nonstop, and he definitely can’t forget the horrifying feeling of his throat closing up as he was begging to gasp in a breath of air but failing, his eyes deciding to roll back and his body swinging over the edge of to passing out if it wasn’t for John and Sherlock getting the guy off of him.
Greg’s heart is still beating too fast for its own good as he slides the keys and lets himself into the loft— Dimmock told him to go home and rest after John cleared him; he’s finally alone where he can bury himself under the covers and shut down, but the adrenaline coursing through his system is finally crashing down, and every tiny ache Greg has been desperately trying to ignore up until now is kicking back with a full force, making it impossible for Greg to focus on anything other than the painachepressureburn crawling up and down his neck, surrounding his head and lungs.
He tosses his belongings onto the floor as he walks past them, phone in his back pocket, and immediately aims upstairs to the bedroom, taking tired, slow steps as he drags his feet one by one, shoulders hunched like he’s carrying tons of bricks on them.
It makes him look small.
His throat scratches from the inside where he can’t reach, as if there are tiny invisible ants biting him; Greg wants to pierce his hand through and scratch but the pain is so rough that even having a glass of water seems like a torture. He almost got choked again when John encouraged him to drink a glass of warm water in the hospital, and he’s not willing to do that again no matter how thirsty he is.
Once he’s upstairs, Greg slowly unbuttons his shirt, laying it on the edge of the bed, followed by his trousers, and puts on a loose, old t-shirt, as well as his black sweatpants that hang a little lower below his waist.
Now that the prickling sensation of the fabric rubbing his skin is gone, Greg feels a little more at ease, the heavy tension on his muscles disappear halfway, but everything comes back to smack him on the head when he takes a step into the bathroom, and stands in front of the mirror, his heart dropping in his chest as he stares at his own reflection.
He looks horrible.
Under the bright light, Greg’s eyes are bloodshot in contrast to his pale skin, a worn down expression sitting on his face. The lines on his forehead are deeper and his lips are twisted down, he looks like a train ran him over, but the real blow hits Greg when his eyes trail down his face and fall on his throat, where it hurts the most.
There’s an ugly bruise on his neck, a dark purple print of a hand wrapped around his pale skin, it’s big and there, there’s no way to hide it— he can’t stop looking at it, and as he stares at the ugly proof of what happened not so long before, tears prickle Greg’s eyes and his chest begins to feels tight.
His brows furrow, and Greg clenches his jaw to silence the wounded sound building up in his throat.
He lifts a shaky hand to his neck and presses the tip of his fingers on the bruise, tilting his head to the side as he trails them along his throat, but lets out a sharp breath and drops his hand just like that, clenching his eyes shut.
He can’t do this.
He looks ugly.
Oh , he looks so fucking ug—
The ringing of his phone coming from the bedroom interrupts his spiral, and Greg picks up the phone to see Mycroft calling him.
The beat of his heart quickens at the name, and the tiniest of warmths fills his stomach; letting out a deep breath, Greg winces as he clears his throat and accepts the call.
“H’y.” Greg croaks out.
God, he sounds awful.
“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice sounds worried over the line. Greg doesn’t like it. “John called me. Are you okay?”
“I— I’m—” He ends up coughing and his face twists in pain, but thankfully Greg manages to keep it under control, brows wrinkling as he swallows. “C’n we text instead?”
He hears Mycroft huffing out a breath. “Okay. Where are you? Are you at home?”
Greg drops his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah.”
He sounds so weak and tired— he is , but he doesn’t want Mycroft to hear him like this. Too soon.
There's a shuffling sound, and then Mycroft says: “Okay. I’m coming over.”
Tears start to burn his eyes, and Greg only sniffles, nodding. “Ok’y.”
The line goes dead shortly after, and Greg throws his phone on the mattress before climbing on top of the covers with a groan leaving his lips, lying on his back.
He’s really tired, he realizes, now that he’s all sequestered and unguarded; closing his eyes, Greg decides to soak the stillness in and tries to ignore the constant pain pressing his body.
He wakes up to a gentle knock on his door.
And to a headache that squeezes his brain and neck, putting a harsh pressure behind his eyes.
His throat isn’t any better— it’s in fact worse, itchy and scratchy and burning , and Greg can’t hide the distraught sound vibrating his throat as he swallows once, twice, and gets up to go downstairs, a pained expression on his tired face.
An anxious feeling blooms in his stomach as Greg makes his way to the door, slight tremors on his hands— he doesn’t want to think about the way Mycroft’s face turns to disgust when he opens the door, doesn’t want to see the hesitance on Mycroft’s face when— if he reaches for Greg’s bruises to get a better look, but Mycroft’s standing behind the door and Greg isn’t the one to keep him waiting.
So, slowly, Greg pulls the door open, and a restrained smile curves up his lips as he greets the other man, his heart racing at the thought of what to come.
But when Greg’s reddened eyes meet Mycroft’s, the look on Mycroft’s face softens just like that, his expression shifting to a gentle concern, and Greg feels fuzzy all over again.
“Hey.” Greg manages to speak clearly this time, stepping aside as Mycroft walks in.
Mycroft’s stare is too intense, too gentle for Greg to handle, he finds himself averting his gaze and looking down.
“Gregory.” Mycroft says softly, with worry, and places his fingers under Greg’s chin to tilt it up, taking another step and leaning closer. “My God.”
Mycroft’s hand slides down to rest on his neck, a featherlight sensation, and traces the tip of his fingers over the ugly bruises on Greg’s throat, touching every inch of dark patch of skin so gently as he examines, like he’s scared to hurt him.
The feeling sends shivers down Greg’s spine, the feeling of big, soft hands caressing him so tenderly ; Greg holds his breath as he looks at Mycroft’s worried face, and tears prickle his eyes once again because it’s too much, too kind, too good. He’s scared he’s going to combust at any second.
Mycroft must have felt the fast beat of his heart beneath his fingertips, because he looks up to face him, and his eyes glisten with care as he sighs and quietly says: “Gregory.”
Lifting his hand up, Mycroft cups Greg’s face and strokes his thumb back and forth along his cheekbone, wiping away the drop of tear dampening his skin.
“Does it hurt?”
Greg contemplates saying no, saying he’s just bruised and it looks worse than it is, but there is something about the other man that makes Greg want to be vulnerable with him— for some reason Mycroft’s presence urges him to drop his guard and let go, so that’s what Greg does.
“Uh—” His hand loosely rests around his throat, scratching. “It’s— I think it h’rts.”
“Anywhere else?” Mycroft asks.
Greg closes his eyes, drops his head, and mumbles a low whimper that only Mycroft can hear when another wave of pain strikes his head. “Head hurts, too.”
His throat burns every time he speaks and his face screws in pain, a thin mewl escaping him; Mycroft seems to understand the deal because he places his thumb on Greg’s lips and keeps it there.
“Shh, don’t speak.” He says, stroking his bottom lip. Tilting his head to meet Greg’s eyes, Mycroft brings his hand to pet the other man’s hair. “Did you take any painkillers?”
Greg gives him a hesitant head shake.
God, he’s really achy.
Mycroft nods in acknowledgement, cards his fingers through Greg’s hair one more time, and slides his hand down Greg’s shoulder until it falls to his side.
Greg instantly misses the way Mycroft’s touch feels against his skin but a part of him feels weird to ask for more, but as if he sensed it, Mycroft wraps his arm around Greg’s waist to pull him close.
His one hand rests on the nape of his neck, scratching, and Greg melts against his chest as he lays his head on Mycroft’s shoulder, closing his eyes.
“Were you sleeping?” Mycroft asks quietly and plants a barely there kiss on the crook of Greg’s throat, plastering his temple against Greg’s.
Greg shrugs weakly, and his voice comes out as a mumble. “Jus’ dozing.”
“Alright, here is what we are going do.” Mycroft tightens his hold around Greg. “You’re going to get in bed, I am going to bring you a painkiller, an ice pack, and then make you all better.”
It makes Greg breathe out a light chuckle, and suddenly he doesn’t feel ice cold anymore, because Mycroft’s arms are around him, and his voice is gentle, and everything coming out of his mouth oozes safety , and everything feels fresh and new and right , and Greg can’t stop sinking deeper into the other man’s embrace.
A shy smile finds his face, and Greg gives Mycroft a tiny nod. “Good.”
It doesn’t take long for Mycroft to come upstairs.
Greg is already settled in bed in a sitting position, his back resting against the pillows and head dropped back against the headboard, and Mycroft swims into his line of vision with a tray in his hand— an ice pack, a cup of water, a plastic bottle, and a cream container, as Greg stares at the stairs.
Greg feels exhaustion creeping up on him already, now that he’s in bed— and, fuck , the grounding feeling of Mycroft’s arms around him was almost enough for him to ignore the painachepressure crushing his head and lungs, but now his brain is too jaded to keep the act and, yeah, he’s hurting alright.
The throbbing of his head picks up a notch just when the lump in his throat feels heavier and prickling as on cue, and it must be visible on his face or he must’ve made a wounded sound or both , because after Mycroft places the tray on the night-stand, he sits next to Greg and leans closer, placing a tiny kiss on Greg’s forehead that warms his insides.
“Gregory.”
Greg’s eyes flutter open— when did he even close them, and he winces as he tries to swallow, wincing again after clearing his throat and straightening himself up in the bed. “ ‘m ‘wake.”
With a soft smile, Mycroft takes the glass from the nightstand and hands it to Greg. “Okay, then.” Unscrewing the plastic bottle to pop out two tablets. “Painkillers first.”
Greg does what Mycroft says and quickly puts them in his mouth— he wants to get this over with, and Mycroft watches him close as he lets out a breath, and takes a few sips of the water.
He does end up groaning and it burns when he swallows, barely keeping the fluid in to not choke or throw up; once he’s done, Mycroft takes the glass from his hand— fingers brushing as he does, and puts it back in its place.
Scooting closer, Mycroft places his finger under Greg’s chin, gently tilts it to the side as he knits his brows and examines the bruise, and it’s— it’s overwhelming— how Mycroft carefully looks those ugly patches instead of turning away, and a rush of something Greg can’t describe washes him over as he watches Mycroft with big, awestruck eyes and parted lips.'
The feeling grows bigger when Mycroft comes even more closer and plants the tiniest pecks on one of the darkest spots.
It’s nothing sexual, it doesn’t linger and Mycroft’s lips barely touch his skin before he pulls away to get the ice pack, but Greg’s heart does a summersault like crazy anyway.
Greg has never been a big fan of ice packs, is the thing, so naturally he sours his face when Mycroft takes it in his hand for the next thing; he chokes out a hiss and squirms when Mycroft gently presses it on his throat, clenching his jaw and eyes shut, but Mycroft’s hand wrapped around his forearm keeps him in place, holds him steady whenever Greg lets out a whimper or flinches away from the ice cold sensation.
“Almost done.”
Mycroft reassures him while pressing the pack here and there, his thumb occasionally caressing his forearm, and Greg barely bites back his whimpers while he lets Mycroft treat him.
The next comes the soothing cream Mycroft somehow found in his bathroom, and Greg has to keep still for that, too, but this one doesn’t hurt as much. Mycroft delicately traces his fingers on his bruises and slowly spreads the cream, taking his time doing it, and the touch of the other man’s hand on his skin puts him at ease, curbs the intense emotions swirling in his stomach, for the first time in a long while, it feels right when someone touches him.
By the time Mycroft is done tending to his bruises, Greg feels seconds away from crashing.
If it wasn’t for the headache.
His brain feels mushy, and his limbs feel numb, weak, he wants to shut down so bad— his body probably begs him to let go, but there is a constant static ringing in his ears and a piercing pain penetrating his head and kicks behind his eyes that Greg can’t focus on anything other than that, and god damn it, his head hurts.
The expression on his face shifting to agony, Greg closes his eyes, drops his head in his hand and he can’t hide the shaky whimper tearing his throat this time.
“Gregory?” Mycroft is quick to notice, brows arched in concern. He wraps his fingers around Greg’s wrist and tilts his head, nudging Greg’s arm to see him closer. “What’s wrong?”
“ ‘m fine.” Greg shakes his head— big mistake, and chokes out another sound that’s dangerously close to a sob, and whispers: “M’head’s killin’ me.”
The next thing Greg knows, the weight of the mattress is shifting, and Greg is being manoeuvred until he is laying on his back next to Mycroft. There are arms wrapped around his torso— strong but gentle arms, and they pull him close, and it clicks to Greg only when Mycroft buries his fingers into the back of his hair and pushes his head down, the other man is guiding Greg to rest his head above his chest.
His body feels a little tense— he’s never done…this before, there is a quiet buzz in his ear whispering he’s going to fuck it up and the pain in his head only makes him more anxious but at the same time, he feels a huge portion of the invisible weight dragging him down fading away, and he finds himself melting against Mycroft.
Sliding one arm under Greg, Mycroft keeps his hand on Greg’s back, and lifts his other hand to Greg’s face, applying the right amount of pressure on his temple.
“Oh.” His brows furrow at the sudden pressure, a throb making its way, but then Greg lets out a soft sigh between his parted lips, and his eyes flutter.
“I know.” Mycroft hums, rubbing Greg’s temple.
He keeps massaging Greg’s head, rubs his temple; he slides his hand up to bury his fingers into Greg’s curls and scratches his scalp and, oh , it feels so soothing, Greg slightly moves his head up and leans into the touch, the tip of his nose touching the part under Mycroft’s chin.
It earns him a breathy chuckle from Mycroft, and his fingers rub Greg’s scalp so rhythmically that Greg feels himself slowly collapsing on top of the other man, letting all his weight go.
“You think you can get some sleep?” Mycroft whispers before he nuzzles his nose on top of Greg’s curls and places a barely there kiss. “Gregory?”
He’s too out of it to form a sentence, his body feels loose and his brain feels like cotton candy, so Greg settles for a low hm , and lets out a sigh.
The last thing he feels before he drifts is Mycroft loosening his hold just a little to tilt his head, and locks his lips with Greg’s. It’s a short kiss, not even that deep, but Mycroft’s lips feel warm against his own, sinking into his chest, and Greg allows himself to surrender. With that, Mycroft readjusts their position to before and tightens his hold once again.
A few hours later, Greg is going to wake up feeling slightly better and give Mycroft a thank you kiss for it, and heat is going to spread his cheeks when Mycroft holds him close and kisses him back but for now, Mycroft rests his chin on top of Greg's head, keeps petting his hair, rubs his back, places occasional pecks on top of his head, and Greg sleeps.