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The changing of the weather blooms a pressure in Mycroft’s skull that plagues him for a solid week — steadily increasing with each hour, worsened by his workload. There is a heaviness to his eyelids he cannot shift, eyes feeling dry and sore. It feels as though cotton gauze has been stuffed behind his nose, restricting his breathing and making the simple act of bending forward painful and taxing.
So Mycroft waits for a cold that doesn’t come, none of the chills or sniffles or fever he has come to expect arriving, only this fastidious headache ruining the hours. By day five, he can no longer sit up without the world spinning, intolerable to his office and the too-bright lights and the stale air. He takes to working from home on day six, laptop balanced on his chest inches away from his face on the dullest setting he could adjust it to, lying almost prostrate in bed.
It takes all that is in him not to groan when Friday night he hears the front door open and the sounds of his children bounding inside. The smell of greasy takeaway permeating up the stairs makes him gag and turn his face into his musty pillow, willing the surging waves in his stomach to settle. His teeth grit and his eyebrow twitches when the agonising clatter of plates sounds from the kitchen, and he almost pretends to be asleep when footsteps approach the stairs in hopes of being spared conversation.
“Hey,” Greg whispers. He’s mindful, but after hours of silence his voice causes Mycroft’s ears to ring. “Have you eaten since I left this morning?”
Mycroft, wearing nil but his pyjamas and a grimace, shakes his head, then winces and clutches at his skull. The pressure of his arms over the top of his head soothes some of the pounding, so he stays there, eyes closed against the slither of light coming in through the open bedroom door.
“Oh, my love. Can you try to eat?” Mycroft makes the tiniest, saddest whimper Greg has ever been privy of hearing from him. “Alright. I’ll bring some tea up; the caffeine should help your head. Aspirin?”
Mycroft opens his mouth quite like a fledgling for worms, his mouth ticking up at the sound of Greg’s muffled amusement. The tablets are popped from their blister packet beneath his shirt to dampen the sharp sound, each one carefully set on the flat tongue of his lover and inserted into his mouth reminiscent of a VHS tape. Though he had initially groaned this morning Mycroft cannot deny the usefulness of his son’s straw cup, which has kept his water as crisp as it was eight hours ago and allowed him to sip from the comfort of his prone position. He gulps the water down now, gasping afterwards and then flopping further into the pillow.
Gregory leaves him without another word, not wanting to touch when he knows his husband’s skin will be too sensitised to enjoy it. The blanket is even painful when it shifts against him, so deliberate contact would surely be torture. He shuts the door but does not let it click shut and pads down the stairs to find his babies sitting nicely at the table sharing a large portion of chow mein between them.
“My good boys. Is that yummy?” He pants, feeling weirdly out of breath for only tackling a set of stairs.
Their bibs have done little to quell the savagery of wet, slippy noodles and the brown sauce that coats hair, face and hands. Were they not stripped down to their boxers their clothes would have been taking an immediate trip to the washing machine. As it were, only the table has to face the brunt of the mess, which is contained somewhat by the PVC tablecloth set down specially for this meal.
“Where papa?” Lock asks, mouth stuffed so full of noodles they burst like tentacles from his lips.
“He’s poorly. He’s going to stay upstairs. And you’re going to stay downstairs.” Greg says as he flips the kettle on.
“He sick? He die?” Jawn goes rather pale, eyes darting between his daddy and brother. The kettle shushes him in the background, the familiar noises of mugs clinking — which seems far too loud to Lestrade — and the teabags plopping into it.
“No baby. Just a bad headache. So we must be quiet, okay?” Greg pours the boiled water in the mug, leaving it to steep as he collects milk. He pauses at the fridge, finding the cold air pleasant despite not feeling too hot.
“Otay da’.” Lock mumbles around yet another mouthful, his cheeks puffed like a chipmunk. “Be quie’.”
“That’s my boy. You two finish your dinners, I’ll be back in a tick.” He removes the teabag, swirling milk into the liquid until it is the perfect colour for his husband. Whilst the man isn’t there to see he chugs some straight from the jug, gasping and wiping the excess from his mouth onto the back of his hand.
“Daddy sick too?” Jawn asks, and for a moment Greg thinks the tot has seen something on him to cause the inquiry, but when he turns he only sees general anxiety from being separated from his father.
“I’m just going to take a cup of tea up for papa and I’ll be right back down.” Daddy soothes with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Be quiet daddy.” Lock mumbles absently as he swallows. Greg chuckles and crosses two fingers across his heart.
“Promise.” He takes the tea, warning his children to stay put, heads upstairs, which tires him once again, and detours to the bathroom to wet a heavy flannel. For good measure he adds some adhesive cooling gel strips to his collection then slips through to his bedroom. Initially he believes Mycroft to be asleep, lying as pale as a corpse save for his heavy breaths and flexing toes to combat the pain.
Greg says nothing as he sets the tea down, folding the flannel on the bedside table so he can fuss over his husband, easing him into a semi-seated position before he balances the flannel atop his head. The soft vulnerability of having a sick Mycroft looking rather ridiculous with terry cloth flopped over his skull dislodges something warm in Greg’s chest, most of which pangs for the visible pain in the crow’s feet around squinting eyes.
“I’ll do it.” Greg whispers. Mycroft, understanding, shuts his eyes and settles back, his trust complete in his partner, who holds the mug to his lips so he can take small sips. The scent of it roils his empty stomach, but he perseveres, the mug pausing at his lips only so Greg can one-handedly apply one of the cooling strips. The relief is near instantaneous and Mycroft’s groan could be mistaken for more than the gratification it is, causing Greg to huff happily.
“Thank you.” The tea has lubricated a throat Mycroft did not realise was so dry, eased by the familiarity of caffeine in his system. It’ll be a few minutes yet for the potential affects to temper the migraine, if it does at all.
Greg kisses his knuckles, where he is least likely to be sensitive, noting the dry skin. “Don’t you worry about a thing. You just rest. Can I get you anything else?”
“How young are the children?”
“Five or six. Behaving. They know you’re sick, they’ve been warded off.”
“What kind of black magic did you use?”
“The power of laurveee,” Greg drawls, waggling his fingers. Mycroft chuckles, wincing as it applies tension to his already taut temples. “Sorry baby. I’ll leave you be now. If you’re hungry or you need anything, just let me- hang on.”
Greg jumps up, returning only seconds later with the baby monitor from the little bedroom. He clicks it on then hooks their end onto his belt loop. “So you don’t have to shout,” he explains at the withering expression.
“Very well,” Mycroft shifts, his expression morphing into something of disgust. “I feel very sweaty.”
“Back in a sec.” Greg leaves again, fiddling with the taps and grabbing spare pyjamas. Mycroft lays back, the throbbing easing as he is drawn flat again, and allows his husband to strip his pale figure and pat his skin down with a cloth. It feels remarkable, the cool water cooling further on his skin, and he hums, dozing, greatly enjoying the dip in the mattress where Greg perches.
“Calm down,” Greg shushes as Mycroft tries to sit up, indignant. “Saves you going the loo.”
“I am not wearing a nappy.”
“Yes you are. Shh now, bedtime for you.” Greg finishes taping it up so he can shimmy a pair of thin cotton pyjama pants up mile-long legs. “You don’t have to use it, remember.”
“Curse you.” Mycroft mutters, but he’s too sick to care, and left shirtless the cloth used to wipe his skin feels marvellous and weighty on his chest.
“Love you too my darling. Rest up.” Mycroft waves a blind hand for Gregory to kiss, who chuckles against his fingers as he does so. The slice of mattress he’s sat on feels so good against aching joints that he has to give himself a mental pep talk to stand up. He hesitates only to adjust the head flannel so it sits nicely over Mycroft’s eyes then takes the mug to prevent the lingering scent from irking him, heading downstairs.
The kids have done exactly as told and sit where they were put, chatting away. When he appears, Jawn looks up and pushes his empty plate forward. “Daddy, more please?”
“Course you can spud. Same thing or something different?”
Dinner goes over smoothly, the three of them eating themselves into a food coma. After a long day and with two young boys it takes only warm, hearty meals and a camper’s wash to settle them to bed. Greg sets some bread in the toaster whilst he cleans up, eyes feeling like pool balls in his head. The warm water in the sink hurts his wrist even though the temperature is the same as always, and with a permeating exhaustion Greg just dumps the whole lot in the dishwasher and sets it to work overnight. The scrape of the knife as he spreads butter on the toast causes a sudden and irrational surge of anger to swirl inside him, but he pushes through, hoping he isn’t coming down with something too.
Mycroft seems a bit more with it, accepting the toast, more tea and fresh water. As much as Greg wants to guard his partner, he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, oblivious to a look of concern playing sentry over him.
The house is silent and still for nearly nine hours, but come morn it is Lock to wake first, wondering why it is not one of his dads rousing him. He sits up, hair a nest, and glances around the dark room. Jawn sleeps peacefully unaware of the change in routine, as it is only ever them going to wake their dads up excitedly or being shaken from a lie-in. Unmoored, Lock slots his thumb into his mouth and climbs from his cot; at least if his dads were to tell him off for doing so it’d feel less strange in the too-quiet house.
He pads to the master bedroom, willing his anxiety to stop conjuring thoughts of worst-case scenarios. The scene he finds isn’t the reassurance he had hoped — both dads are flat on their backs, wan and sweaty, the distinct smell of illness swilling out the now-open bedroom door. Lock takes a few steps closer, worrying at his knuckle with his bottom teeth. Clearly they are poorly, ruddy cheeks blotchy and unhealthy looking, the temperature at least two degrees higher in here than the rest of the upstairs. Several flannels have tipped onto the thin duvet and stained the fabric wet.
Without the foggiest idea how to help, and unwilling even when his age to disturb his parents when they so desperately need the rest, he exits the bedroom and heads back to his own. It seems Jawn has finally sensed the oddness of the morning, for he too is sat up in bed with the frightened eyes of a skittish rabbit.
“It’s okay baby,” Lock imitates in daddy’s calming tones, “I’m here.”
Totally out of his depth, but knowing he must take responsibility of a much littler Jawn, Lock swallows his urge to cry and run for the master bedroom again and, while hugging the baby over the bars, shifts his age up until he feels more capable of tackling the situation unaided.
“Right then. Let’s get you changed.”
“Will?”
“That’s the one! Arms up.” Jawn obeys, plucked from his bed and lain on the changing table. He is sodden but does not appear to be ill. Will counts his blessings, setting Jawn on the floor with some toys in order to change into more grownup clothes and decide what to do. Jawn’s tummy answers for him, grumbling like a growly puppy.
He giggles sweetly, head tipped back to regard his older brother. “I’m hungry.”
“Me too. Toast?”
Jawn points at him with an action figure. “With jam.”
“Excellent choice. On your feet, GI Joe.”
Jawn slips his hand into Will’s, sparing a glance at the closed bedroom door across from theirs but obedient in following his big brother down the stairs one slow step at a time and into the kitchen to pick which flavour jam he’d like — seedless, of course.
They eat together at the table, pondering what they might like to do today as much for Will’s benefit, who is certain he’ll be in charge today, as it is for Jawn’s. Thankfully the tot is content to watch some morning cartoons in front of the telly, snuggled up on his side with a soft pillow and Scottie bundled under his arm. Whilst he relaxes, Will figures out what to do, whether he should wake at least one parent or leave them to wake naturally. He decides to go upstairs and swap the baby monitors out in case they need someone to help.
He steps into the pitch room using only his familiarity of the layout as his guide towards Mycroft’s bedside table. Neither of them have moved since the kids went downstairs, nor do they stir when Will quietly, but not silently, takes the monitor and replaces it with the one from the baby’s room. That confirms his decision to let them get their rest.
The prospect of a lazy day is actually rather welcomed for the teen, who sits on the opposite couch to his baby brother to play some video games on his handheld console for a while. That while turns into a couple of hours, and when Will finally looks up Jawn is on the verge of falling asleep. Will gets up, arming himself with fresh water and a genial smile to convince Jawn to come out from his nest and take a nap in his cot. Perhaps it is because he is too tired to argue, or that he is wary of disturbing their dads that he pads up the stairs and climbs into bed. A quick finger down the waistband of his nappy returns dry, blessedly; so with a few strong sucks of his water Jawn is wrapped into a new nest and promptly falls asleep.
Will doesn’t feel tired at all, not with having slept through the night and then some, therefore he parks himself in the glider chair where he can see his little brother, now snoring gently, and picks his way through a comic he hasn’t had chance to read yet. Having total silence isn’t as boring as he’d first suspected, though he can still hear Jawn’s thick breaths and the whispering clacks of the chair.
Which is why he is surprised to find himself snorting awake some forty minutes later, head tucked awkwardly to his chest. He grimaces, stretching out his neck and limbs, hauling his body up from the chair, his comic stored safely away from curious fingers. There is nothing to indicate what exactly woke him up, but he knows he cannot let Jawn sleep in long in case he doesn’t settle tonight, or worse, he needs a second nap later.
“Come on baby, time to get up.”
“Five m’re mins…” Jawn rolls away from his touch, slurring into his pillow until his body is rocked back into place and forced into sitting. He yelps like a puppy, batting ineffectively at big brother’s questing hands, but his dismay is no match for the older teen, and within seconds he is relocated to the changing table for a new nappy. He grumbles, much less affable than this morning yet still wary of making too much noise, taking himself downstairs and fetching some puzzles to occupy himself.
Will microwaves some soup for them to eat for lunch as well as some fruit and strawberry yoghurt for Jawn upon his insistence. Giving in to Jawn’s demands seems to nix any fight from him, as he is happy to complete his puzzle whilst a spoon is popped directly in his mouth, differing between bites of everything so he has a good variation in case he decides prematurely he’s had enough.
When they’re done, and the dishes are left to soak in the sink, Jawn taps pointedly at the cupboard door containing their art supplies. “Help please?”
“Sure. What do you want?”
“Daddy and papa sick?”
“I think so babe.”
“Hm, I can make them a get well soon card!”
“You know, I think that’s the best idea I’ve heard all year!” Jawn beams under the praise, cheeks rosy as he rushes to clear the table of his jigsaw so he can lay out card and an array of felt tips.
The brothers work together in decent harmony: Jawn creating a gaudy but sentimental card full of hearts and plasters and thermometers at the same time that Will organises all the pens into colour order. It’s a futile task, he knows, but he isn’t interested in card making and he wants Jawn to feel like they are both included. It works well, except for the few times he picks up a pen Jawn intends to use, but trading seems to placate him.
When Will finishes his organising he takes wads of tissue paper and the coloured sheets they tend to use for crafts and sets to work on another activity. He folds and tapes, winds and glues, all of which is not acknowledged by his younger brother until the lad has set his completed card to one side.
“Was dat?” Jawn asks around the spout of his juice cup. Will shoves a stick of rolled up paper into the centre of jagged paper then flips it to show Jawn. “F’owers?”
“Mmhm.” Will puts that flower to one side and starts to work on a rose. Jawn picks up the small bundle of crafted floral treasures, examining them with the most careful touch. Will smiles to himself, seeing Jawn admire his skill from his peripheral. He pauses his crafting when the rose is done to find a little vase, setting Jawn the role of flower arranger. He takes his job seriously, furrowed brows and poking tongue pairing delicate fingers as he handles the sturdy flowers.
Will makes enough for a small bouquet, allowing Jawn to arrange them how he sees fit without any input. When they’re done, they high-five and clean up, their teamwork laudable. They’d certainly make their fathers proud. The vase is set on the counter, closest to the wall to prevent an accidental knock and within minutes one would never know they’d had the whole craft cupboard out. Jawn’s card is placed with the bouquet for safe keeping and then it is time to go upstairs for another nappy change.
Jawn is much more amenable to this one, babbling to Scottie about his card, allowing Will to finish the admittedly gross task of cleaning his baby brother’s wet crotch of odorous urine. He soldiers through it then takes the tot, changed into his outdoor play clothes, into the back garden with a football.
Mycroft is awoken by a stifling headache that simulates a hydraulic press crushing his temples inwards. Groaning, he slips from bed, and is surprised to find his husband snoring gently beside him, little gusts of air escaping the duvet cocoon concealing all but his nose. He huffs a laugh but regrets it when it adds to the pressure in his head. There is one thing he can currently relieve however, and he pees placidly, thinking of the blessedly quiet house.
Except. Shit. The kids are home, aren’t they? He worries a migraine has caused his memory to falter, but he is certain they spent the night together. Yes indeed, but if he is in the en suite, and Greg is in bed, then who is…
Cursing, Mycroft rushes through his ablutions and dashes from the room across the landing. His heart plummets upon finding a bedroom lacking children, and a glance at the clock tells him they have been up for a while. Thinking of the paint incident he tries not to panic as he runs down the steps and scans the bottom floor of the house.
His heart does a somersault when his gaze lands on his sons playing with a ball outside, keeping it off the floor using their feet. Jawn spots him and stops, the ball smacking into his chest. He points at papa and soon both kids approach the back door.
“Papa poorly! Back to bed!” Jawn pushes his father backwards, who stumbles, feeling a sudden dizziness that might be relief.
“Gentle kiddo! Use kind hands remember.” Jawn bites his lip sheepishly but resolves his error by taking papa’s hand and leading him back upstairs.
“Gotta get rest so you feel better pa’.”
“Indeed. Thank you for looking after me.”
“S’okay. Papa look after me when I feel ick.” The soft sentiment tightens Mycroft’s chest, and he has to look away as tears spring to his prickling eyes. Old age has got him much too emotional, but before he can so much as snivel Jawn is tucking him back into bed, his bum plonked at papa’s side.
“What are you-”
“Shh. Close your eyes.” Jawn whispers. To curtail an argument Mycroft does as he’s told, jolting as he feels a hand wind into what is left of his hair.
The touch is cool against his hot skin, long laves of fingers over the sensitised scalp heavenly, and when nails scratch lightly at his skull Mycroft almost forgets his headache. He sighs, nuzzling into his pillow appreciably, feeling a second hand, open palmed, start to stroke his back in large circles, identical to the way he does for overtired babies. Pride swells in his chest, the tears threatening to spill when he feels the bed dip and Jawn’s presence disappear. The darkness is too tempting for him to open his eyes, but Jawn does not dare tackle the stairs without supervision. He returns a moment later, pulling Mycroft’s arm up to tuck something underneath before rearranging the blankets.
“Oh, Jawn, that’s so kind of you.”
“He give you get better hugs.” Jawn declares, settling back into place to continue the massage.
The teddy is worn, well-loved and smelling of baby shampoo and sleepy cuddles. It warms to Mycroft’s body temperature, the fur soft under his chin when he sneaks a nuzzle in. Jawn hums almost inaudibly were he not so close to papa in order to kiss his cheek. A single tear strains the tatty ear of the bear, but it’s too dim in the room for anyone to see — Mycroft hears the clatter of a tea tray and uses the distraction to sober himself before his eldest son mocks him.
The clanging stirs his husband too, who rolls onto his back and yawns so widely his jaw cracks. His eyes open in increments, but when he looks to his boys he grins boyishly. “Hello beautifuls.”
“Papa sick.” Declares Jawn.
“Me too.” Sighs daddy. Jawn frowns, opening his mouth to speak when he is interrupted.
“I have the remedy.” Will announces as he bounces the door open with his hip.
Jawn rushes to help, handing over plates of toast. He grabs something from the floor and upon reaching daddy’s side Jawn first places the plate on the bedside table so he can give daddy a kiss and a cuddle. Too, daddy receives his own get better soon teddy that is snuggled lovingly under his arm. Together they snack on toast and swallow painkillers with perfect cups of tea whilst the boys go back downstairs to collect something.
“We’ve raised our boys right.” Greg says around a mouthful of toast.
“Those boys make me so proud,” adds Mycroft with a swig of tea. Thumping footsteps are a brief warning before the bedroom door is flung open once again, Jawn entering on bouncing toes. Plates are moved swiftly out the way from flailing limbs and Jawn takes that as permission to launch onto the foot of the bed. He crawls one-handedly to kneel between them and hands over a card. With teddy still tucked under his arm, Greg opens a handmade envelope caked in felt tip hearts and tugs out Jawn’s card.
He reads it aloud for everyone’s sake, tilting it so papa can see too. Mycroft smiles, eyes watery, unlike his husband who has no such inhibitions bursting into tears.
“What? I do wrong?” Jawn’s expression drops, eyes wide with alarm and he looks between the three older members of his family.
“No no no these are happy tears. C’mere baby angel.” Mycroft passes the card to Will to display on the dresser opposite the bed whilst Jawn is pulled into daddy bear cuddles.
“We’s not done yet!” Jawn squirms free and looks towards his brother with sparkling eyes. Shy, Will presents the vase of flowers. “Will make ‘em but I put ‘em in the vase!”
“Oh boys.” Greg cries harder, reaching out to hug both his sons. “Thank you thank you thank you!”
“You made these?” Mycroft asks. Will nods, cheeks aflame. “Sensational…”
They spend a few more minutes cuddling and chatting before Will extracts baby brother from the bed, shushing his whines with the reminder that their fathers are still sick. Sated by their full bellies and medication the dads barely manage to give each other chaste kisses before they’re fast asleep again, dead to the world.
Jawn holds Will’s hand tight and willing as they skip down the path leading out of the manor. In public there are rules, and Jawn has never been one to directly disobey them, especially not when his privileges could be taken. He’s chatty on the walk to the local shops but when they step inside he stops talking in case his pitched voice draws attention, however he refuses to let go of Will’s hand, stroking a pocket toy hidden in his jacket to quell the urge to nervously suck his thumb. They load up a basket with snacks, a bottle of pop and some pizzas, planning to spend the night together. Will’s got the whole thing planned out, and he too is excited to get the night started. He releases Jawn’s hand so they can work as a team scanning items in the self-checkout, which for once decides to obey, and then they’re back on the path to get home before dark.
As the pizzas cook Jawn sets out their snacks and drinks in front of the downstairs telly, fluffs up pillows and dump blankets in their human dog bed to form a cuddly paddling pool. Will brings the console down from his bedroom and sets it up in the living room where they’re less likely to disrupt much needed rest upstairs, giggling when he checks on his fathers and finds them snoring into each other’s hair.
It is a most wonderful evening despite the circumstances, the kids battling it out in Smash Bros and gorging on sweet treats until they fall into a food coma so deep they’re asleep where they sit, not even rousing when Greg finds them hours later surrounded by snack packets and empty cups.