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Greg had been through worse.
At least, that’s what he kept telling Mycroft when the man’s eyebrows went north after hearing the words mild concussion and temporary hearing loss.
“It’s just the ringing in my ears,” Greg said, shrugging out of his coat as Mycroft all but herded him into the townhouse. “Bit muffled, that’s all. Not the end of the world.”
“Your job is already perilous enough without also endangering your eardrums, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was all ice and disapproval, but Greg caught the flicker of worry beneath. “Until your hearing returns to normal, you will be… supervised.”
Greg rolled his eyes, which took more energy than it should have. “I don’t need—”
“Supervised,” Mycroft repeated, with the kind of finality that suggested the matter had been discussed in committee and voted on unanimously.
Greg was stretched on the sofa, mug of tea in hand, when Mycroft appeared in the doorway and said something in that deep, deliberate tone of his.
Greg frowned. “What?”
“I asked if you would like me to bring the documents from—”
Greg sat up, startled. “Did you just ask if I wanted to touch the ducks in the back garden?!”
Mycroft blinked. “Pardon?”
“Ducks! I mean, didn’t know you had ducks—”
“I most certainly do not have ducks, Gregory.”
“Well, you said ducks.”
“I said ‘documents.’”
Greg grinned. “Ohhh. Documents. Right. Makes more sense. Still—if you ever do get ducks, I’m game.”
Mycroft closed his eyes briefly, clearly calling upon reserves of patience usually reserved for world leaders and Sherlock.
They were in the kitchen. Mycroft was stirring tea, his voice a quiet murmur over the sound of the spoon clinking the porcelain.
Greg frowned, leaning forward. “Why would you want me to put trousers on the microwave?”
The spoon stilled. “I did not—” Mycroft set it down with exaggerated care. “I said, ‘Would you like me to put sugar in your tea.’”
“Right. Gotcha. Sugar, not trousers.” Greg smirked. “Well, you can see how I’d get confused.”
“No. I cannot.”
Mycroft had given up trying to work in his study, apparently deciding Greg required immediate and constant oversight. Greg had given up pretending not to enjoy it.
They were watching the news when Greg heard, faint and distorted: “Do you require a cushion for your neck?”
Greg turned, startled. “Sorry, did you just say, ‘Why would I acquire a Russian for a trek?’”
A pause. “Gregory, are you deliberately mishearing me?”
Greg grinned, leaning back. “Nope. Though now I do want to know where you’d even find a Russian for a trek.”
Mycroft’s lips twitched — just for a second — before smoothing back into his usual mask.
Night had fallen, the townhouse gone still. Greg had been bundled into the guest bedroom (“modest,” according to Mycroft, though the mattress was better than any he’d ever owned).
It was close to midnight when Greg stirred and realised there was a shadow in the corner: Mycroft, in an armchair, a book in his lap. The book was unopened.
“Y’ don’t have to stand guard,” Greg mumbled.
“I am not ‘standing guard.’ I am ensuring you do not suffer any sudden deterioration in your condition while sleeping.”
“That’s… guard duty.”
“Semantics.”
Mycroft stayed put until Greg shifted over with a sleepy sigh. “C’mere. You look ridiculous over there.”
After a moment, Mycroft rose and sat on the edge of the bed. His fingers brushed Greg’s hair back from his temple, careful of the bruise blooming there.
“Sorry I’m such a handful,” Greg murmured.
“You are not a handful, Gregory,” Mycroft said quietly. “Merely… irreplaceable.”
Greg blinked at him through the fuzz of exhaustion. “Love you too.”
Mycroft didn’t correct him.
Bonus Scene
Greg’s hearing had been back for days, but Mycroft was still keeping a closer-than-usual eye on him — in the subtle, hovering way that made Greg suspect he was being “covertly” monitored from three different rooms at once.
They were in the kitchen, Mycroft preparing tea with military precision.
“Do you want the large mug or the small one?” he asked, casual as ever.
Greg blinked, tilted his head, and frowned slightly. “Sorry — did you just say, ‘Do I want to march with the small swan?’”
Mycroft froze. “Gregory… did you—have you—” He set down the teaspoon a little too quickly and stepped closer. “Is the ringing back? You didn’t mention—”
Greg fought to keep a straight face. “Well, I mean, I didn’t see the swan, but if it’s small, maybe it’s in the cupboard—”
“Gregory!” Mycroft’s eyes were sharp now, scanning his face, as if looking for signs of a relapse. “Be serious. If you’re experiencing auditory distortion again—”
Greg couldn’t hold it in any longer. He burst out laughing, holding up both hands. “I’m fine! Perfect hearing.”
For a heartbeat, Mycroft just stared at him. Then his shoulders loosened, the tiniest breath escaping before he spoke.
“You are insufferable,” he said quietly — but his hand stayed resting against Greg’s arm for a moment longer than necessary.
Greg grinned. “Still waiting on those ducks, though.”
Mycroft chuckled.
Then, without another word, Mycroft closed the small gap between them, his fingers curling gently around Greg’s jaw.
Greg’s breath hitched as Mycroft leaned in slowly, their foreheads touching for a heartbeat before their lips met in a soft, lingering kiss.
The kitchen around them faded.
When they finally parted, Mycroft’s eyes were softer than Greg had ever seen them.
“Stay safe,” Mycroft whispered.
Greg smiled. “Always.”