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The emergency department was, in all good tradition, overcrowded. Greg, John, and Sherlock, however, knew that this was, unfortunately, a permanent condition of any accident and emergency department in any hospital in the city, and yet the nurses were kind enough to find a vacant treatment room for the three of them, where they were left to wait for a doctor to become available. Either they felt sorry for the policeman and his two companions, who had once again been injured in the line of duty, or, — more likely, if the recognition in the head nurse's eyes when they arrived was any indication, — they decided to give frequent patients a little indulgence.
The examination table was immediately assigned to Greg, although he tried to resist. John and Sherlock emerged from the situation with a few new bruises and abrasions, which didn't seem to bother either of them. Lestrade was the closest to the explosion, and he was hit by shrapnel, deafened, and thrown into a pile of industrial waste, where he hit his head on something. Compared to him, both John and Sherlock looked perfectly fine.
Sitting on the table, still a little disoriented and tired, Greg thought that when the luck was handed out, he must have been in line for premature gray hair and the ability to find problems. And the problems — John and Sherlock, because in his case they were the problems half the time — were in line for luck and had successfully received it.
In the end, Greg ended up in the hospital today with deep cut on his arm, a head injury, and the question of whether the two people next to him were really his friends or if he should block their numbers. Despite this, it could have been worse; it had been worse on occasion. After considering all the circumstances and consequences, Lestrade even acknowledged that the day could be considered relatively successful. One of the obvious advantages was that his team had apprehended the killer. The obvious downside was the chase through the abandoned building, where it turned out that the fugitive not only had a grenade, but was also happy to throw it at a police officer with two civilians in tow... Well, as Greg had already pointed out, it could have been worse. At least he's the only one who's been really hurt.
After about ten minutes, it became painful to think, and Greg decided that the best thing he could do was to close his eyes and try to suppress his nausea. John, who noticed this very opportunely, adjusted the exam table so that Greg could prop himself up in a semi-sitting position and stretch out his legs, for which he was still considered a friend. Sherlock, who had become bored at the very beginning of the wait, fortunately found something to occupy himself with on his phone and sat quietly. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, counting down the seconds.
Greg must have dozed off for a while, with the ticking and muffled sounds from outside the office, because he was suddenly jostled gently by the shoulder. Opening his eyes with difficulty, Lestrade realized that John was standing in front of him, frowning anxiously.
"Don't fall asleep," he said quietly. "Not yet, okay?"
Greg struggled to sit up straight and ran a hand over his face, trying to regain his composure. As he moved, the wound on his arm gave him a dull ache.
"I know, sorry. Just tired."
"You bet. I wanted to get some water, do you..."
The door to the treatment room opened.
***
John had probably never seen, and would never see again, Mycroft Holmes like this: slightly disheveled, his coat open, revealing a loose shirt and home trousers instead of his usual suit. His expression, always impassive or thoroughly calculated, was, and this struck John far more than anything else, frightened. Unusually open. His skin seemed too pale, almost gray with anxiety.
Which is why, when Mycroft looked straight at him with icy gray eyes and growled softly, menacingly, "Step back!", John obeyed and took a couple of steps away from the exam table. He could only attribute it to the shock he had experienced in those few seconds.
There was every reason to believe that Mycroft was there because of Sherlock, who was slumped in a chair at the back of the room. John's initial shock at Mycroft's sudden appearance was further compounded when the older brother didn't even look at him, instead rushing over to the table where the Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard was sitting, who, according to John's knowledge, had no connection to Mycroft Holmes besides the work issues that involve Sherlock. And yet...
"Gregory," Mycroft stopped next to the table before carefully sitting down on the edge, facing Greg. He reached out nervously, one hand to the bruised temple, the other to the wound on his arm, and paused, hesitant to touch, only examining the injuries. He frowned as his gaze darted from the more serious injuries to the minor abrasions and bruises. "Where? Where else are you injured?"
Greg didn't look surprised. He wasn't feeling well and he was tired, yes, but he was quite calm. He only gave a quick glance at John, who was still in his line of sight, before seeming to forget about everything around him, focusing on Mycroft and taking one of his restless hands in his own.
"That's all," Greg said quietly and confidently. He squeezed his hand and waited for Mycroft to look into his eyes. "It's okay. Just a few scratches. Nothing more."
Mycroft took a deep breath, as if he was about to start an argument, and then suddenly gave up. His shoulders slumped, and all the fight went out of him, and in a second he seemed smaller, more fragile, as he leaned forward and hid his face on Greg's shoulder.
"Oh, God," he muttered, and Greg wrapped his unharmed arm around him, still gripping Mycroft's hand with his other hand and rubbing soothing circles on it with his thumb. "I thought... I got a call saying you were injured because a grenade was thrown at you. A grenade, Gregory."
"They know how to emphasize the right things," Greg snorted. He could imagine it: based on the information that Mycroft had, he could have expected anything from a traumatic amputation to a coma while he was on his way to the hospital, but Greg was just lying in the treatment room with a minor head injury. Mycroft hadn't even changed out of his loungewear. He was waiting for him at home, not for a call from the emergency department. Greg, on the other hand, was also looking forward to a quiet evening at home, not a grenade thrown at him, but it is what it is. "I'm fine. We'll be going home soon, okay? Don't worry."
Mycroft chuckled quietly into his shoulder and squeezed his hand harder.
"I should be the one to calm you down."
"Me? I'm calm. I'm doing great."
Greg gave a reassuring smile to Mycroft as soon as he raised his head and arched his eyebrow meaningfully, pointing at his head and arm, and Greg rolled his eyes in amusement, but the movement caused his head to explode in pain. Mycroft immediately frowned in sympathy.
"It's better not to move at all," he muttered quietly.
"Oh, come on. It'll heal before the wedding."
"It better be. It's in a month, and you're not going to marry me with bruises, do you understand?"
At that moment, the doctor and nurse finally entered, and Mycroft had to give up his place next to Greg, which he did with a comical expression of displeasure on his face.
Unfortunately, this also meant that the elder Holmes took notice of John, still standing in mild shock, and Sherlock, staring in disbelief at the scene, which he had not noticed before. Mycroft was able to regain his haughty and cold demeanor in seconds, but John felt that in this case, he did so only to cover up the awkwardness that flashed across his face when he finally remembered that he and Greg were not alone in the treatment room.
"I've been informed that you're both in good health, but still..." he began, pulling his coat closed over his chest, as if there was something indecent about wearing casual at-home clothes instead of a three-piece suit.
"Yes," John cleared his throat and tried not to stare too hard and too openly. "Yes, we're fine. We just came with Greg. We didn't know that he, um... had someone to call."
"Lestrade," Sherlock finally said. "Seriously, Mycroft? No, forget it," he said, and raised his voice so that he could be heard across the room. "Seriously, Lestrade? Mycroft, of all people?"
"Shut up, Sherlock," he replied good-naturedly, above the commotion of his injured hand.
"I knew you were hiding something," Sherlock muttered. "And I knew Lestrade was seeing someone. But you've hidden it quite well. Surprisingly good work."
Mycroft rolled his eyes. It was only a five out of ten, really, he usually did better. Perhaps it was because he couldn't take his eyes off the needle as it was used to stitch up Greg's wound.
"Jesus, thank you," he replied absently. "You're as generous with your compliments as always."
"You're welcome," Sherlock replied, also without his usual sarcasm, and they all fell silent.
The silence continued when, a few minutes later, the doctor left the nurse to finish the work and sent Mycroft to fill out the paperwork so that Greg could be taken home. He returned with a bag of medicine, a printed copy of the instructions and direction to return immediately if Greg felt worse, just as the nurse was finishing applying the bandages.
"Will I live?" Greg asked cheerfully. Now that it had been confirmed that nothing too serious had happened and that he could go, all he wanted to do was go home and sleep. His mood, which had been ruined by the grenade, had improved again.
"We'll see," said Mycroft. "You'd better follow these recommendations, or..."
"Yes, yes, you won't marry me, I heard."
"That's not what I said."
"So you will?"
Mycroft looked at him as if he were a not-so-bright but charming child that he unfortunately had to put up with. Greg's smile only grew brighter. The nurse next to them clearly suppressed a laugh and, after finishing with the bandage, quickly gathered her things and left.
"Get up and let me take you home, Gregory."
Despite the annoyance he was so determined to feign, Mycroft was quick to be at Greg's side as he began to rise from the table, taking his arm in a gesture of support, light and casual. Greg accepted it just as casually.
Sherlock, unusually quiet and calm, silently followed them out of the hospital, and even intercepted Greg at the exit when it became clear that he was only able to stand on his feet without swaying or stumbling because of Mycroft, who needed to walk to the parking lot and bring his car closer to the doors. The brothers exchanged glances, and the elder brother only nodded slightly in response to the gesture.
"Do you need a ride?" he asked before leaving.
"We'll take a cab," Sherlock replied.
John stood on the other side of Greg, ready to catch him if he fell, but it wasn't likely to happen. Greg, although not very steady, could stand on his own, and Sherlock was holding him firmly.
"So," John cleared his throat again, wondering if it was even worth trying to talk right now, or if a slightly awkward silence was better. "You, uh..."
Greg snorted merrily. He looked tired and worn, but not worried. He even seemed to find the situation a little amusing.
"Ask already."
John let out a sigh of relief.
"The wedding's in a month? And you've been silent all this time?
There were actually a lot more questions; John just blurted out the first thing that came to mind. It was all so surreal that he suddenly wanted to know everything, even though he knew it wasn't any of his business.
"It's not really a wedding. We're just getting married. Nothing big or fancy."
"They've been dating for a year," Sherlock interjected. "I assume that successful relationships usually lead to marriage."
"A year, as you've noticed," Greg muttered, and laughed softly at Sherlock's incredulous and indignant expression. "Yes, it's been longer. And, seriously, a "successful relationship"? Who even says that?"
"Sherlock Holmes, obviously," John shrugged.
He looked at Greg thoughtfully, going over the last few months in his head, taking into account the new information he had learned. Greg did seem happier. He was more peaceful, more cheerful. He smiled more often, and he no longer had the terrible dark circles under his eyes from overwork and lack of sleep. And Mycroft, although John didn't see him often enough, had also changed in a similar way. Or maybe it was just John's perception now that he knew. It's easy to speak after the fact, when you have all the information in your hands. And Greg and Mycroft really hid everything well, since even Sherlock didn't understand anything.
But that wasn't what mattered.
"Congratulations," John said, and in the silence that followed, it sounded a little strange. "Seriously, I'm happy for you. For both of you."
Greg, however, smiled back at him sincerely.
"Thanks."
"Mycroft's changed," Sherlock remarked quietly, his tone and expression betraying his confusion. "I haven't seen him this..." when he couldn't find the right word after a brief pause, he awkwardly concluded, "like this in a long time. I thought he didn’t have that in him anymore"
"It's always been there," Greg simply retorted. "You don't remember. He only allowed himself to fuss over you when you were unconscious," they all remained silent about the reasons, but John could only imagine the number of times Mycroft had found himself at Sherlock's bedside in hospitals before they met. Greg had obviously witnessed many of those occasions. He wondered how long it had been since Mycroft had begun to trust Greg to witness such things. "He... Sherlock, your brother..." Greg took a deep breath, as if the things he couldn’t articulate were a heavy weight on him. "I don't know how to say it. But he's an incredible man with a huge heart. Once he lets you get close enough for you to see beyond his facade, it's..."
At that moment, Mycroft appeared around the corner. He walked quickly back to Greg, taking him by the arm again, and Sherlock moved back a little on the other side when his support was no longer needed.
"I brought the car as close as possible, but we'll have to walk a little," Mycroft said, glancing at Greg, who was standing with an expression of extreme affection on his face, and then looking suspiciously at Sherlock and John. John thought they had really foolish faces. He would have tried to hide it if he hadn't known that it would make him look even worse. "What were you talking about?"
"About you," Greg let it all out, either because he was disoriented due to a head injury and drowsiness, or because he just thought they all hadn't been embarrassed enough for the evening.
"About me," Mycroft repeated unimpressed, his gaze somewhere between "tell me immediately" and "I really don't want to know."
"I'll tell you at home," Greg promised, and turned to John and Sherlock. "I guess I'll see you soon."
Mycroft didn't object. He sighed quietly and gently guided Greg back the way he had come, nodding to both Sherlock and John in farewell.
"Doctor Watson. Sherlock."
"Mycroft."
John watched them walk away into the darkness of the evening, illuminated by the bright lights of the emergency department and the flashing lights of the nearby ambulances, and he felt a strange sensation that he couldn't quite define. He turned to look at Sherlock, who was also watching them go, uncharacteristically silent and thoughtful.
"Shall we?" John broke the silence, nodding towards the main road. Sherlock had always had a knack for hailing cabs, and they could both think in the back of a car on the way home, rather than at the entrance to the emergency department.
"Yes," Sherlock agreed absently.
And they went away too.