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Mycroft handed his phone to Anthea, placing the broad outline of his disguise into a leather messenger bag from the not insignificant office storeroom. Once Anthea returned and had handed him a second – scrubbed – phone, they stood one behind the other in front of the mirror. Her eyes met his briefly as he un-self-consciously stripped off his shirt and held up his arms for her.
“Brunette?” She checked unnecessarily, retrieving the bottle with unerring fingers setting to work changing the colour of his body hair. As ever, her nose wrinkled slightly at the changed scent.
Mycroft Holmes was a man of refinement; if he smelled of anything it was a gentle whiff of citrus and sandalwood. The man before her now smelled like he had chosen his body wash, deodorant, and after shave with no consideration as to whether arctic freeze would blend at all well with vanilla and oud, let alone the (probably cheap) after-shave. “Calvin Klein are very popular” Mycroft’s refined voice chided her.
“Perhaps not when blended with such strong body wash Sir.” Anthea switched sides, briskly working around his torso and arms, blotting his skin dry when she returned to the left side.
Mycroft’s thin mouth turned up ever so slightly as he acknowledged the truth of her words, but he had no need to explain the need for a complete subterfuge to her. They had spent many hours deciding if this was the best use of his time, if there were alternatives, how to make this work. Their quiet banter was really just a way for her to say she was worried for him. “I apologise for Tony’s poor choices.” He smirked at her, and relaxed when she smirked back. She didn’t speak though, merely pulled over a pale, lightly freckled, piece of technology, lying it in on the small table in front of him.
“These get more and more undetectable.” Mycroft – Tony – praised. It wasn’t her work, but she felt a burst of pride in her Sam’s ability to keep up with Mycroft’s exceptional standards.
“We’re lucky you don’t go in for sunbathing Sir.” She quipped.
“Even if I did, I don’t think I’d tan under my arm.” He returned evenly, watching her competent actions in the mirror, attaching the tiny personal locator beacon to him. “The blisters would be horrific.”
Anthea, blessed with perfectly normal skin that did not blister so much as tan a golden bronze, rolled her eyes and triple-checked the beacon was able to pick up on the sweat that would activate it.
A stress-activated ELB that transmitted after two minutes in a highly stressful situation, or on a brisk double tap once the sweat and increased heart rate put it into standby, was a great thing to include in the risk register when sending the British Government out for a stroll to a terrorists’ hot spot. Not that there were any terrorists there at the moment, but you don’t get to be an old spy by trusting these things.
Together, they regard his body, the darkened hair on his head, his face, his torso. He could do his legs at the safehouse.
Turning away from the mirror he pocketed the phone full of photos of his cover story (two dogs, a girlfriend, mates) and shook Anthea’s hand. “Don’t get swept away in excitement and promise Mrs Obama anything” he warned, “if the PM wants to talk about Iran tell him he should be focusing on Crimea instead. For heaven’s sake don’t let him over-react to Ebola.”
She nodded seriously, glad to hear her assessment of priorities agreed with his. “There’s capacity for covert searching in Nigeria and Syria” she reminded him, “not that I’ll tell Mrs Obama that. Don’t be too long.”
“Only a day.” He promised. Briskly buttoning his shirt, he bent to change his shoes for the sort of sneakers that looked more at home in a Silicon Valley investor, then slung the messenger bag over his shoulder.
“Nobody will look twice,” she nodded.
He nodded back, already sure, stepping out the back door to the tube station.
Once Mycroft had gone, Anthea set about tidying the office and preparing herself a proper cup of coffee. Sherlock may or may not try registering a complaint against his brother once he realised a safe house had been used, but quite frankly Anthea was not particularly concerned. Sherlock had never been high on her list of priorities, except for the obvious fondness her employer felt for the overgrown boy. On the off chance the man-boy did come in person to complain, the trick of putting some things in the wrong place would give him something interesting to deduce for a while. It should calm him down a little.
Sure of herself, confident in Mycroft’s competency, Anthea happily settled at her own desk for an enjoyable ten minute coffee break. Ebola, Nigeria, and the Ukraine weren’t so pressing that she couldn’t sip a coffee and enjoy one of Mycroft’s biscuits.
***
Tony Harmon was surveying himself in the mirror of his brother’s safe house. Instead of Mycroft’s height and fairness, Tony was shorter and brunette (yes, all over). He was wearing the casual baggy jeans and rugby shirt usual in this part of London, paired perfectly with the sneakers and a cap from the stock of costumes Sherlock maintained.
As far as he could tell, Mycroft was indistinguishable from any other middle-aged man limping through a half-day’s work by taking a stroll through some shops. Pocketing his new phone and wallet, lighter thrown carelessly in with half a packet of smokes into his other pocket, Tony nodded and strolled onto the side street. It was not surprising at all for Mycroft to see a homeless man rummaging in his blankets as Tony wandered past, but Tony was not the sort of man who would notice such a thing, so he continued strolling. Even when trying to save the world, one’s brother had to be overcome.
Tony meandered along, stopping for a smoke once he got to the corner of Abercorne Place. A man out for a healthy walk would turn left now, but Tony was not out for a healthy walk. He was just a man wandering about to keep out of the house while his girlfriend was trying to work on her pyramid scheme. Pushing away from the shop, cigarette finished, Tony made his aimless way to the home of a man who, unless stopped, would soon be all over the news.
Mycroft was not particularly concerned about people being in the news, but he would rather it didn’t happen because of the gruesome and unnecessary deaths of presumably innocent people.
Tony knew he was getting closer with the increasing Arabic on the walls. Tony, of course, did not read or speak Arabic. But he could recognise it. Most people could, these days, and a lot more people would over the next few months and years.
He knew there wasn’t time to wait for the street to be entirely empty, so as naturally as possible he went around the back of a set of up-market flats. They were the sort of flats that indicated high-middle class aspirations. Immaculate pocket-handkerchief-sized back lawns ran along the rear of the buildings. Tony slithered briskly along the edge of one and fetched up at the back door. He knocked, smiled to himself, and briskly let himself in with a collection of lock picks that would make anyone jealous.
When he made it to the study it was immediately obvious this was indeed the treasure trove they’d hoped for. Shedding his persona to work more quickly, Mycroft set to striding around the room absorbing the data. Pages upon pages of notes, of darknet messenger handles, computers bursting with data that hastily copied itself onto his data stick, photo frames showing a growing network of supporters and actors. Not for the first time, Mycroft despaired of ever stopping people like this from leaving the UK, and saw again the tension between monitoring a threat and forcing someone into it because they understood the government doesn’t trust them.
The bare bones of the story (isolation, denigration, found-family, hope) were commonplace. Mycroft was just wishing the story didn’t result in financing and supporting terrorism. The details of the story were unfolding around him, writing themselves into the file in his mind office as clearly as if the man responsible were sitting there telling him everything. The fact this particular hotbed of violent extremism hadn’t been moved yet hopefully meant they felt safe enough to continue the current plan. Mycroft didn’t want attacks on major entertainment events, and he certainly didn’t want attacks on commuters, but if they were being planned somewhere they could be monitored easily then it would be almost simple to prevent them.
The details of financial support into Syria copied itself into Mycroft’s data stick. The identities of individuals in training camp photos copied themselves into Mycroft’s brain. In fact, the only piece of information that Mycroft missed was the unlocking of the front door. In his defence it was muffled by the delicate ‘bong’ of the data stick ejecting itself.
Mycroft managed to hear the shutting of the front door, at least. His mind went about ten directions at once.
One started calculating the odds until the man discovered the back door was open (left open for an easy exit). One part of him pocketed and packaged up the information and locked it into his brain. One part of him flashed a look around the room and searched for hiding places. Much of the rest of his brain calculated the likely movements of the man. Would he come into the study to work? Would he settle into the kitchen – and thus block the back door? Would he need to use the facilities? While considering these options, Mycroft launched himself into the most beneficial hiding place.
From the relative safety of the back of the sofa, Mycroft could hear the sounds of a kettle being set to boil, and quailed. Moments later, there was the distinctive creak of stairs, and footsteps crept closer. Put on a cuppa and get to work Mycroft deduced. Never had he been more glad to be wrong. The steps continued on to the master bedroom.
Change, use the facilities he amended, even as he was creeping down the stairs. He heard the toilet flushing rattle the pipes as he passed into the kitchen. A distant part of him realised the swine wasn’t washing his hands – there was no sound of the basin taps running. Regretting the extra seconds that would have given him, and more than a little disgusted, Mycroft slipped out of the backdoor and raced around the edge of the building for the front and freedom.
Tony was soon stepping out of the side gate as though he had every reason to be there. Hands in pockets, he easily adopted the shambling walk of a man with nowhere very important to be. Back down Abercorn Pl, then right onto Maida Vale. There ahead of him was a growing number of people bunching around St George’s school. He remained alert as he approached what seemed to him an obvious place to change whoever might be following him. Just because you can’t see anything doesn’t mean you’re clean an old instructors’ voice sounded in his brain. Moving slowly through the crowd, he spied at least two men who seemed as uncomfortable as he felt, keeping an eye on them as he pushed further on to Kilburn Park station.
Once he’d turned onto Randolph Gardens, one corner later, he checked his watch, swore, and picked up the pace for the local underground. Kilburn Park was his next stop. He could almost sense the old-fashioned building looming past the old church and five-story tenements.
The final process for checking he was ‘clean’ relied rather heavily on public transport. Timing it perfectly, he intended to sweep in one entrance, dodge a busker or two, and meld seamlessly into the crowd flowing up the steps on the other side of the road.
He turned to his left, intending to cross the grass to the church and head up Rudolph Rd. As he was crossing the road, Tony heard footsteps behind him. A cold chill flashed down his spine half a second before a cold press of steel flashed down his upper thigh.
The hot searing pain was a shocking contrast.
His entire awareness narrowed to his left upper thigh. Everything hurt. Or maybe he was only able to focus on his left thigh. Everything hurt.
He was turning as he was falling, pushing himself towards the safety of the footpath. He at least had the presence of mind to lock an image of the fleeing figure in his brain before rolling in on himself and scrabbling for his belt.
Thick, sluggish, streams of red blood forced their way between his fingers. The concrete was rapidly being painted red. With his left hand clutching his thigh, he was ripping his belt out with his right. High and tight a voice that sounded a lot like his old medical instructor murmured in his head. High and tight as you can make it. It had been three seconds since he was stabbed. Nearly too long. There was too much adrenaline for the pain to be a living thing yet, but he was dimly aware that it would come, if he managed to ever get the belt high and tight above the wound.
Everything hurt.
With blood-slick hands he was wrestling the belt around the crease of his thigh. Dimly hearing the harsh rasping of breath in his own throat. Shock is your biggest enemy the instructor in his head stated. He pulled as tightly as he could, gritting his teeth, pulling some more. The belt was cheaply made and had far more holes than necessary. The smallest one was enough to keep the pressure on. He couldn’t tell if the bleeding was slowing because he had no more blood or if he’d succeeded. Helplessly, he was trying to tighten the belt further. His world narrowed. All he could hear was faint gasping for breath.
All he could feel was white-hot pain.
If Mycroft had had time for thinking about what was happening he would be reminding himself that his emergency beacon would be already sending for a backup team to respond. Probably with bags of blood and a proper tourniquet to deal with the stab wound until the actual work could be done at the nearest ER. But all he could think about was that moment. The next breath. Fighting to survive.
Dimly, Mycroft felt the pain increasing.
Through the rasping of his lungs, he heard a familiar voice telling him to hold on. Apologising for the pain. Telling him the pain was necessary. He may have grunted, but then again he may not have had the breath.
The next change was easier to understand. Brisk hands cutting away his shirt and sending more blood into his emaciated body. A no-nonsense voice telling someone not to move.
As if Mycroft possibly could!
The next snapshots were all jumbled: sirens wailing on a passing ambulance that seemed to keep pace with him; a mask pushing into his face; the pain dulling miraculously; the full feeling of blood flowing through him; a blessed sinking into oblivion; white corridors and beeping machines flowing past; a startled, familiar, voice that seemed to be calling for his brother.
***
It was not until he was lying in a bed while a nurse urged him to wake up that he felt partially up to the task of working out what had happened. “Do you know what day it is love?” she asked, regarding him with some suspicion.
Mycroft took a moment to listen to the corridors and check there were no windows. “Early Saturday morning.”
She looked slightly startled, but nodded. “That’s right. Just gone one. Now you just use this and show me everything is working and I’ll let you get back to sleep.” She indicated the bedpan with a ferocity that made Mycroft wonder if Anthea had a sister.
Duty done, Mycroft was allowed to sleep as best he could. He managed, in fact, to sleep all the way through until morning rounds. There was little interest in a simple knife wound, though the doctor did compliment him on managing to create a tourniquet. The rest of the short check was spent on making sure he wasn’t bleeding internally, and checking there was no sign of infection.
It wasn’t until breakfast was served that Mycroft was fully wishing for his usual private room. The man opposite was slurping porridge right out of the bowl. The man to his right was punctuating his spoonsful with a monologue on the sanctity of the body and the dangers of the NHS. It was with some trepidation that Mycroft covertly checked to his left; a teen sat there regarding him with the cool curiosity of the young. He appeared normal, and relatively healthy. Mycroft raised one brown eyebrow at the hypocritical right-hand neighbour. The teen smirked and nodded, took a contemplative bite of his own breakfast, then looked back over at Mycroft. By the time breakfast was cleared and they were awaiting visiting hours, the two had struck up an easy conversation.
Frank was halfway through explaining that it was his first stay here, and was about to tell Tony what he was in for, when the door of the ward was propped open and a stream of visitors began traipsing into the ward. Every one of the ten beds was full, and all but one of the ten beds had visitors. Mycroft hadn’t expected any, especially as he was still acting as Tony, so it was no surprise to him when the initial chattering crowds swept in and surrounded the more competent patients. It was a slight surprise when his right-hand neighbour was surrounded by four apparently doting grandchildren, but much more of a surprise when Frank looked up from talking with his mother and beamed a smile which was achingly familiar. Following his gaze Mycroft experienced a flash of genuine surprise. The familiar voice from yesterday walked through the door and straight towards his son.
“Gidday lad.”
“Gidday Da” Frank Lestrade grinned, letting his father’s hand rest briefly on his shoulder.
“Greg”
“Hello” Lestrade replied neutrally. Mycroft applauded his ability to face his ex-wife so calmly. “How’s it going in here?” With an easy sweep of his foot, Greg pulled the visitors chair closer and plopped into it, obviously trying not to embarrass his son and just as obviously worried about his wellbeing. Mycroft had already thought this was Frank’s first stay in the men’s ward, and this behaviour confirmed it. No doubt quite different to the children’s or women’s wards, but Frank was doing well as far as Mycroft could tell. He certainly seemed as at home as anyone else in the room.
“It’s good.” Stella Lestrade rolled her eyes at their child’s taciturnity but Greg took it in his stride.
“That’s good. Sounds like you’ll be out tomorrow anyway.”
Stella rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. Mycroft by this point was deep in an exchange with Anthea about extraction plans, but he could see Stella’s antics out of the corner of his eye.
“Isn’t it good Frank’ll be out tomorrow?” Greg’s tone remained perfectly even. As far as Stella was concerned he could have been stabbing a finger into her chest; she hissed shrilly at him. “I have to work tomorrow! Have you forgotten? We don’t all work Monday to Friday.”
To Mycroft’s slight amusement, Greg and Frank both took six seconds to compose themselves. Mycroft wasn’t sure if Frank had learnt that from studying the man most present in his life, or if it was something he had always done. Either way, it clearly tied the two of them together and Mycroft felt another smile forming at seeing Gregory Lestrade as an excellent father.
“I thought if Frank wanted he could come stay at mine, at least till you’re home. He shouldn’t be alone, and I don’t want you fretting at work. It’s not really that much further to uni from mine.”
Frank nodded, clearly preferring to be with his Father while he was recovering. Stella grumbled and shifted but eventually acquiesced. With poor grace she flounced off to fetch them tea, and Mycroft couldn’t help turn his head and wink at Frank.
Frank winked back, and Gregory Lestrade turned, his cheerful greeting failing on his lip. “You!”
“Me” Tony returned, with a shy smile. “I didn’t want to interrupt.” To Frank he explained, “Your Da saved my life. He’s the one who kept the tourniquet on.”
Frank whistled low. He stared wide-eyed at his Father. Mycroft recognised the look of awe and hero-worship from when Sherlock was a lad. Greg was blushing under the scrutiny. “This homeless guy dragged me along when I was heading to the tube.”
Mycroft smiled at this example of familial love. Sherlock might wish him dead, but not by the hands of a knife-wielding aspiring terrorist. Either that or there really was a random homeless man who happened upon a policeman in the ten seconds Mycroft had to bleed out. If it had happened in a story, Mycroft would have put it down in disgust and muttered about consequences. In real life, the universe was of course never so lazy.
“How fortuitous.” Mycroft fell easily into his own speech patterns, and had the pleasure of watching Greg conduct a theatrical double-take.
“Mycroft?!”
Nodding, Mycroft covered his hair with one hand, adopting a precise power pose and squinting slightly. Greg laughed in disbelief, turning eagerly to Frank. “It’s Mycroft Holmes.” He gestured excitedly, slapping Frank’s shoulder lightly when he didn’t seem to be that interested. “Sherlock’s big brother. More powerful, not as much as a dick.”
“Still annoys someone enough to get stabbed.” Frank pointed out, deadpan and not entirely untruthfully. Greg looked mortified; Mycroft rolled his eyes and allowed it.
“I may have been inside someone’s house without their permission.”
Frank looked more interested at this point, sitting forward then remembering his ribs and hand and gasping in pain. Recovered, he asked eagerly about the whole adventure. Mycroft, to Greg’s surprise, wove the whole into a plausible story that made it sound more adventuresome and related to solving a small domestic crime that Sherlock was working on. Greg knew there must be something terribly wrong for Mycroft Holmes to be sitting in a public hospital’s trauma ward, but for now he was glad to see the two men he liked most in the world getting along so well.
Stella returned three-quarters of the way through the tale and managed to radiate disapproval while doing nothing more than applying lipstick. Mycroft thought Anthea did it better, but was too polite to say so. As though thinking of the super-woman who ran his life could summon her, his phone buzzed discretely. “Apologies” Mycroft waited for Greg to nod before answering the call. When he looked up again the three Lestrade’s were drinking their tea and talking lightly of nothing in particular.
Anthea’s voice was slightly blurred at the edges, as though many things had happened at once. Mycroft reminded himself that while he had been sleeping through an operation and then recovery, Anthea probably spent a fretful night trying to find out when he could be moved, whether the hideout he had visited was being abandoned, and probably May’s increasing need to change the terror threat level. “You’re fine where you are.” Anthea opened with. Mycroft nearly rolled his eyes at her need to reassure him; logically he would not be having this conversation with her if she felt moving him were necessary. “St Mary’s is used to that sort of injury. I’ll put you in the usual meetings on Monday.”
Mycroft appreciated her secure way of assuring him of the time he could expect to be out by. No matter the infancy of the Investigatory Powers Bill, the chances of anyone electronically eavesdropping without being noticed was very slight. Very slight was still enough to inspire caution.
“I shall see you on Monday.” He confirmed, “If you could drop a device off here I could do more than just text you.”
“You’re still recovering from the anaesthetic. I’ll give you a device tomorrow.” She countered. He could imagine her flinty eyes. “I’ll take Tuesday off.” She added, responding to the intent of his request.
“Very well. Would you be so kind as to send a small gift to my brother?”
Of course she knew. Anthea was really the most competent human he had met. “I am not your gopher.”
“If you’d prefer I shall get out of bed right now and deliver it myself.”
“I’ll send it around with Artemis; I’m sure Dr Watson had something to do with his desire to help.”
“You all take far too much joy in coming up with these ridiculous names.”
“It’s tradition.”
Mycroft couldn’t argue with the truth. “I shall let you tell Artemis the good news then.”
“Say hi to Lestrade for me” Anthea chirped brightly, before ringing off. Mycroft glowered at the phone.
Gradually the visitors stood and shuffled towards the door, encouraged by the arrival of dinner. Stella swept out as though reprieved from watching paint dry.
As the suspiciously grey slop was put atop Frank’s lap, Greg chuckled. “Well, I’m going to go make a steak. Look after yourself lad, I’ll see you tomorrow yeah?”
Frank was looking as doubtful as Mycroft at the offering for dinner. “Yeah Da.” He glanced over at Mycroft, then gave a teen’s awkward shrug goodbye. Mycroft wondered why Greg was flushing again.
The detective stood awkwardly between the two beds, but he was facing Mycroft. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Mycroft gestured at the stitching and neat dressing running the length of his thigh, “not yet, anyway.” Very deliberately he held Gregory’s gaze, then held out his right hand. “Thank you.”
“It’s okay.” Greg shook it, then muttered, “I didn’t know it was you.” His mouth seemed to run away on him, but thankfully he remained still, absently holding Mycroft’s hand.
Mycroft wasn’t about to take it back.
“I mean. I’d have done it if it was you. You know that. But…I just did it. This guy dragged me along muttering Sherlock’s name and there was this guy who I helped. Figured if Sherlock’s network was in on it, it must’ve been bloody important.”
“It felt important to me.” Mycroft agreed softly. He squeezed Greg’s hand then let go. “Thank you.” He repeated, simply.
“You’re welcome. Glad it worked out.” Greg went to turn away then asked, “Thought your guys’d be there faster. You’re lucky I was skiving off at the market.”
Theory confirmed (sunny day, walk from the prison to the market, take the tube – just as fast as driving), Mycroft raised one shoulder in a conscious attempt to be ‘easy to read’. “Nobody expected that much trouble.” He didn’t feel like explaining that technically he would still be alive if Greg hadn’t happened along, because although he would be he certainly wouldn’t be sitting up in bed talking about it.
“Fair enough.” He looked as though he wanted to say something more, but the visitors were being ushered out so he just nodded – once to Mycroft, once to Frank – and headed out the door. Mycroft returned to the dinner with little interest but determination to be let out on the morrow.
The last coherent thought Mycroft had was a grudging acknowledgement that Anthea had been correct, and the anaesthesia was still in his system. Unfortunately, as with all sleeps in hospital, his night was broken with neighbours shouting, nurses working, and the nagging feeling that he should hurt more than he did.
Breakfast was a repeat of the day before, complete with slurping and monologue, but at least Frank was there to talk with. Mycroft was enjoying their easy conversation and as far as he could tell Frank did as well, although occasionally he would look at Mycroft as though he were a puzzle. The third time that happened, Mycroft decided to speak. Placing his phone by his pillow, he shifted to eye the young man. “Is there something you’d like to ask me, Frank?”
Bright red but determined, Frank nodded. “Da says you’re really smart” – Mycroft knew they’d been texting about him – “But you haven’t asked me anything about…well. Why I’m here.”
Not how Mycroft expected the question to be asked, but not unreasonable. “You told me your football game had ended in a poor tackle, and you’re lucky to be here since you’ll want a full recovery before starting hands-on training next semester. I naturally assumed that as a young man needing high quality trauma care you were sent to St Mary’s.”
Something in what Mycroft had said obviously struck a chord with Frank, because he looked at Mycroft in the same way he’d looked at his Da the day before. Hesitantly, he whispered, “But you can see everything…”
“I see the nearly-grown son of my friend, who’s going to be a hard-working Detective and refuse to cash in on the name of his Father. That is who you are now. If I turned up to work tomorrow and told everyone to call me Michelle I would expect them to do so. I naturally extend you the same basic courtesy.” He didn’t think this was the time to quote the law that made it so.
“But you can get everyone to do what you want.” Frank seemed exceptionally well-informed for someone who’d met him so recently. Mycroft would have to have words with Gregory.
“Not everyone.” He murmured, “And besides, manipulating people isn’t the basis for healthy relationships. It should only be done for an immediate purpose.” That seemed to quiet the lad, and Mycroft returned to planning his week in peace.
He had got as far as mentally setting aside his suit for Thursday’s formal luncheon when Frank spoke again, voice raised over the incoming tide of visitors. “You wouldn’t have to do more than ask. He’s nuts about you.”
Mycroft almost gave himself whiplash so quickly did he look up. As he did so Gregory came in bearing three cups of tea and a relieved grin. “Who’s nuts about you?” He asked faux-casually, handing Mycroft a tea and giving Frank the last cup.
“You are, apparently.” Even though it was double-cupped, Mycroft’s hands still burnt on the warm cardboard and he twisted awkwardly to put the cup down. It meant he missed Greg’s first shock, but it was clear to see still when he looked up.
“Frank Gregory Lestrade. I am very disappointed in you.” Frank did at least have the grace to look abashed, but he did not apologise. “We don’t make assumptions about sexuality and we certainly don’t share things that were talked about in private.”
Mycroft coughed lightly. “Perhaps this once it was not a terrible thing to do. Gregory.” The two Lestrade’s were either too distracted or too polite to point out how much his hand was shaking. Holding his gaze, Greg took it. He seemed stunned, in fact huffed a laugh. “This’d be easier if you looked more…you.” He explained, but he still sat on the edge of Mycroft’s bed holding his hand and talking quietly about his hopes for their future.
Even when Greg turned to talk with his son, he kept a hand on Mycroft. It was hard to maintain an icy façade, so Mycroft took comfort in knowing he looked like Tony and nobody else would recognise him. “What about staying the night at Mycroft’s tonight?”
Frank didn’t look particularly surprised. “You’ve probably got some huge mansion right?”
“A substantial town house.” Mycroft admitted, then with a devilish wink that had Greg falling in love with him right there, “Big enough you won’t have to listen to your Dad and I.”
The teen laughed and nodded, endearing himself to Mycroft as he added, “But seriously, I’ve got to get to East London Uni for a 9am lecture Monday.”
“That close to the airport, Mycroft’ll get you a plane.” Greg joked, rolling his eyes when Mycroft tutted gently. They grinned at each other like lovestruck fools – well, Greg grinned, Mycroft smiled slightly – then Mycroft looked across at Frank. “I’m in Westminster this week. There’s the tube or I can lend you a driver to get you there, to save your ribs.”
“That’d be great. Ta.” The three men settled into quiet contemplation, either of each other or their phone, and enjoyed a brief moment of peace before the nurse came around to confirm Frank and Tony could be released. Mycroft alerted his driver of the two extra people, and deftly led the way out to the car, never mind the crutches. Greg filed that away as a question for later, grinning again at the idea of there being a later.
Once they were inside Mycroft’s house, Frank redeemed himself fully by disappearing off to explore. He was so quick that Mycroft was able to prop himself against the wall and fulfil a long-held fantasy of sliding his fingers into Gregory’s hair and guiding him up for a kiss in the hallway. They remained there, tangled in each other, until Mycroft eventually sighed gently and rested his forehead against Gregory’s. “I know we need to sit and talk about all sorts of things if we’re to make this work,” he murmured, “But I’d love to savour this time with you first.”
Gregory’s blinding smile was answer enough, but it was backed up by the abandon with which he threw himself down on the couch and held out his arms for Mycroft. Once he was settled, Greg took his own chance to sweep his fingers through Mycroft’s hair. “This’ll wash out, right?”
Mycroft nodded and Greg stood, managing not to bump his partner’s leg in the process. “Sounds like it’s time for a shower!”
“It is nearly dinner time, Gregory.”
“You’ve been stuck in that bed for days. And it’s really distracting not seeing you look like you. You even smell different.” Greg wrinkled his nose, “hospital I guess.”
“Undercover.” Mycroft allowed himself to be helped upright, “I suppose there are certain benefits to showering. After all, I might fall over if I’m left alone.”
Gregory’s low laugh lingered, carrying him through the frustration of stairs and into the delight of seeing his surprise when the carpet matched the drapes.
“I take things very seriously” Mycroft half-warned, half-teased.
“I’m counting on it.” Gregory returned, taping plastic around the bandage and passing Mycroft the detachable shower head, “I look forward to experiencing your attention to detail in person.” He added, turning on the tap.
Mycroft, usually so careful and attentive, managed to fumble the shower head and spray Gregory. “Oops” he murmured, as Gregory peeled off his wet shirt. “How unfortunate.”
Neither of them seemed too upset.