fic for monkiainen: The Bonds of Government Work (4/4)
4.
The less said about the Melas affair, the better. It was the one time in his entire career that Greg wished he had listened to Mycroft and his higher-ups, and left the whole thing alone. Some cases weren’t worth investigating and should remain closed for good reasons.
Greg had thought he’d known that, but the Melas affair taught him better.
It had begun as an ordinary John Doe case, which were always unfortunate but most of the time they were able to identify the people in the end. The body of an older Mediterranean man had washed downriver into central London, wearing clothes but with no identifying marks or identification. They’d taken down everything they could at the scene then set about working to identify the man.
The always-reliable Molly Hooper at the hospital morgue who performed the man’s autopsy turned out to be a wealth of information. She discovered the man was Greek, and in his mid-40s. He had died of asphyxiation and oxygen deprivation several days ago, but she wasn’t able to be more specific since the river had deteriorated the body so thoroughly. His body had drifted in from somewhere outside London, and he had some kind of inked design on his upper arm.
So with all of that information, Greg and his team started to investigate. Which was when the strange things started to happen.
First they looked through the recent missing persons; but none of them matched their John Doe’s description. Greg went to the Greek consulate, since the man could possibly be a Greek citizen; but the official Greg talked to, after hours of waiting, refused to confirm or deny the man’s existence. Although Greg noticed he did react to the picture Greg showed him, looking a little alarmed and worried.
When it was obvious they weren’t getting anywhere with identifying the man, Greg was tempted to contact Sherlock and see if the boy could get anywhere finding out who the man was. But it turned out Sherlock and John Watson was busy with another case involving mysterious deaths and graffiti, working with another DI.
They were left on their own to solve the mystery of the man’s identity, trying to figure out where he’d come from and running every possible search against every possible database.
Without any results. It was as if the man didn’t exist.
Then the next day Greg was called up by the Chief Superintendent and warned in no uncertain terms to stop investigating the man, to close and bury the case. Someone was obviously influencing the Chief Superintendent into warning him off, and Greg was expected to fall in line.
Greg replied with platitudes and reassurances that he’d heard and understood the situation. Which meant he was allowed to leave the glass-walled overly fancy office that made him incredibly uncomfortable and return to his comfortable, cramped, paper-stacked office.
Where he promptly called Donovan into his office for an update on the latest about the case. Which was basically nothing.
Since there was nothing more they could do, Greg and his team took the rest of the day off. All they could do was wait for some kind of lead to turn up now. Otherwise there was nothing more they could really do. They might actually have to close the case and leave him unidentified forever.
Greg went home, and spent the entire night on the sofa with a beer in one hand and watched mindless television. He kept his mobile at hand on the cushion next to him; partially in hope he’d get word of a break in the case, and also in case Mycroft happened to contact him. Since Greg knew Mycroft was more than just a minor government official and actually knew about everything that went on in the government.
But his mobile remained silent on both accounts the entire night. Greg actually fell asleep in front of the television, and only woke up when the alarm on his phone went off ridiculously early.
When he managed to dress himself and make toast so he couldn’t be nagged about eating, Greg went into the office. Sally was already there at her desk, doing something on her computer. He barely managed to grab a coffee (the office filth still counted) and unlock his office, before Sally jumped on him.
Turned out they had gotten a notification from the Home Office earlier with a match for their mystery man to a recent immigration entry into the UK from Greece. Sally even conveniently had a photocopy of the man’s passport. The visa detailed he was a Greek citizen but was traveling to the UK for undisclosed government work. The photograph roughly matched the John Doe they were investigating, after a few days swim in the river following being suffocated.
So they were finally able to identify their John Doe as Ezeke Melas, a Greek citizen who had come to the UK three days ago for undisclosed government work. And had disappeared after renting a car at the airport and driving off towards the city.
Greg set Sally on trying to find out what had happened to Melas after he left the airport, and seeing if he had left a trail at all. While he had the more enjoyable task of trying to find someone at the Greek consulate or in the Greek government who would acknowledge the man existed.
Of course when Greg explained why he was calling no one wanted to talk to him, and the few who accepted his call refused to confirm the man’s identity or that he did work with the UK government. So even knowing the man’s identity wasn’t actually helpful.
Sally managed to find several traffic cameras that had caught snapshots of Melas driving away from the airport, but strangely as he got closer to the center of the city where there were even more cameras, they lost track of Melas’ car.
Greg went into his office, slammed the door, and dropped heavily down into the chair behind his desk. There was a headache growing behind his eyes at the constant dead-ended puzzle this case was turning into. He had to get a break in this case, eventually. It just had to happen. He refused to let this case slip through his fingers.
He may have drifted off or it really was a few seconds later that there was an insistent knock on his door.
“Just give me a second, Sally! Take a ten minute break!” Greg shouted in the general direction of the door without lifting his head off his crossed arms on the desk.
He heard the doorknob twist and the door give a soft click as it opened. Apparently Sally needed to be reminded to listen to her betters. But he was too tired at the moment.
“Really, Detective Inspector,” came the familiar amused drawl, “Is this how our police force behaves behind closed doors? For shame.”
Greg jerked upright in his chair, dangerously flinging himself backwards, to see Mycroft standing just inside the door to his office. He was wearing his less fancy outfit sans waistcoat and suit jacket and, umbrella. Greg had thought he carried that everywhere.
“Mycroft? What are you doing here?” Greg asked, standing up and trying to make himself look a little more presentable. Not that Mycroft would really care. “Don’t you have more important secretive government business to be busy doing?”
Mycroft smiled at him, not responding to Greg’s teasing. Instead he raised one hand to reveal a brown paper bag, and gestured with his other hand where he was holding a carrier with two coffee cups in it.
“Mycroft Holmes,” Greg said, skirting around his desk and walked over to Mycroft. “Did you bring me treats?”
“I thought you may enjoy a proper restaurant prepared meal, instead of whatever take away you may be attempting to live on,” Mycroft told him, unfairly moving the coffee carrier away from Greg when he tried to reach for it. “And you obviously need proper coffee.”
“Which you’re currently denying me,” Greg pointed out, trying not to give away how delicious the food from the bag smelled. It was making his mouth water.
“Get your coat, Lestrade. We’re going outside,” Mycroft directed, nodding to where Greg had flung his coat over a coat stand in the corner earlier that day. “And leave your mobile, you can be unavailable for a half hour.”
Greg debated that for the time it took to pull on his coat before finally deciding that Mycroft was probably right. It was only a half hour and he knew Sally could be depended on to take care of anything that may come up.
“All right, lead on,” Greg said, adjusting his coat and slipping his wallet into one of the pockets. He followed Mycroft out of his office and pulled the door closed before joining Mycroft as they exited the building. Sally gave him a slightly worried look as they passed her but Greg just gave her a reassuring smile.
Once they were outside on the street Greg looked around for Mycroft’s black car he expected to be idling nearby. But instead Mycroft continued walking towards the street then turned to walk down the pavement.
After they’d gone an entire block without talking, Greg finally turned to look over at Mycroft and asked, “So, where exactly are we going?”
“The park, I think we would both enjoy some greenery and some quiet,” Mycroft explained without turning his head. “It’s not currently a busy hour so there shouldn’t be much of a crowd.”
Greg nearly stumbled at the idea of Mycroft Holmes voluntarily entering a park, and then had to hurry to catch up as Mycroft continued walking. “So you’re kidnapping me to have lunch and coffee in the park? That’s...new.”
Mycroft’s expression did that strange disquieting shuttering where suddenly he switched from just Mycroft to Mycroft Holmes, the British Government (if Sherlock could be believed). “I thought you might enjoy a good meal and proper coffee, and that the park may be a nice change of scenery. But if you’d rather go somewhere else…”
“No, no!” Greg quickly denied, quickening his pace. It was strange to have to reassure Mycroft when the man was usually so confident about everything. But maybe he was not as experienced in the area of social friendships as he was work acquaintance. Really it would make sense.
They were silent the rest of the way to the park, falling into only slightly awkward silence as they crossed the street and walked through the gates to the park. They didn’t go very far inside, settling down on one of the first benches they saw.
Once they were sitting down Mycroft finally relinquished the coffee to Greg. He quickly snatched up the cup with his name on it and swallowed as much as he could without burning his tongue. It was delicious and worlds away from the swill of the office coffee Greg had been forced to survive on for the last few days.
“Careful Detective Inspector,” Mycroft warned as he pulled container after container out of the bag like some kind of magician. “Your coffee isn’t going anywhere, and if necessary I can always go buy more.”
“You obviously don’t understand the wonders of coffee that isn’t office swill,” Greg scolded, wrapping his hands around the coffee cup. “And I’d watch your own coffee if I were you.”
Mycroft glanced up at him briefly, the edges of his mouth pulling slightly. “Understood.”
From the very bottom of the bag Mycroft pulled out plastic cutlery and napkins, setting them next to the nondescript containers on the bench. “Dig in, Lestrade. I asked for a little of everything from their menu so there should be a variety of options.”
Greg reached out to pull off the top of the container closest to him, and revealed some of the most delicious looking and smelling food Greg had ever seen. “Mycroft, this is amazing. I can’t believe you did this.”
“It was no problem, Lestrade. Anthea had been threatening for several hours to escort me from the office if I continued to work.” Mycroft explained sincerely, beginning to peel off the tops of the other containers. “Briefly joining you for food and coffee here was the compromise we settled on.”
Greg laughed, although he could actually imagine Anthea escorting Mycroft out of whatever building his office was in. Even possibly with force. “Well thank you, it’s nice to see a friendly face. Even from the government.”
“Yes, I’ve heard you haven’t been on very friendly terms with the government lately.” Mycroft said musingly, struggling with unwrapping the utensils from their plastic wrap. “Or with your Chief Superintendent.”
Greg paused with a fork piled with food halfway to his mouth. “How, how did you hear about that?” He asked staring across at Mycroft.
Looking amused Mycroft glanced down at the fork then back up to Greg. “Eat your food, Lestrade. And no need to worry, I haven’t been spreading tales about you.”
Greg resumed eating but continued looking at Mycroft, waiting for an answer.
After taking much longer than necessary to consider the containers of food, Mycroft finally said, “There have been stories making the rounds about a particularly stubborn Detective Inspector sticking his nose into business that doesn’t concern him. And asking questions about a particular foreign government contractor of whom he shouldn’t have any knowledge.”
“What?”
“I have also heard that your Chief Superintendent is not particularly pleased with your recent actions, especially after he specifically warned you about continuing your investigation.” Mycroft sighed quietly and took a generous forkful from one of the containers. “It’s unfortunate that Mr. Melas is being treated this way following his death. He deserved better.”
“What?” Greg practically squawked, absently grateful he had mostly finished eating his last forkful. A few of the bolder pedestrians walking past treated him to a curious look, but Greg ignored them. Instead he glared in shock at Mycroft. “You knew the man? All this time and you didn’t saying anything even though you obviously knew I was investigating him?”
Mycroft treated him to a patient, slightly amused look. But he took an irritatingly long time to finish chewing and swallowing his food before he finally responded. “I was under very strict instructions not to reach out to you if you didn’t contact me. Especially since you didn’t seem aware I’d known the man. And yes,” Mycroft added at Greg’s quiet scoff, “I do in fact have superiors I’m expected to listen to, the same as you.”
Greg took a sip of his coffee, reflecting on everything Mycroft had told him. “Well it makes sense now why I wasn’t getting anywhere trying to talk to government people about him. If everyone was told not to talk to me.”
He looked across at Mycroft over the top of his coffee cup. “Should I ask if you’re actually allowed to tell me any of this?”
Mycroft laughed quietly, dipping his fork into several containers, which seemed out of character for him, but human. “Officially I am to tell you that I had contact with Mr. Melas several times within his role as a Greek translator for our government as a foreign consultant. However I did not know the man personally well enough to comment on his death.”
When Mycroft didn’t continue speaking but instead started slowly eating the food, Greg prodded, “Unofficially…?”
“Unofficially,” Mycroft began, deliberately drawing out the word before swallowing, “Mr. Melas was a kind, knowledgeable man who more than likely accidentally became mixed up with the wrong type of people and his death was at their hands. He was more comfortable with his books and papers than with people, and not the best judge of character. Unfortunately since he wasn’t closely watched during his time here I don’t actually know who those people were.”
Greg sighed, a little disappointed, and went back to picking at the food in the containers. “Well, that’s more than I knew an hour ago. So thanks for that much at least.”
“In fact, there is something else,” Mycroft announced, sipping slowly at his own coffee cup. “If you look inside the bag you’ll find a folder with information about Melas you may find helpful.”
When Greg set down his fork and started to reach for the bag, Mycroft actually tsked at him. “Not now,” he scolded sharply without actually looking at Greg.
“Sorry,” Greg offered without really meaning it. “I’m not as experienced with covert operations as you are.”
“Honestly, Lestrade,” Mycroft chided, but he sounded more amused than annoyed now. And he’d gone back to picking up forkfuls of food. “I hold a minor position in the British government, I’m not a spy.”
Greg decided it wasn’t worth debating that, or if Anthea was. Instead he struggled with Mycroft for the last bit of food from one of the containers, and won. “So can you tell me what’s in the folder now, or do I have to wait until I get back to my office?”
“I’m afraid you truly can’t investigate Melas’ death any further, you’ll have to close the case and have the circumstances remain a mystery,” Mycroft told him in confidence, but without the haughty tone the Chief Superintendent had used when warning Greg off. “Nothing good will happen for you or for the government if you try to track down the real culprits.”
“However,” Mycroft quickly continued when Greg was about to put up a protest, “Melas had a sister, you’ll find her contact information inside the folder. And I’ve instructed Molly Hooper to submit paperwork allowing for Melas’ body to be transferred over to his sister's’ custody once she arrives in London. So at least he will be able to be properly buried with his family.”
After a long pause Greg finally said, with reluctant acceptance, “Well it’s not much, but at least it’s something.”
“True, still less than he deserved,” Mycroft agreed, taking a long sip of his coffee. “Melas was a good man.”
They ate the rest of the food in silence, until there were only scraps left in each of the containers. Together they worked to clean everything up and toss things away. Then the two of them left the park and parted ways to return to their offices and the harshness of reality. The indistinctive paper bag with an important file inside tucked carefully under Greg’s arm.
5.
The entire event of the pips and hostages and Sherlock and John running around London trying to solve puzzles against an impossible deadline was… disastrous… And terrible. To say the least.
Really it was a testament to Sherlock's brilliance that they only lost one hostage, and that wasn't actually Sherlock's fault. Even though Greg just knew the boy was silently punishing himself for it.
But the better Sherlock did solving the puzzles, the more enthusiastic the mystery puppet master became. Tempers started flaring, hours started blurring together, and the pressure only continued to increase. Even Sherlock and John, whose-whatever they were- Greg had been sure could withstand anything seemed to be on thin ice with each other.
Throughout the entire thing Greg had been worrying over what all of this could be building up to. They survived four of the five pips… the countdowns and time between each growing shorter each time. Until suddenly, it was hours after Sherlock had solved the fourth case and the hostage- just a kid for god’s sake! - had been rescued… And nothing.
Greg had sent Sally and the rest of the team home and was alone in his office staring at the wall and dreading what could possibly be next when his mobile started vibrating on the desk in front of him.
Thinking it was Sherlock, since he was the Holmes who always texted no matter what, Greg snatched up his mobile and turned it over to see the screen.
The new message was not from Sherlock but from Mycroft, and it was horribly eerily similar to the mystery text Greg had received all those years ago.
Sherlock's gone to meet the man alone. At midnight. Meet us there.
Below was an address for a local community pool luckily not so far away.
Greg jumped up from his chair, pulled on his coat one-handed, then grabbed his keys and full out ran towards where he’d left his police issued vehicle.
It was late enough Greg encountered very few other cars on his drive towards the community pool. Which was probably a good thing since he wasn’t driving very smart or safely. It took him less time than he’d expected to make it from the Yard to the community pool, yet when he pulled into the lot Mycroft’s familiar black car was already there.
Greg tumbled out of his car, locked it, and quickly hurried over towards Mycroft’s car. As he walked up to it the back door opened to reveal Mycroft sitting stiffly in the back seat, a mobile held to his ear while he conversed with Anthea who was sitting on the seat opposite him.
Anthea had her usual mobile in her hand and was typing as quickly as he had ever seen her, while also answering and redirecting Mycroft’s questions.
During a brief pause in conversation Mycroft finally turned to look up at Greg. “Hello, Lestrade. Thank you for coming.”
“Of course I came, don’t be ridiculous.” Greg quickly scolded with a wave of his hand. “I’m supposed to be heading this investigation anyways, even if Sherlock wasn’t involved. So fill me in.”
“Approximately twenty minutes ago Sherlock entered the building through the door in front of us. So far there is no sign of the person Sherlock should be meeting. Even though there are only minutes before the planned time.” Anthea announced evenly and succinctly, still looking down at her mobile screen.
“Any update on the number of people inside?” Mycroft asked sounding hopeful.
But Anthea shook her head. “The scans still aren’t able to get through into the center of the building. As far as we can tell right now there may be between three and five people inside.”
Mycroft’s mouth pressed together into a thin, unimpressed line. “Not good enough. Anthea dear, I don’t suppose you would be interested in some recon work.”
“Should I be calling for backup, or for paramedics?” Greg asked curiously, looking over his shoulder at the building in front of them.
“No need for that yet, Lestrade,” Mycroft said sounding distracted as he scrolled through something on his phone. “Interesting, before Sherlock left Baker Street and the cameras began malfunctioning John Watson left the building several minutes earlier. Yet there’s no sign of him on any cameras on the streets nearby.”
“John’s disappeared now too?” Greg repeated feeling a growing sense of dread. That instinct that said something was very wrong. “What about his mobile, have you tried calling him? Sherlock wouldn’t be that idiotic enough to have this meeting without John with him.”
“It transfers directly to voicemail, it must be turned off.” Anthea announced, pulling the mobile away from her ear. “There’s no way to get a hold of him.”
“You don’t,” Greg had to clear his throat to make his voice work properly. “You don’t think John was taken for the fifth pip.”
Mycroft and Anthea very carefully didn’t say anything or look at him.
“Oh god.” Greg muttered, feeling a very distinct urge to sit down now before his legs gave out on him.
Then, as tended to happen, things became even worse.
Behind them, after a very loud, thunderous boom… the building behind them collapsed in on itself. A wave of dust and debris crashed outward from the site, and Greg took as much shelter as he could behind the car door while he heard Mycroft and Anthea coughing inside the car.
It felt like it lasted forever, but in reality it was only seconds. Finally the wave of debris stopped, and they were left with poor visibility of dust and debris thickened air.
Greg slowly straightened to peer over the top of the car door at the mountainous pile of rubble, debris, and scrap metals that was all that was left of the pool building. “That… is not good.”
“Emergency crews and paramedics are on their way,” Anthea announced coughing, covering her mouth with one hand and typing on her mobile with the other. “ETA fifteen minutes.”
“What if they don’t have that much time?” Greg demanded, staring across the seemingly endless mountainous expanse of debris. “If they were inside then that entire building just collapsed on top of them. And the man behind all of this has proven he doesn’t have any misgivings about strapping people in bomb vests and is perfectly willing to kill them. He wouldn’t worry about them dying.”
“We’re not even certain the man came here, there’s no sign of his arriving,” Mycroft reminded him. Greg turned around to stare at him, stunned; but Mycroft’s voice was much calmer than his not so calm exterior gave away. His mobile was practically cracking in his hand.
“I’m not willing to take that risk,” Greg said sharply, looking down between Anthea and Mycroft who were still mostly shielded within the car. “If the two of you are, then fine. But I can’t just sit here and wait.”
Without waiting for Mycroft or Anthea to respond, Greg stepped out from behind the car door and started walking towards the mountain of rubble. The practical shoes he wore on cases helped him climb over the scattered debris and rubble without stumbling or falling on his face. His coat and outfit wasn’t so practical but he didn’t care at the moment.
Greg managed to pick his way towards what was left of the building. Then, when he couldn’t really go any further, Greg bent down and started doing his best to move what he could out of the way.
Sure he wasn’t in the best shape, it wasn’t like he had any time in his days for exercise, but these felt ridiculously heavy. Greg tried to ignore the dust that was now all over his clothes, and the stinging in his hands from the rough and sharp edges he was handling, and keep going. He wasn’t going very quickly, it was hard to with the sheer amount of debris and rubble and how heavy they were, but he had to be making some progress. It was only right that he try to do everything he could to help find and recover Sherlock and John in all of this mess while they still had a chance of being alive.
Some time later Greg felt a hand rest on his shoulder and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned in that direction, his knee nearly skidding on the slippery ground, to see Mycroft bending down next to him.
“Lestrade,” Mycroft called, his hand still lightly gripping Greg’s shoulder. Then after a pause he corrected himself to, “Greg.”
Greg stared up at the other man in surprise, hands still gripping the sides of the piece of rubble. “That’s the first time you’ve called me by my first name.” He pointed out, a little distracted.
“You need to stop Greg, you’re only hurting yourself.” Mycroft told him quietly but firmly. “The paramedics and emergency services will arrive momentarily and I have every confidence Sherlock and John will be recovered alive. They will be taken to hospital, where they will fully recover with time and care.”
Greg let his hands slip away from the piece of rubble to hang loosely at his sides. “How can you be so sure?” He asked quietly, his voice rough. “That was an entire building that just blew up on top of them.”
A small smile crept across Mycroft’s face, and he bent down closer to Greg. “Because Sherlock is my brother, Greg. Even this won’t manage to stop him. And John Watson is just as stubborn as Sherlock. They wouldn’t dare not survive this.”
The hand on his shoulder squeezed gently as Mycroft continued. “They’re both still alive and we will find them. Then once they’re better you can scold both of them as much as you’d like about their recklessness.”
Greg laughed, scrubbing the back of his hand across his forehead. “That sounds good, I’d really like to do that right now.”
“You’re not alone,” Mycroft told him kindly before taking his hand and carefully helping Greg to his feet.
Before Greg could pull his hand away Mycroft turned it over and tsked at the cuts, bruises, and scraped skin there from handling the debris and rubble. “Really, Greg, you need to take care of yourself.” He took Greg’s other hand and lifted it up for inspection. It was just as or worse than the other one. “We’ll have the paramedics look at these and wrap them for you. We can’t have an injured Detective Inspector.”
Greg silently let Mycroft lead him back to the car where he was carefully settled on the back seat. Mycroft took off his own coat and wrapped it around Greg’s shoulders before instructing Anthea to look after him. Then Mycroft took his phone from his pocket, dialed, then walked away a fair distance from the car.
Anthea took one glance at Greg’s current condition, lingering on his hands, and gave him a very unimpressed look. Then she turned, and like some kind of magician produced a first aid kit from some hidden compartment. Anthea set it down on the seat, opened it, and set about cleaning Greg’s hands.
A few minutes later the paramedics and emergency services arrived, and the site descended into some kind of organized chaos.
Everyone worked together while Greg felt like he could barely breathe his chest felt so tight with mixed dread and hope, sequestered standing with Mycroft and Anthea still by the car. Meanwhile the paramedics and emergency services worked tirelessly around them.
Finally after what seemed like forever most of the rubble was cleared. The paramedics were carefully lowered down into what remained of the pool, where the building rubble and water from the pool had slid together into a dangerous pit.
As they waited for the call with Sherlock and John’s condition everyone on the scene stilled, poised for whatever action would be needed. Greg’s gaze was locked on the small cleared area yards in front of them the paramedics had disappeared down into. But he thought he felt a hand rest on his shoulder and squeeze comfortingly.
Then the call went out across the scene that Sherlock and John had been found. Unconscious, but alive.
After one of the worst short time spans in his life Greg finally drew in a long shaky breath, relaxing a little. Beside him he heard Mycroft sigh quietly and finally give up his watch. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Anthea quickly pick up her mobile and begin typing rapidly.
In short order first John was brought up and the paramedics quickly took over his care, loading him onto a stretcher and carefully wheeling him over to one of the waiting ambulances. Greg followed after the stretcher, just a few steps behind the paramedics.
A few minutes later Sherlock was brought up, and from the way the paramedics were much more careful this time, Greg suspected the boy was in much worse condition. Mycroft quickly strode over to descend on the paramedics looking after his brother and invited himself along inside the ambulance as it drove off towards the nearest hospital.
Greg showed his warrant card to the paramedics and was allowed along with them to hospital, the same one they were taking John. As they rushed down the street, siren and lights blaring, Greg glanced out the back window to see Anthea driving Mycroft’s car right behind them.
+1
Ever since Sherlock and John Watson had arrived at hospital Mycroft had refused to leave Sherlock’s side. He knew there wasn’t anything he could do; he had no medical knowledge that could help his brother. But just by being there for Sherlock it felt like he was doing something.
The doctors and medical staff managed to stabilize Sherlock, treating his minor wounds and allowing him to breathe again by help of machines. They reassured Mycroft over and over again that Sherlock would be fine, he would wake up anytime now; until Mycroft started to understand his brother’s fury at people stating the obvious.
Until that happened Mycroft remained in the chair at Sherlock’s bedside in the room Sherlock was confined to, refusing to leave. He knew Greg was just outside the door, a silent sentry and guard if anyone tried to get in. Anthea was elsewhere in the hospital looking after John Watson and being updated on his condition.
But for now, his place was next to his brother.
They hadn’t gotten along for a long time now; their relationship had been tenuous and difficult at best. But Mycroft had done his best, and used his not inconsiderable power, to look after and take care of his brother. Even when they were younger it had been up to him to watch over Sherlock and fix any problems.
Yet now, even with John Watson and Gregory Lestrade, an army doctor and a police officer, watching over Sherlock as well his brother had still managed to risk his life with his recklessness.
Was it even possible to save Sherlock from himself? To protect him at all from everything the world could send his way?
Mycroft heard the door to the room quietly click open, but he recognized Greg’s distinctive footsteps so he didn’t look up as the other man stopped next to his chair.
“You know he’ll be all right, Mycroft,” Greg told him softly; confident in what he was saying as Greg often was. “The doctors all say he’ll be on his feet and recovered in no time. Then he’ll be running around the city solving cases with John and annoying us to no end all over again.”
Mycroft sighed, running his fingers over the fabric of the blanket beside Sherlock’s silent, still form. “And we’ll have to worry about this happening again.”
Greg laughed then balanced himself precariously on the arm of Mycroft’s chair. “He wouldn’t be Sherlock otherwise. And you know you would miss it.”
Mycroft hummed quietly, restraining the ridiculous urge to touch his brother- as if that would help to ensure Sherlock’s recovery. After several silent minutes Mycroft admitted in a little more than a whisper, “I always told him caring wasn’t an advantage.”
“I think you’ve proven that’s wrong for yourself,” Greg offered thoughtfully, after considering for nearly a minute. “Caring just means you’re human, and that someone means enough to you that you choose to care about them.”
Mycroft didn’t answer right away, he wasn’t how to. Instead he looked over at where Greg sat bare inches away, mobile gripped tightly in one hand so he could be informed at a moment’s notice about any updates. Yet in the meantime Greg had chosen to come here and sit with him at Sherlock’s side, of all of the places he should right now.
Slowly, carefully, Mycroft reached over and lightly linked his fingers with Greg’s; Greg didn’t put up any resistance, instead his fingers tightened around Mycroft’s own and squeezed gently.
Mycroft decided he didn’t actually need to say anything; not even a thank you for being here, for everything Greg had done. Instead he turned back and together he and Greg resumed their silent guard over Sherlock.