Re: Fill: Sometimes Even ‘The British Government’ Has An Off Night - Pt 2b/5random_nexusJune 26 2011, 02:58:10 UTC
Lestrade tensed, breaking the kiss to turn his head, the almost-slumberous, aroused luster leaving his dark eyes slowly. Mycroft was aware-shamefully belatedly-of the fact that the voices he’d heard moments ago were louder now. Brash, rough, and accented with the flavour of ignorance and innate hostility, several male voices now sounded clearly on the night air. He should have been more aware of them approaching, should have anticipated trouble in such a neighbourhood, but Gregory’s wonderful mouth had driven everything else out of his mind. Mycroft made yet another mental note to do something about that; he shouldn’t allow himself to be so affected. Yes, and that intention had worked so well thus far.
“You fucking queers don’t have anything better to do?” One male voice called out, just a bit louder than necessary to be heard from across the street. The way the stranger spoke indicated that he was tipsy, more probably drunk. A few less-articulate sounds or phrases of agreement came from his companions.
Lestrade sighed philosophically, stepping back a bit. “So much for a nice evening. Let’s go, My.”
If it had been only one man, even two, Lestrade would very likely have flashed his ID and sent the drunkards on their way, but there were five of them. None of them were much smaller than Lestrade and two were big, brawny, and quite tough-looking. His ID would more likely guarantee trouble, rather than stop it.
“I’ll have my driver meet us along the way,” Mycroft murmured, pulling his mobile out of his pocket.
“Let’s walk toward Baker Street,” Lestrade urged, grip firm on Mycroft’s arm. “If your driver doesn’t get to us before we’re there, we’ll be alright till he does. I don’t think-
“Oi! You filthy poofs bumming each other in public’s a bloody disgrace!” Another one of the group voiced his opinion, much louder than his friend.
Mycroft tightened his grip upon Lestrade’s arm, Mycroft was well aware of the tension in his lover’s body.
“I know, My,” Lestrade said in an angry undertone, as if Mycroft had spoken rather than just held onto his forearm. “I know it’s no good saying anything,” he went on as they turned the next corner. “I just hate this sort of bollocks. They’re pissed off their tits and not one of them would have the balls to do this without his mates.”
“No, but we must deal with here and now, not what would have been,” Mycroft said coolly, quickly tapping out a text to his driver, bracing himself for the eventuality that the pack of drunken Neanderthals might work their courage up enough to get physical before he and Gregory could reach a place of safety. A tiny part of him was shaking his head and tutting at how Lestrade’s language went quite a bit south of proper when he was angry.
Keeping calm, missing his trusty umbrella rather keenly, Mycroft was just about to hit ‘send’ when a sudden, burst of pain at the back of his head knocked him to his knees.
Re: Fill: Sometimes Even ‘The British Government’ Has An Off Night - Pt 3/5random_nexusJune 26 2011, 03:12:03 UTC
Mycroft heard shouts and scuffling, thudding sounds, felt himself shoved over onto his side and groggily curled in on himself after the first hard impact against his chest pushed all his breath out of him in a rush. He was dizzy and his eyes didn’t want to focus, the thick roaring and the persistent ringing in his ears making everything a muddle of confusing sounds. He knew someone else had kicked or hit him, his body rocking from it, the rough pavement scraping across his cheekbone as he jerked away from the blurred sense of something coming at his face.
Someone fell over him, the impact mostly on the pavement just past him, but that someone’s legs flailed over his hip and thigh. Prying open his eyes, focus wavering, he saw enough to know it wasn’t his Gregory, so he fumbled out as quickly as he could, finding a face with ratty, uneven stubble; he then knocked that unknown head against the ground as hard as he could manage. Twice more he rapped the brawler’s head upon the ground, grunting with the effort, his own head pounding and his chest feeling as if someone were gouging something sharp between his ribs. After the second thumping, the man stopped moving, so Mycroft let go of him.
Panting, every movement slow and heavy, as if he were covered in lead, Mycroft struggled to his knees, finding Lestrade by colour and general shape. Mycroft’s lover was standing nearby, fists up and feet braced solidly; two men were trying to get close enough to pull him down or hit him hard enough to put him down, but they were moving cautiously. Red was smeared along one side of Lestrade’s face, though Mycroft couldn’t focus well enough to tell how badly he might be hurt. One of the five was on the ground near Mycroft. That left two more, aside from the two on Lestrade.
He saw that the fourth attacker was half-sitting in a loose sprawl against the wall nearby, as if he’d slid down unconscious; good, Mycroft thought. The fifth was stretched out a bit further away, half in the gutter, apparently unconscious, as well. Also good.
Mycroft looked back at Lestrade in time to see him block a punch from one of the men-wearing a blue jacket with some kind of logo on the back-and return one of his own, but the man dodged just far enough to make it a glancing blow. Unfortunately, the other man-jacket two shades of green, neon and lime-stepped in and caught Lestrade in the side with a fist, the sound of it solid and painful just to hear. A harsh grunt escaped Lestrade and he bent over in reaction.
The man in the blue jacket took this as the perfect opportunity to draw back a fist, clearly planning to put his whole body behind the blow. Mycroft struggled to intervene, but his knees were too wobbly to hold him, and he watched the blurred scene with horrified dismay as the fist connected. Lestrade folded around it, going down on one knee with a loud, pained sound as the air was knocked out of him suddenly.
Knowing what he wanted to do, what he should do, didn’t mean Mycroft could do it. He watched the man shift, obviously planning to do more to Lestrade, weight on his nearer leg; with an enormous effort, Mycroft slid closer, bringing one knee high up to his middle-it hurt, dear God, that hurt!-and kicking out with every bit of strength he could muster.
There was a satisfying ’crunch’ as the man’s knee gave, sending him down at once with a rather shrill shout of agony. Mycroft aimed another kick at his head, but was forestalled by a blur of green nearby and a burst of bright pain across the left side of his own face that took him away at once into darkness.
Re: Fill: Sometimes Even ‘The British Government’ Has An Off Night - Pt 4/5random_nexusJune 26 2011, 03:13:28 UTC
It was dark and cold and everything was made of jagged edges and loud throbbing sounds; Mycroft resisted, struggling blindly to curl in to a ball and stay there, but a familiar voice drew his attention. The pounding, throbbing pain kept him from understanding the words, but he’d recognise his brother’s voice anywhere. Shaking his head, he groaned as the world swirled around him, sickeningly, uncontrollably, and his stomach lurched.
“I said be still, Mycroft.” The words wavered into existence, muffled and odd, but understandable now. “One of my people saw what was happening, recognised Lestrade, and fetched us to you both. An ambulance is on the way. Now, lie still and let John have a look at you.”
With a sound that was meant to be ‘yes’, but which came out as one long sibilant, Mycroft agreed. Sherlock knew, obviously, for a familiar hand caught his own and squeezed. When Mycroft tried to lift his head, the darkness swirled up and caught him in a vice-like grip that made acid roll up from his gut, bright spots and shards dancing on the insides of his eyelids before snatching him away again.
He drifted out of nothingness to a different, but still familiar voice. “It’s me, Mycroft. It’s John, alright?” John said, sounding calm and soothing. “I’m being as gentle as I can, I promise.”
“Greg’ry?” Mycroft managed to mumble, his mouth uncoordinated and tasting foul. Light touches upon his face and then his chest made him grunt and wince.
“He was a bit knocked about, but he’s on his feet again, don’t worry.” Another kind, light touch rested upon Mycroft’s aching head, keeping him from lifting it. He had something yielding under his cheek, it smelled like wool and Sherlock. “Don’t move your head, you’ve got a concussion. Help’s on the way.”
“Where… is… he?” Speaking at all took more concentration than Mycroft could believe, those three words, spoken clearly, made him pant from the effort.
He was just beginning to think he hadn’t spoken aloud after all when John answered. “He’s with Sherlock. They’ll be back soon.”
“What?” What were they doing? What wasn’t John saying? He couldn’t think and speaking again would surely make his head explode.
“Shh… easy.” Sighing barely loudly enough for Mycroft to hear, John said, “they’re after the one that was… working you over when we arrived. He ran, catching up one of his mates and dragging him along with him.” His tone grew harder, flatter, and Mycroft heard the soldier in him, the core of steel beneath the woolly jumpers and unassuming expressions of politeness. “They won’t get away.”
Instead of being alarmed, Mycroft let out a long, relieved breath and stopped struggling to get himself in order. If Sherlock wanted them found, the men would be found, but Gregory would keep Sherlock from killing them while Mycroft wasn’t able to do anything about dealing with damage control.
“Thanks,” he managed to sigh as he surrendered to the darkness fully, knowing he was in good hands and that things were being dealt with properly-or, at least, satisfactorily.
Re: Fill: Sometimes Even ‘The British Government’ Has An Off Night - Pt 5a/5random_nexusJune 26 2011, 03:18:58 UTC
"My? C'mon, My, I know you're in there," Lestrade's voice gradually evolved into something Mycroft recognised. Low, a bit hoarse, sounding much as he did when he sometimes woke Mycroft early from a sound sleep before they both had to leave their comfortable bed and face the world. But there wasn't gentle lust in his tone now, there was... an undercurrent of something tense, fear? Worry? "My? Mycroft? Don't just lie there frowning at me, open your eyes, love."
"Gregory... what..." Mycroft's voice seemed inordinately loud in his own head and he lost track of what he was about to ask when the blurry shape above him resolved at last. "Dear Lord, your beautiful face!" Mycroft groaned in dismay, trying to reach up for Lestrade with an arm that felt as if it weighed ten stone.
Lestrade's left eye was swollen shut, his jaw and a spot on his forehead were almost black with more bruising, and he bore a livid red patch on his chin where the skin was abraded. His nose was swollen and a bandage hid the bridge. A scabbed-over split was just visible at the corner of Lestrade's mouth, and another a little to the left of center on his lower lip. Mycroft's fingers just touched the right side of his face, despite the struggle to lift his arm. "It looks worse than it feels," Lestrade murmured.
"It looks horrible." Despite having seen much worse, having caused much worse on a few occasions, Mycroft felt the backs of his eyes stinging with the urge to cry; this was his beautiful lover, his dearest friend, and one of the best men he had the privilege to know. It was a travesty that the features he adored so much should be marred so, by something so loathsomely hateful as the base fists of small-minded idiots not fit to touch Gregory Lestrade's shoes. "Oh, my dear, I'm sorry."
"What're you apologising for?" The tenderness in Lestrade's voice forces one of those burgeoning tears to squeeze out of the corner of Mycroft's eye. "It was those bloody chavs-hey, hey, now!" Breaking off, battered features pulling into a deeper version of worry, Lestrade brought one hand up to Mycroft's face, fingertips erasing that lone line of insistent moisture before it ran back into the hair at his temple. "I'm here, you're here, it's going to be alright."
Shaking his head, despite the fact that the movement was nauseatingly disturbing, Mycroft had to close his eyes.
"No, no, stay with me, My," Lestrade said urgently. "Come on now, love." The worry in his voice increased, though Mycroft heard the gentle urging more clearly and opened his eyes again. "Speak to me, let me know those brilliant brains aren't scrambled." His attempt at humour was weak, at best, but all it did was increase the sting in Mycroft's eyes.
"I should have had the car waiting, not on stand-by.” He was aware some of his distress was simply a reaction to being hurt, a fairly natural inclination to emotionalism in the wake of danger and physical damage. Yet, no matter how much he told himself this, he couldn't stop feeling utterly wretched that his lack of foresight had put his lover-yes, yes, and himself-in harm's way.
“Mycroft Holmes, you listen to me.” Lestrade leant down, his fierce frown somewhat thrown off its effectiveness by his battered face. “What happened was not your fault! It's the fault of those-" He broke off, no doubt to keep himself from going off on a profane tangent.
"What of them?" Mycroft asked into his sudden pause. Surely he would have word from his own people as soon as they knew he was cognisant, but Lestrade must have some information.
Re: Fill: Sometimes Even ‘The British Government’ Has An Off Night - Pt 5b/5 random_nexusJune 26 2011, 03:22:20 UTC
"Three of them stayed put till they were picked up," Lestrade answered with an understandably harsh edge to his tone. "One ran, helping one of his friends for a while before dumping him to try and get away." Gently taking Mycroft's hand, Lestrade’s expression-such as could be deciphered-turned to one of grim satisfaction. "Sherlock helped me find them. They're both in custody, as well."
"Are they?" He hadn't meant to sound surprised, but he was a realist and had been prepared for the worst.
“They’re all being charged with assaulting a police officer, and anything else I can make stick that even vaguely applies.” A smile tried to creep across Lestrade's face, making him wince, and he nodded. "I had a bit of trouble convincing Sherlock to leave them to us, but he finally listened."
"Is he alright?" Of course Lestrade would know Mycroft didn't mean physically.
"I had to turn him over to John to keep him from following me into A & E, still ranting." A soft chuckle escaped him. "That man has a gift for managing your brother, My, I have to tell you."
“You needn’t tell me,” Mycroft said, smiling a little, the strange melancholy that had been welling up in him, as if from his very bones, now fading a bit. “That’s why I approve of John Watson, despite what my brother thinks my opinion may be. He’s good for Sherlock.” He let out a long, soft breath, his affection for his lover filling him, making his voice want to catch in this throat. “Like you’re good for me, Gregory.”
Nodding, smiling as much as he could without too much pain, Lestrade bent and kissed Mycroft, tenderly, lovingly. “And you’re good for me, Mycroft.” He caught the shift of Mycroft’s expression, being far more observant than Mycroft had initially thought him-and more so now that he’d been influenced by both Holmes brothers-and shook his head, kissing him again to prevent the words that he had been about to say. “No. You are, always will be, and this… what’s happened? Doesn’t change that in the slightest.”
“I can’t just let this go, Gregory,” Mycroft told him gravely. He could manage to allow the animals to be dealt with by the courts-it was highly unlikely they would receive anything but the strongest possible sentence, without Mycroft even interfering-but the fact that this sort of thing could happen to anyone in this day and age… it appalled him. Whether it was he who took the blows or someone else, the fact that those individuals thought they had that right, in the first place, was inherently wrong on the deepest levels.
“No, you can’t. We can’t.” Lestrade shook his head, his voice a little graver, as well. “We’ll do everything we can, of course, but the most important thing?” He leant down and kissed Mycroft; giving him several soft, lingering, loving and yet chaste kisses. “We won’t let them make us afraid. We’ll live our lives, love one another with everything we’ve got, and provide an example for others.”
Mycroft’s smile happened almost without his will, creeping across his face and warming him from within. “Now that is exactly why they keep choosing you to speak to the press, my love.” Lestrade snorted gently and shook his head, but Mycroft added before he could comment, “that and you’re-barring incidents like this-one of their sexiest Inspectors.”
Re: Fill: Sometimes Even ‘The British Government’ Has An Off Night - Pt 5c/5 [END]random_nexusJune 26 2011, 03:26:08 UTC
“You are just a bit biased, My,” Lestrade told him dryly, but leaned down and kissed him again, nevertheless; which suited Mycroft just fine. “Would it hurt your poor ribs too badly if I got up onto the edge of the bed with you?”
“What about yours?” Mycroft countered, he had seen how stiffly his lover moved and sat; even so, he carefully edged over to the far side of the hospital bed.
“Mine aren’t broken, yours are.” He still eases down onto the side of the bed. “I expect we’ll scandalise the nurse when she comes to check on you.”
“I could not care less just now,” Mycroft murmured as his beloved carefully… so, so carefully… snuggled in next to him.
“Well, then, neither do I,” Lestrade replied quietly as he tried to find a comfortable spot, wincing and grunting a bit as it seemed something of his or Mycroft’s hurt no matter what he did. “You know, when you come home, this is going to be rather awkward for a while, love.”
“It’s merely a matter of time, Gregory,” Mycroft told him with firm reassurance as they found a position for Lestrade that didn’t hurt too much for either of them and yet still allowed them to be close. “Just a matter of time and everything will be alright.”
“Or else?” Lestrade asked on a soft breath of a chuckle.
Mycroft nodded once, gingerly cuddling into his love’s side. “Or else, indeed.”
“You fucking queers don’t have anything better to do?” One male voice called out, just a bit louder than necessary to be heard from across the street. The way the stranger spoke indicated that he was tipsy, more probably drunk. A few less-articulate sounds or phrases of agreement came from his companions.
Lestrade sighed philosophically, stepping back a bit. “So much for a nice evening. Let’s go, My.”
If it had been only one man, even two, Lestrade would very likely have flashed his ID and sent the drunkards on their way, but there were five of them. None of them were much smaller than Lestrade and two were big, brawny, and quite tough-looking. His ID would more likely guarantee trouble, rather than stop it.
“I’ll have my driver meet us along the way,” Mycroft murmured, pulling his mobile out of his pocket.
“Let’s walk toward Baker Street,” Lestrade urged, grip firm on Mycroft’s arm. “If your driver doesn’t get to us before we’re there, we’ll be alright till he does. I don’t think-
“Oi! You filthy poofs bumming each other in public’s a bloody disgrace!” Another one of the group voiced his opinion, much louder than his friend.
Mycroft tightened his grip upon Lestrade’s arm, Mycroft was well aware of the tension in his lover’s body.
“I know, My,” Lestrade said in an angry undertone, as if Mycroft had spoken rather than just held onto his forearm. “I know it’s no good saying anything,” he went on as they turned the next corner. “I just hate this sort of bollocks. They’re pissed off their tits and not one of them would have the balls to do this without his mates.”
“No, but we must deal with here and now, not what would have been,” Mycroft said coolly, quickly tapping out a text to his driver, bracing himself for the eventuality that the pack of drunken Neanderthals might work their courage up enough to get physical before he and Gregory could reach a place of safety. A tiny part of him was shaking his head and tutting at how Lestrade’s language went quite a bit south of proper when he was angry.
Keeping calm, missing his trusty umbrella rather keenly, Mycroft was just about to hit ‘send’ when a sudden, burst of pain at the back of his head knocked him to his knees.
~~~
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Someone fell over him, the impact mostly on the pavement just past him, but that someone’s legs flailed over his hip and thigh. Prying open his eyes, focus wavering, he saw enough to know it wasn’t his Gregory, so he fumbled out as quickly as he could, finding a face with ratty, uneven stubble; he then knocked that unknown head against the ground as hard as he could manage. Twice more he rapped the brawler’s head upon the ground, grunting with the effort, his own head pounding and his chest feeling as if someone were gouging something sharp between his ribs. After the second thumping, the man stopped moving, so Mycroft let go of him.
Panting, every movement slow and heavy, as if he were covered in lead, Mycroft struggled to his knees, finding Lestrade by colour and general shape. Mycroft’s lover was standing nearby, fists up and feet braced solidly; two men were trying to get close enough to pull him down or hit him hard enough to put him down, but they were moving cautiously. Red was smeared along one side of Lestrade’s face, though Mycroft couldn’t focus well enough to tell how badly he might be hurt. One of the five was on the ground near Mycroft. That left two more, aside from the two on Lestrade.
He saw that the fourth attacker was half-sitting in a loose sprawl against the wall nearby, as if he’d slid down unconscious; good, Mycroft thought. The fifth was stretched out a bit further away, half in the gutter, apparently unconscious, as well. Also good.
Mycroft looked back at Lestrade in time to see him block a punch from one of the men-wearing a blue jacket with some kind of logo on the back-and return one of his own, but the man dodged just far enough to make it a glancing blow. Unfortunately, the other man-jacket two shades of green, neon and lime-stepped in and caught Lestrade in the side with a fist, the sound of it solid and painful just to hear. A harsh grunt escaped Lestrade and he bent over in reaction.
The man in the blue jacket took this as the perfect opportunity to draw back a fist, clearly planning to put his whole body behind the blow. Mycroft struggled to intervene, but his knees were too wobbly to hold him, and he watched the blurred scene with horrified dismay as the fist connected. Lestrade folded around it, going down on one knee with a loud, pained sound as the air was knocked out of him suddenly.
Knowing what he wanted to do, what he should do, didn’t mean Mycroft could do it. He watched the man shift, obviously planning to do more to Lestrade, weight on his nearer leg; with an enormous effort, Mycroft slid closer, bringing one knee high up to his middle-it hurt, dear God, that hurt!-and kicking out with every bit of strength he could muster.
There was a satisfying ’crunch’ as the man’s knee gave, sending him down at once with a rather shrill shout of agony. Mycroft aimed another kick at his head, but was forestalled by a blur of green nearby and a burst of bright pain across the left side of his own face that took him away at once into darkness.
~~~
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“I said be still, Mycroft.” The words wavered into existence, muffled and odd, but understandable now. “One of my people saw what was happening, recognised Lestrade, and fetched us to you both. An ambulance is on the way. Now, lie still and let John have a look at you.”
With a sound that was meant to be ‘yes’, but which came out as one long sibilant, Mycroft agreed. Sherlock knew, obviously, for a familiar hand caught his own and squeezed. When Mycroft tried to lift his head, the darkness swirled up and caught him in a vice-like grip that made acid roll up from his gut, bright spots and shards dancing on the insides of his eyelids before snatching him away again.
He drifted out of nothingness to a different, but still familiar voice. “It’s me, Mycroft. It’s John, alright?” John said, sounding calm and soothing. “I’m being as gentle as I can, I promise.”
“Greg’ry?” Mycroft managed to mumble, his mouth uncoordinated and tasting foul. Light touches upon his face and then his chest made him grunt and wince.
“He was a bit knocked about, but he’s on his feet again, don’t worry.” Another kind, light touch rested upon Mycroft’s aching head, keeping him from lifting it. He had something yielding under his cheek, it smelled like wool and Sherlock. “Don’t move your head, you’ve got a concussion. Help’s on the way.”
“Where… is… he?” Speaking at all took more concentration than Mycroft could believe, those three words, spoken clearly, made him pant from the effort.
He was just beginning to think he hadn’t spoken aloud after all when John answered. “He’s with Sherlock. They’ll be back soon.”
“What?” What were they doing? What wasn’t John saying? He couldn’t think and speaking again would surely make his head explode.
“Shh… easy.” Sighing barely loudly enough for Mycroft to hear, John said, “they’re after the one that was… working you over when we arrived. He ran, catching up one of his mates and dragging him along with him.” His tone grew harder, flatter, and Mycroft heard the soldier in him, the core of steel beneath the woolly jumpers and unassuming expressions of politeness. “They won’t get away.”
Instead of being alarmed, Mycroft let out a long, relieved breath and stopped struggling to get himself in order. If Sherlock wanted them found, the men would be found, but Gregory would keep Sherlock from killing them while Mycroft wasn’t able to do anything about dealing with damage control.
“Thanks,” he managed to sigh as he surrendered to the darkness fully, knowing he was in good hands and that things were being dealt with properly-or, at least, satisfactorily.
~~~
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"Gregory... what..." Mycroft's voice seemed inordinately loud in his own head and he lost track of what he was about to ask when the blurry shape above him resolved at last. "Dear Lord, your beautiful face!" Mycroft groaned in dismay, trying to reach up for Lestrade with an arm that felt as if it weighed ten stone.
Lestrade's left eye was swollen shut, his jaw and a spot on his forehead were almost black with more bruising, and he bore a livid red patch on his chin where the skin was abraded. His nose was swollen and a bandage hid the bridge. A scabbed-over split was just visible at the corner of Lestrade's mouth, and another a little to the left of center on his lower lip. Mycroft's fingers just touched the right side of his face, despite the struggle to lift his arm. "It looks worse than it feels," Lestrade murmured.
"It looks horrible." Despite having seen much worse, having caused much worse on a few occasions, Mycroft felt the backs of his eyes stinging with the urge to cry; this was his beautiful lover, his dearest friend, and one of the best men he had the privilege to know. It was a travesty that the features he adored so much should be marred so, by something so loathsomely hateful as the base fists of small-minded idiots not fit to touch Gregory Lestrade's shoes. "Oh, my dear, I'm sorry."
"What're you apologising for?" The tenderness in Lestrade's voice forces one of those burgeoning tears to squeeze out of the corner of Mycroft's eye. "It was those bloody chavs-hey, hey, now!" Breaking off, battered features pulling into a deeper version of worry, Lestrade brought one hand up to Mycroft's face, fingertips erasing that lone line of insistent moisture before it ran back into the hair at his temple. "I'm here, you're here, it's going to be alright."
Shaking his head, despite the fact that the movement was nauseatingly disturbing, Mycroft had to close his eyes.
"No, no, stay with me, My," Lestrade said urgently. "Come on now, love." The worry in his voice increased, though Mycroft heard the gentle urging more clearly and opened his eyes again. "Speak to me, let me know those brilliant brains aren't scrambled." His attempt at humour was weak, at best, but all it did was increase the sting in Mycroft's eyes.
"I should have had the car waiting, not on stand-by.” He was aware some of his distress was simply a reaction to being hurt, a fairly natural inclination to emotionalism in the wake of danger and physical damage. Yet, no matter how much he told himself this, he couldn't stop feeling utterly wretched that his lack of foresight had put his lover-yes, yes, and himself-in harm's way.
“Mycroft Holmes, you listen to me.” Lestrade leant down, his fierce frown somewhat thrown off its effectiveness by his battered face. “What happened was not your fault! It's the fault of those-" He broke off, no doubt to keep himself from going off on a profane tangent.
"What of them?" Mycroft asked into his sudden pause. Surely he would have word from his own people as soon as they knew he was cognisant, but Lestrade must have some information.
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"Are they?" He hadn't meant to sound surprised, but he was a realist and had been prepared for the worst.
“They’re all being charged with assaulting a police officer, and anything else I can make stick that even vaguely applies.” A smile tried to creep across Lestrade's face, making him wince, and he nodded. "I had a bit of trouble convincing Sherlock to leave them to us, but he finally listened."
"Is he alright?" Of course Lestrade would know Mycroft didn't mean physically.
"I had to turn him over to John to keep him from following me into A & E, still ranting." A soft chuckle escaped him. "That man has a gift for managing your brother, My, I have to tell you."
“You needn’t tell me,” Mycroft said, smiling a little, the strange melancholy that had been welling up in him, as if from his very bones, now fading a bit. “That’s why I approve of John Watson, despite what my brother thinks my opinion may be. He’s good for Sherlock.” He let out a long, soft breath, his affection for his lover filling him, making his voice want to catch in this throat. “Like you’re good for me, Gregory.”
Nodding, smiling as much as he could without too much pain, Lestrade bent and kissed Mycroft, tenderly, lovingly. “And you’re good for me, Mycroft.” He caught the shift of Mycroft’s expression, being far more observant than Mycroft had initially thought him-and more so now that he’d been influenced by both Holmes brothers-and shook his head, kissing him again to prevent the words that he had been about to say. “No. You are, always will be, and this… what’s happened? Doesn’t change that in the slightest.”
“I can’t just let this go, Gregory,” Mycroft told him gravely. He could manage to allow the animals to be dealt with by the courts-it was highly unlikely they would receive anything but the strongest possible sentence, without Mycroft even interfering-but the fact that this sort of thing could happen to anyone in this day and age… it appalled him. Whether it was he who took the blows or someone else, the fact that those individuals thought they had that right, in the first place, was inherently wrong on the deepest levels.
“No, you can’t. We can’t.” Lestrade shook his head, his voice a little graver, as well. “We’ll do everything we can, of course, but the most important thing?” He leant down and kissed Mycroft; giving him several soft, lingering, loving and yet chaste kisses. “We won’t let them make us afraid. We’ll live our lives, love one another with everything we’ve got, and provide an example for others.”
Mycroft’s smile happened almost without his will, creeping across his face and warming him from within. “Now that is exactly why they keep choosing you to speak to the press, my love.” Lestrade snorted gently and shook his head, but Mycroft added before he could comment, “that and you’re-barring incidents like this-one of their sexiest Inspectors.”
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“What about yours?” Mycroft countered, he had seen how stiffly his lover moved and sat; even so, he carefully edged over to the far side of the hospital bed.
“Mine aren’t broken, yours are.” He still eases down onto the side of the bed. “I expect we’ll scandalise the nurse when she comes to check on you.”
“I could not care less just now,” Mycroft murmured as his beloved carefully… so, so carefully… snuggled in next to him.
“Well, then, neither do I,” Lestrade replied quietly as he tried to find a comfortable spot, wincing and grunting a bit as it seemed something of his or Mycroft’s hurt no matter what he did. “You know, when you come home, this is going to be rather awkward for a while, love.”
“It’s merely a matter of time, Gregory,” Mycroft told him with firm reassurance as they found a position for Lestrade that didn’t hurt too much for either of them and yet still allowed them to be close. “Just a matter of time and everything will be alright.”
“Or else?” Lestrade asked on a soft breath of a chuckle.
Mycroft nodded once, gingerly cuddling into his love’s side. “Or else, indeed.”
~~~
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And they definately deserved those snuggles at the end :)
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Thanks so much!
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Superb, my dear. So well written as to make me grit my teeth and then melt my heart both at the same time. I think we're even now. :)
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VERY glad to know you enjoyed. 'I think we're even now.' Okay, then. *grin*
Thank you muchly, bebe!
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I agree, sometimes I think people can underscore the rough stuff too hard, but tastes vary.
Oh, my, I so appreciate your telling me the bits that particularly caught your attention! *happy bouncing*
Thank you, bebe, oodles and bunches, for the lovely comment!
<3
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Thanks so much for the comment!
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