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Greg Lestrade sat alone in his usual Lebanese restaurant, staring into his untouched lemonade and wondering anxiously where his date was. Mycroft was never late. He just wasn't, and on the rare occasion he was, he would always text to inform Greg. And now Greg had been sat for 10 minutes, on his own, and looking rather stood up at that.You didn't get to the rank of detective inspector without trusting your gut, Greg always told his team. And Greg's was telling him there was a reason Mycroft wasn't here yet, and it was not a good one. This is what had him calling Donovan five minutes later, when he couldn't make himself wait any longer, his left leg bouncing rapidly and occasionally hitting the table until he received one too many glares from the patrons and stepped outside.As soon as the call went through, Greg was spouting rapid instructions. ‘I want all the CCTV from the last two hours from Pall Mall to Jouri Restaurant, Sally. I don't care who you have to pull off other cases to do it. Check for any kind of suspicious activity, and for a black car, number plate 197 TPH. I think its an Aston. Send it to me when you have it. I want it done yeste-’Greg found himself cut off by a rather irritable Donovan. ‘Right, slow down, what? What's going on? What sort of case is this? Murder, missing person? Can I have a name?’Greg paused, gaze darting over the busy London streets. Could he tell Donovan? What with Mycroft's government position, and his need for secrecy? He swallowed, shook himself, and cleared his throat. ‘Not yet. Just send me the CCTV, quick as you can. I'll be at Baker Street if you need me.’ He said quickly and hung up before there could be any arguments. Surely Sherlock would be able to help him.–Greg soon found himself running up the seventeen stairs to 221B Baker Street and pounding on the door. When he found it unlocked, he pushed it open to see Sherlock under what seemed to be six different blankets, and fast asleep. Well, he was, until Greg shouted his name urgently and startled him awake.Sherlock gave a cough as he jumped a little, and pushed some of the fabric away from his face. ‘Who've you lost, Graham? You're worried,’ he muttered hoarsely, before he yawned rather hugely into his cushion. ‘Pass me my water,’ he demanded, punctuating it with a shiver.Greg stared for a moment, before he handed the consulting detective the glass on the coffee table, noticing the feverish sweat covering Sherlock and how he trembled despite it. ‘Don't tell me you're sick,’ he begged, wincing when Sherlock coughed dryly.Sherlock hummed and took a slow sip from the glass. ‘You've lost my brother, haven't you?’ He asked slowly, rubbing at his eyes. ‘Mycroft can look after himself. And yes, I'll help, don't look at me like that.’‘I'm not looking at you like anything.’Sherlock just raised an eyebrow before he ducked his head, put the glass down and made an awful retching noise over a previously unseen bin. Greg sighed and pat him on the back as he vomited, wondering how much of this was sickness and how much was dramatics, and immediately kicked himself for thinking such.When Sherlock flopped back into the sofa, he swallowed and blinked tiredly, ‘Sorry. Just thought about you in a romantic relationship with Mycroft. It rather set me off.’Greg rolled his eyes, handing Sherlock a tissue to wipe his mouth with. ‘Well,’ Greg started, giving Sherlock his water and throwing the tissue away, ‘yeah. But he didn't show up to lunch and didn't text.’Sherlock just grunted in response, rolling over and seeking Greg's warmth, half asleep. ‘CCTV?’ He mumbled, eyes closing as he tucked his hands under his chin.Greg sighed, sat on the edge of the sofa, and brought Sherlock's blankets up for him. ‘Already asked for it. Might take some time.’Sherlock nodded in response and promptly dozed right off, snoring softly. Sherlock was a cuddler, no matter what he said, so Greg soon had lanky limbs around his middle and a consulting detective's cheek pressed into his side. Greg sighed. No point waking him yet. He'd probably get puked on.—About two hours later, Greg got an email through with the CCTV footage, and woke Sherlock, who coughed quietly and looked up. It took him a moment to realise who he was cuddling, arms wrapped around a warm torso, and once he did, he pulled away in mild disgust. ‘What?’ He mumbled, glaring.Greg looked down at Sherlock and showed him his phone. Sherlock gestured for his laptop, logged in, and handed it over. Greg chuckled half-heartedly. ‘Yeah, I'm not John. Watch where you put your hands.’ He said, even if he didn't particularly mind the youngest of the Holmes siblings' unconscious affection. He bit his lower lip as he logged into his email and downloaded the CCTV, before he put it on Sherlock's lap. Sherlock blinked himself awake and got to work, inspecting the footage at an accelerated speed.After almost being vomited on and making himself a cup of tea he didn't touch, Greg finally got answers from Sherlock. ‘Amateur job.’ He said quietly, tutting. ‘Look at Warehouse K. I'm surprised someone so bad at kidnapping even knows of Mycroft. He doesn't put up much of a fight from what I see. I'm sure he's fine. Off you pop. And empty my bin, I don't like the smell of vomit when I'm trying to sleep.’–Greg did as Sherlock asked, thanked him hastily, and rushed off to his car, dialing Donovan and putting his phone on loudspeaker in the passenger seat. ‘I want backup to Warehouse K, E16 1DR.’ He said quickly. In his “normal-people” car, he didn't have a siren equipped, but he drove like he had them blaring.–Greg found himself stood outside the warehouse ten minutes earlier than was legal, staring up at the building and swallowing back his anxiety. He had arrived before any of the other police and felt a tad overwhelmed by it. He turned to the boot of the car and picked out an umbrella in the absence of any other weaponry and despite better judgement, approached the main entrance.He couldn't hear any disturbances, couldn't detect any movement. That unsettled him more than anything. He cautiously moved forward, and held the umbrella tightly, trying to mimic how he had seen Mycroft hold one for maximum efficiency in case of a brawl. This felt wrong to him. How did Mycroft of all people get himself kidnapped? Usually he did the kidnapping.Walking past a rusted storage unit, Greg stopped. He was definitely spending too much time around the Holmes brothers to have noticed how the new latch, chain and padlock were obviously recent additions to the door of the unit, visible by the gleam of new metal. Greg looped the handle of the umbrella through the padlock and yanked down hard a few times, grunting with effort as he did so, feeling the give in the new but cheap lock. He heard a soft intake of breath from inside the container, barely discernible from the sigh of spring wind against the metal.After a few more attempts and a concerning noise from his wrist, the locking mechanism gave out and Greg quickly scrambled to pull the chain free, leaving a flimsy latch the only thing between him and, presumably, his fiancé. He didn't know if he was ready for what he might find in there, but he'd be damned if he let Mycroft suffer any longer. He flicked the latch and tugged open the unit, to find the one and only Mycroft Holmes waiting for him.Mycroft sat on an overturned metal bucket, looking more concerned by the state of his suit than the bruise blossoming on his left cheek. He stood up, favouring his right side, and smiled at Greg.It was a smile Greg knew intimately. Most didn't really know how to interpret Mycroft's smiles, but Greg saw exactly what this one meant. It whispered gentle reassurances and tentative apologies.Mycroft softened his gaze at Greg, and spoke, voice rough. ‘I should have known to expect you before MI6,’ Mycroft sighed. ‘I don't like it when you put yourself in danger for me.’Greg sniffed, unsure of when the tears had started, and pressed his face into Mycroft's neck. ‘And I don't like it when you get kidnapped, so I suppose neither of us can be too pleased. Are you alright? Honestly?’Greg felt a gentle, manicured hand work its way into his hair, running through greyed strands. ‘Just bruised. I must admit, my pride likely hurts more than the physical injuries. My hip isn't too glad with the arrangement either. I'm unsure what they did with my umbrella.’Greg quickly handed Mycroft the umbrella that might have been a bit too short for his fiancé but hoping it would do to replace his usual, seeing the masked discomfort ebb slightly from his bloodied face as he leaned his weight on it.‘Careful, Myc. That's from Poundland, it's just plastic, not like your vibranium-reinforced one. It's been through enough with the padlock.’ He said with a sigh, moving to take some of Mycroft's weight and cupping his cheek, running a thumb over the bruise, impossibly gentle.Mycroft tilted his head into Greg's hand, and furrowed a brow. ‘Vibranium isn't a real metal, Gregory.’Greg rolled his eyes, swallowed thickly, and looked at his partner's shoulder. ‘I've got snot on you.’ He mumbled, and wiped his nose on his sleeve, missing Mycroft's grimace.Mycroft handed Greg one of his silk handkerchiefs, ‘These were invented for a reason, my dear. And you needn't worry yourself, there's enough foreign material on this suit to warrant burning it anyway.’Greg hummed and blew his nose into it, pocketing it as he knew Mycroft would rather get shot than take it back. He gave his fiancé another look over, this time taking the time to look over the details. ‘Who did this? Are you sure you're alright? Even if you think it's nothing, I want to know.’Mycroft grunted and shifted his weight, balancing as much as he deemed safe on the flimsy umbrella handle. ‘It's nothing much,’ he reassured, before clearing his throat, ‘mostly my hip, I suppose, and a mild headache. I do remember the smell of trichloromethane - commonly referred to as chloroform and painfully cliché. Do you know, chloroform doesn't work nearly as quickly as depicted in popular media? It would be extremely difficult to use enough to immediately knock someone out but not kill them, and takes about 5 minutes of inhaling the drug to work. Diazepam would have been so much quicker-’Greg sighed good-naturedly and cut Mycroft off with a little squeeze to his shoulder. ‘That's really interesting, but can we save the info dump until we aren't in immediate danger? What were you saying about how you're feeling? And really think about it, Myc.’Mycroft frowned for a moment, allowing himself to be led forward towards the exit of his temporary prison. He hummed in thought before speaking, ‘Well, I suppose I'm mildly nauseous, but that'll be the chloroform, nothing to worry about. Do we have to do this now?’ Mycroft sighed, and leaned enough weight on the umbrella with a wobbly step for the plastic to crack ominously under him. Greg took the cue to shift himself closer to the British government and hold him up, watching his limp cautiously. ‘Whoever did this really is an amateur. I think he panicked, rushed off once he'd locked me in here. Likely saw no reason to guard the place. You smell like sick people. Is Sherlock unwell? I do hope you don't come down with it.’‘How the hell did you come to that conclusion? Yeah, he is, how did-’‘Upon realising my absence, you would have immediately thought to contact my brother. You likely called Scotland Yard for CCTV footage, and went straight to Baker Street. It's your day off, you live alone.‘Perhaps a friend became ill and you went to see them? Improbable, that would have resulted in your contacting me earlier and sooner realising my predicament. That, and there's the faint scent of the particular brand of air freshener Sherlock can stand enough to allow John to place around the flat. If it was John who was unwell, Sherlock would have sent him to his old room to avoid catching his lurgy. And I do believe that dark curl stuck in your jumper is his. He can get awfully clingy.’Greg opened his mouth and shut it again. No matter how many times it happened, the Holmes brothers’ ability to just… know, always surprised him. When Sherlock did it, it was mildly unsettling to him. When it was Mycroft, he thought it sexy. He suspected John felt the same, if the opposite way around.Mycroft chuckled, furrowed his brow ever so slightly, and went back to concentrating on walking and trying not to look like he was struggling.—It wasn't long until Gregory had Mycroft in his humble car, giving quick instructions to the police and trying to ignore his irritation at their late arrival, while Mycroft called some unknown contact using Gregory's phone, feeling his charade shuddering apart.Mycroft hung up his conversation, which had consisted of a frankly obscene number of code words. He dropped the phone next to him, and stared out the window, stifled a slight belch into his fist and swallowed. Gregory watched him, obviously unsure if he should bring that up yet. ‘Sure you're okay?’ He said carefully.Mycroft tutted, and when he said nothing and belched again, Gregory sighed. ‘So, more than just a little nauseous, are you?’The British government checked he wasn't being watched by anyone outside the vehicle and sunk in his seat, reclining it slightly. ‘Chloroform is known to cause shortness of breath, drowsiness, nausea and vomiting, among other things.’ He muttered shortly in response, ‘and the smell of my brother's regurgitated breakfast isn't helping matters. Though that likely isn't accurate, with his distaste for eating in the mornings. And eating in general.’Mycroft sighed and closed his eyes, choosing to take slow, even breaths to calm his stomach and not paint his fiancé's car. He'd managed thus far, but the wearing off of the adrenaline and decreased risk of unwanted parties seeing him was making it rather more difficult.—They went to Gregory's flat, as it was closer, but Mycroft was fairly certain it was more to do with Gregory wanting to feel in control after the day than anything. Mycroft, once out the car, hobbled to the door before Gregory could even get out of his little Toyota, and let himself in, rushing up to the flat and making a rapid beeline for the bathroom.He really was losing this little internal battle with his stomach and if he had to, he thought he could keep his full English breakfast down, but it was getting rather uncomfortable. He knew better than to force himself to bring it up - that was a slippery slope into eating disorder territory - so he just shut the door and sat by the toilet, closing aching eyes.He felt yet another hot flash overtake him and he ducked over the bowl, spitting saliva into the water, and heaving rapid breaths. His mouth filled with saliva a few more times before he actually got anywhere, and he let out a God awful gag before spilling the contents of his churning stomach into the porcelain before him. Which was just when Gregory knocked on the door.‘You want me to come in, love?’ Gregory called, already anticipating the negative response if Mycroft judged by the tone used, and more asking to be polite. Once Mycroft caught his breath enough to respond with a ‘no’, Gregory sighed.‘I'll go get you some clothes, no doubt you'll want a shower or something.’ He paused for a moment, and Mycroft could imagine the look that would have been on his face. Torn between wanting to help his lover and do as he asked for him. ‘Just… shout if you want me?’Mycroft mumbled an affirmative, and stood up carefully, leaning on the sink as he flushed the toilet and stripped his defiled suit off. He shut the lid of the toilet and put the clothing on it, folded neatly despite the fact he had no intention of ever wearing them again and they were destined for a furnace somewhere.—Greg looked up from his position on the sofa to see Mycroft wandering out of the bathroom, looking positively worn out and cozy in the pyjamas had carefully picked out for him. Though the British government didn't vocalise it as much as his youngest sibling, Greg was well aware he wasn't fond of certain fabrics. Mycroft had evidently noticed the cane he'd left out for him, and was using it to hobble over to the sofa.Mycroft dropped it at his side upon reaching Greg's side and carefully settled down at his fiancé's side. He tucked his hands under his chin, folded at the wrist in a way so similar to that of his brother when he slept, tucking himself up on the sofa and cuddling close. He sighed so quietly Greg barely heard and closed his eyes.Greg smiled to himself and put an arm around Mycroft, gently playing with his hair. ‘Donovan dropped your phone off while you were showering. Found it looking for evidence and I convinced her to drop it off.’ Greg put it in front of Mycroft and listened to his pleasantly surprised hum. Greg didn't think much of it until Mycroft showed him a short message from Sherlock.
Call me when you have the chance please.
- SH
Mycroft sat up slowly and pressed the “dial” button below Sherlock's contact. It took a few seconds before Sherlock's raspy voice came through. ‘Mycroft. You're safe, I assume? And unharmed?’Mycroft chuckled lightly and gave his reassuring response, ‘That I am, brother mine. I've certainly had worse. Are you quite alright? What diseases have you gone and contracted running amok around London?’Sherlock grunted and Greg could have sworn he heard him roll his eyes. ‘It's just a stomach bug. Slightly better now, I think your fiancé's sickening anxiety worsened it. I blame John for my contracting it, he's always bringing a host of pathogens back from the clinic.’ A low, sleepy chuckle through the phone told Greg John was likely lying with his sick boyfriend after a long work day.There was a quiet exchange, followed by an overdramatic sigh. ‘John wants to know if you want him to come over to check you over, Mycroft.’ Sherlock said, in a tone that all but begged Mycroft to decline the offer so he could soak up more cuddles from his favourite doctor.Mycroft shook his head and buried his face in Greg's side as he prepared to hang up. ‘I assure you, Doctor Watson, I'm quite well. Go back to sleep, Sherlock. Take care.’Before he could hang up, Sherlock spoke. ‘Wait a moment. I know you're listening in, Giles. Thank you for rescuing my incompetent older brother. Look after him. I can't have him getting into any more trouble. And it's rude to eavesdrop, John says.’ Sherlock said, before he yawned right into the phone and hung up.Greg chuckled to himself, fully aware of the real meaning of what Sherlock had said. Despite what he said, he worried about Mycroft. He wasn't as good at hiding it as he thought.‘That was nice,’ Mycroft whispered, dozing against Greg but blinking himself awake. ‘Ask. I know you're wanting an explanation.’Greg sighed, stroking Mycroft's hair. He did, but he also wanted Mycroft to rest. He might as well, if the man was offering though. He might not want to discuss it later. ‘Alright. Do you know who kidnapped you? Or why?’Mycroft shook his head carefully. ‘I've done a lot of things to irritate a lot of people. Those people were poorly trained, likely owing a favour or two. Briefed on the specifics, but not the broader picture. They knew where to take me, but not to keep me guarded. To use chloroform, but not to think about where they're abducting me. I did wonder when you'd arrive. Are you quite alright? It must have been… upsetting, for you, darling.’Greg hummed and looked down. ‘I can't say I didn't have my moments of panic. But I'll be alright. Just feel like I need to coddle you a bit, if that's all good with you. Myc?’Mycroft's head had fallen back against Greg's chest, breaths soft and even against his shirt, figure lax in well-deserved slumber. A gentle snore punctuated each inhale, and Greg smiled to himself. That conversation could wait until morning. Greg instead pulled the blanket off the back of the sofa and tucked it over his soon-to-be husband, and settled down for his own sleep, holding Mycroft Holmes in his arms.