Mystrade Oneshots

32) Sick Interactions

Mycroft woke up to the sound of coughing and sniffling, neither of which were his own.

The sounds were coming from the man lying next to him. His husband, Gregory Lestrade.

He sighed gently and rolled over to face the man in question, who was sat up in bed, using a tissue to cover his mouth. "Drink some water, love."

Greg noticed the movement and even in the dark could see worry present on Mycroft's face. "Sorry." He mumbled. "Did I wake you?"

The tissue over Gregs mouth made it clear that he'd been trying to muffle his coughing fit. Mycroft had been woken by the coughing but there's no way in hell he'd say that. "No, I have to be up soon, I usually wake just before that time."

Greg managed to choke out the word "liar" through another round of coughing. Mycroft would have rolled his eyes, had he not been so concerned.

It wasn't long after that the coughing, mixed with a very poorly timed itching in his throat, got too much for Greg and it was at that point he started to feel nauseous. He quickly got up and headed for the bathroom.

Mycroft sighed and turned on the lamp at his bedside table. It seemed unlikely that either of them would be sleeping again tonight.

When Greg did emerge from the bathroom he looked lot more than 'a little worse for wear.' Upon seeing the worried expression of his husband he gave a weak smile. "I'm fine Myc."

Mycroft's face changed to that of an unconvinced spouse. "Gregory, you just spent fifteen minutes throwing up in the bathroom. You're not 'fine.' I'll ring Scotland Yard in the morning to tell them you won't be coming in."

"But-"

"No. No buts, you're sick. End of story."

"So much for a sympathetic bedside manner..."

Mycroft offered him a small smile. "Call it tough love. Come on, get back into bed dear, you'll make it worse if you just stand there."

"I should take the guest room, I don't wanna make you sick too." Greg mumbled tiredly. He almost didn't noticed as Mycroft guided him back into bed and wrapped the blanket around him.

Mycroft made sure his husband had enough water, was propped up comfortably on pillows to ease the coughing and had a lifetime supply of tissues, before he crept downstairs to make a few calls. One to Scotland Yard, and the other to Anthea to tell her he would be taking time off work for the foreseeable future.

When Mycroft made it back to the bedroom Greg was dead to the world. He looked so peaceful when he was sleeping, it was an ironic twist on the condition Mycroft had found him in when he'd first woken up.

He slid into bed himself. 'Illness be damned.' He thought. He'd stay right here, in case Gregory needed him.

The next few days consisted of Mycroft acting as nurse to Greg, who was a begrudging patient. Unsurprisingly the day Greg was better, was the day Mycroft fell ill and discovered that while he was a willing nurse, he was an even worse patient than Greg.