A cheap hotel on the outskirts of London, the son of a very influential Chinese government official, a dead party girl, and a drug dealer. The rich boy and the drug dealer of course both claimed that the other one had killed the girl in a jealous rage over the other one, but both had been drunk and neither one of them really knew what happened that night.
Complications - the Chinese government was trying to get their little reprobate back.
Further complications - the dead party girl was the niece of the Home Secretary and a member of the Peerage, besides.
So naturally, a Holmes was sent to see what they could do to solve the issue. In this situation, the first one on-scene outside the police was surprisingly, the older Holmes. Even stranger than that, was who had called him.
He stepped out of the sleek car, crisp and dangerous in his dark suit with the yellow tie, his lips pressed in a thin line as he looked around. "Oh joy. A diplomatic nightmare waiting to happen."
Sally Donovan glowered at him as he approached the police line, Anthea in tow. "Oi now, this is a murder scene."
"Oh gracious, really? I thought it was the line for the ice cream truck. What with the flashing lights and cheery looking folk, all about." Mycroft smiled, one that actually made Sally look uneasy. "Off you go, Sergeant Donovan. I'm here for Inspector Lestrade. He ... called for me."
It was a bad case when Greg had to call in Sherlock; it was an outright clusterfuck if Mycroft Holmes had to be involved. With the former, at least all he had to worry about was making sure to maintain the integrity of the evidence while his consultant swayed around spouting information. With the latter ... well, he had a feeling Mycroft valued certain things more highly than the integrity of evidence. But Greg was no stubborn, head-knocking jurisdiction hawk. When it came to balancing a murder investigation against the general peace and public opinion, he didn't mind making a few concessions.
As usual.
In this case, however, his concern was less with political ramifications than with the victim's family. He didn't know many people who moved in these circles - maybe just the one - and he wanted to be sure they wouldn't leap in and stonewall the investigation to save face. No doubt they disapproved of whatever connections had brought their daughter here, and wouldn't want to see them in the light of day.
He was waiting in the hall while the medical team made sure everything was square when Mycroft arrived - and waved him in from his position near the door. "Not squeamish, are you?"
Mycroft slipped past the yellow tape, leaving an angry Donovan to deal with a smooth Anthea, who worked to shut the scene down to the press and anyone outside the team. He paused by one of the medical team's kits, pulling out a set of blue gloves, snapping them on as he went to join Lestrade.
He grimaced faintly at Gregory's words, hooking his umbrella on his arm. "The fact that you have to ask - opens the door to all sorts of ugly questions."
He sighed as he looked around the area, blue eyes assessing. "To answer your question, not as squeamish as most would think. My work has taken me to ... interesting locales. I am still not going to like what I find, but that is more of a question of logistics then anything else."
He had to figure out how bad the damage was, before it could be controlled. He set his shoulders, gesturing for Gregory to walk forward first. "Let us see what we are dealing with."
He hadn't expected anything else - at least Mycroft was marginally more sensitive than certain other visitors he'd had to crime scenes. Greg had long since lost the visceral side of what might be called squeamishness, but it would be a lie to say he wasn't often disturbed. The emotional impact of death never wore off, for him, but - at least it was on a delay. He could fret about it later.
After leading him down the hall, he directed Mycroft into the room in question, still a bit cramped with a forensic analyst and the crime scene photographer. The girl herself was slumped against the bed, chest riddled with far more bullet wounds than necessary to do the job - not a pretty sight.
"Personally, I'd call it a crime of passion," he said, a little dry. He could hear Sherlock somehow, somewhere: obviously. He motioned to the clutter of drug paraphernalia on the nightstand, which was currently in the process of being dusted. "But they were partying, too, so God knows how hopped up our shooter was."
Mycroft had been expecting something like this, had mentally accepted that he was about to see the face of a girl that he had seen in pictures, behind someone's desk. Perhaps had even caught a glimpse at some fancy function, being fussed over by her mother. He knew she would be young, would have that sad slap of paint on her to make her seem older than she really was.
Still, it was something of a viseral punch to the solar plexus, to see the room. The needles, the blood staining out in a spread pattern (inaccurate shooting, someone just picking up the gun and shooting it without really pointing. Messy, 'crime of passion'. Sentiment gone horribly, horribly wrong.), and even the doll-like quality of the girl's blue eyes, staring out at nothing.
Mycroft lifted his umbrella, so he could kneel beside the girl, a pensive frown working over his face. "...this could have been Sherlock, in different circumstances."
He shook himself out of it, before he slipped his gaze over the room. "We can subtract the drugs, for the family's sake. It seems she was a careful addict - probably took it between her toes, and in the webbing of her fingers. That is a comfort, at least." He gazed at the body. "I will suggest a closed casket - even though her face is intact, her chest is all but caved in."
He measured the girl, thinking. "These were straight on, with no angle. So whoever shot her was standing up, and approximately her height."
"Right. Subtract, that's nice." Despite what some of his colleagues may have thought, Greg wasn't in the habit of tampering with evidence - just showing it off to the wrong people. But when the family of the victim had the power to put the kibosh on the whole investigation, he was willing to scrub a few details here and there in the interests of justice. He'd been up against enough powerful people to know they were better off blissfully ignorant, when possible.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, watching in mild surprise (which he did his best to mask) as Mycroft actually got down onto the floor. With a nod, he glanced toward the open door where it led out to the hall. "We haven't got much on the shooter by way of a description. Just what we pulled from the bloody shoe print on the threshold - male, bit smaller than average. No one saw him." It would take time to pull the security footage if there even was any, so for now - a good Holmesian estimate would do as well as anything.
And one Holmes was as good as another, apparently. Even when it came to getting hands dirty. That was a bit of a surprise. "Could have been Sherlock," he allowed quietly, with a shrug. "Could have been you, could have been me. Anyone can get himself shot."
Mycroft arched an eyebrow up at him, before stating simply, "It does not have to be nice. It merely has to be necessary, to catch this girl's killer. Sometimes we must make the difficult choices to do what is right."
And most of the time, the truth suffered, but justice did prevail. In that, Mycroft took comfort. He eyed the girl, her position of her body, her clothes, then frowned a little. "Just how tall are our two suspects? And was there anyone else in the house? Or anyone else expected?"
He pushed himself up, and up, his tall frame moving absolutely upright as he looked around with a keener gaze. "And, please indulge me a vulgar question - both young men claimed to have had sexual relations with her, recently?"
Greg nodded, shrugging his shoulders. Vulgar, personal, distressing when the subject of conversation was lying prone on the floor - but, as he might have said, necessary. "They have. That bit'll have to stay in, I expect - DNA. If they were stupid enough to leave any." Which, going by the look of them, they probably were. That was the bit that wasn't sitting well with him: if they were as dumb as they seemed to be, how had they got rid of the weapon so well and so quickly? It didn't track.
All the more reason to bring in an expert.
"They're both around five nine, five ten. Good bit taller than her. IF she was - I don't know, wearing heels ..." Which they hadn't found, of course. "Or if one of them was - seated, maybe. On the bed." Which it didn't seem they had been. So, lucky him - a mystery. The shoe print was a close match to one of the suspects', and it would take forensics to make a sure thing of it, but ... well, it wasn't perfect. "If there was someone else, he booked it before we got here." Which didn't make any damn sense.
Mycroft's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as he stepped back. Accessing data, as he looked at the room with an entire different perspective. He paused, because Lestrade was giving him that look - that faintly hopeful, 'You see something look'. Which Mycroft didn't get very often, to be honest, unless the red lights were flashing and it was Ground Zero in the backhalls ...
Right. Focus. He gestured to the girl. "Look at her, she was in the middle of pulling on her skirt, and she had closed her sweater before that. Covering herself. Modesty, not something you would expect when speaking to her two lovers. She wanted the attention, wanted to flaunt. Whoever came in here to kill her wanted her, but she didn't want them ..."
He looked around, his gaze suddenly sharp, "...and I don't they have left this house."
As always, the signs were easy to read as soon as they were articulated - it was a satisfying feeling to see it all click into place, whether or not he himself had been the one to make the discovery. Greg wasn't one to worry over credit or pride. It was just as thrilling to get the answers from someone else, especially when, as with Sherlock and Mycroft, he could trust them to be right.
This time, of course, the thrill was cut off almost immediately by the plummeting feeling of something being decidedly wrong. "What do you mean," he asked, wetting his lips a little nervously, holding out hope for the moment that it wasn't quite what it sounded like. "They must have gone, if we -"
And that's when he heard the shouting. Then - a gunshot, unmistakable, and the clatter of his people taking cover, the frantic mix of radio and live voices. He was out the door into the hall before he knew it, that sick feeling taking a back seat for the moment to the crisis - to just getting a damn grip on things. "Stay there," he barked in the general direction of Mycroft and the one forensic technician looking like he might rather high-tail it out to the car, before taking off up the hallway toward the action. Just perfect.
Mycroft let out a sigh, as the shots began to fire out. Yes, that was pretty much what he meant - the killer was still here and it seemed rather likely the killer was going to try and shoot his way out of here. He arched an eyebrow at Gregory, snorting slightly. "Well, I am not wearing my bullet-proof three piece today, so yes, I will stay here. Thank you."
He frowned, faintly, as Gregory ran right into the action -- was he wearing a bullet proof vest, before the tech made a scared whimper and went for the door. Mycroft let out a hiss of, "Wait, you idiot!" just as he disappeared through the doorway.
Marvelous. Now Mycroft would have to make sure some hapless idiot didn't wander right into the path of a bullet. He sighed, looking back at the girl, before he carefully peered into the hallway, and tried to hear which direction the tech had gone in.
"Come back here, you do not even know the way out!"
Greg was not, of course, prepared for a firefight; by the time he'd been called in, the scene had supposedly been cleared by the first responders. Of course everyone was meant to be on their guard, but one could usually trust that they'd smoked out all the active and armed suspects, for goodness' sake. He could hear Sally calling for backup from behind a door - the right move, everyone should just be taking cover - and was relieved to see everyone making their way toward the door. He needed to go see that no one had been hit, to make sure that the zone of danger was clear. And then maybe, if they were lucky, they could get everyone out and covered and just wait for the backup to arrive.
But then the kid from forensics darted ahead of him, and for a moment Greg wondered what the hell he was doing until he realized the poor idiot thought he should be following him. Oh, Jesus. He sped up and reached out as the tech ran headlong into the hall, hoping against hopt o grab him. "No, don't -"
There was a shot. Greg felt his shoulder scream with pain as he was toppling onto the tech to try to shove them both to safety into the adjacent doorway; somehow, through the sudden haze of shock he was able to look down and see that the kid wasn't hurt, and to wonder what in hell he was going to do. Wonderful.
Mycroft paused, turning when he saw a shadow pass in front of him, following behind the tech. He crept up behind them, just in time to see the tech try to move ahead of Lestrade - oh the idiot was trying to be a hero, Lestrade reaching him to grab him and drag him back, just as he saw an arm snake out of a sideroom, with a gun. The gun fired, Lestrade jerked, and Mycroft was already moving.
The only warning the shooter got was, "BALL!" as Mycroft's umbrella swung up and smashed the perpetrator in the face with the hard wooden handle. The gun went flying as Mycroft stepped back and jabbed the handle into the shooter's throat, then down into his, or her, stomach, as hard as he could, incapacitating the shooter as best he could. The shooter fell with an 'oof', and Mycroft darted off behind the doorway, slightly breathless as he wrapped his arm around Lestrade's waist, pulling him off the tech, and towards the safety of the door.
"Come on, grab him, and lift! Carefully!" He growled, before whispering to Gregory, "Lestrade, if you die on me, I am going to be unbelievably cross with you."
Within a couple seconds of the impact, everything seemed to dull. His hearing dipped away, his vision seemed to fade from the edges in, and he could feel nothing except a sort of queasiness. It passed - he couldn't have said how much later - but it must not have been more than a few moments, because next he knew he was being hefted up and yes, berated by Mycroft Holmes, being shoved at by a terrified forensic tech, and newly conscious of the ripping pain in his shoulder.
"You've got - a bloody awful bedside manner," he grunted, gritting his teeth against the pain and managing only a very weak sort of glare in his general direction. "Aren't you supposed to keep me calm, or -"
Thankfully, only one of them was in any shape to bicker; Greg had to cut off his half-hearted attempt in order to focus on staying on his feet. He was coming back to himself, perhaps because of the adrenaline, but getting to the door still seemed like an insurmountable challenge. By that time he was vaguely aware of Sally and a couple of other officers running back in, Sally's thoroughly recognizable oh, fuck, and then a certain chaos of orders and radios. He made an attempt to add his voice to the mix and tell them all to get outside, but it was to no avail; all he could manage was to toss his good arm across Mycroft's shoulders and dig his fingers into the fabric of his jacket to try to keep steady.
Mycroft's eyes widened as the bloodstain on Gregory's jacket widened as he carried him along outside, and the tech was yelling to Sally wildly, "He's still inside! Mr. Holmes incapacitated him but he's still in there!"
Mycroft let out a curse as he managed to get Gregory away from the tech who was still yelling in a panic. He put Gregory on the ground, pressing his hand against the wound. Keeping the pressure down and tight. Worry creased his eyes as he called out to Anthea, "Call an ambulance! Now!"
He put his attention back on Gregory, keeping his hand down, looking at the man, "Well if you want better bedside manner, then you will have to live to see it. In fact, I shall charm your socks off, if you stay awake and keep your gaze on me. Right until the medics arrive, please."
A strangled sound worked its way out of Greg's throat as Mycroft pressed against his shoulder; he could feel a clamminess under his clothes that might have been blood or might just have had to do with the fact he was ridiculously pale. For lack of anything to grab onto, he braced his hands against the ground and dug his fingers into the pavement. When he had a bit of a grip on his voice again, he looked up at Mycroft - as directed.
"Nobody dies from - from a bloody shoulder wound." The pain and shock and confusion mad it pretty easy for fear to breed, though, and he wasn't exactly feeling rational, or he likely wouldn't have snapped at the man who'd just saved his life. It was telling, perhaps, that e didn't look away. "If that idiot had just stayed put where I told him ... Jesus, you know that hurts." Most of the bite had gone out of his voice.
Mycroft made sure to keep pressure on the wound, not liking how pale Gregory had become. The blood was far too much, and the worry intensified that perhaps the shooter had nicked a vein. He looked around, Anthea was on the phone already so the ambulance was coming.
He looked back at Gregory, before his lips twitched, "Oh, I am terribly sorry. Shall I just call off the medical care?" Better that he snap at Mycroft and stay conscious, then slip away into a coma. "Well, I will be sure to have him deported once we get a band-aid on your scratch."
Sirens in the background made some of the tension leave his shoulders, but he kept his gaze on Gregory's. "Help is almost here -- I am not sure about the shooter but I am sure Donovan has it well in hand."
"She's ..." She's fine, he was going to say, before he drifted off, distracted by the need to concentrate to keep his eyes on one point. He hadn't wanted to think it was anything serious at all, but it was starting to seem as though Mycroft might be right. That wasn't a thought he wanted to entertain. He needed something stabilizing. Without really thinking, he reached up and grabbed onto Mycroft's jacket. "She'll handle it. Until I get this - patched up."
Several questions he knew he should ask wove in and out of his mind - how Mycroft had managed the shooter, where he was now, why he'd had the brilliant idea of barging into an active fire zone and dragging him out. None stayed long enough to form into words. When the sirens grew intolerable loud and then stopped, when he could hear the paramedics starting to tramp in his direction, he centered himself enough to release Mycroft's jacket and force out the closest thing to an apology he could currently muster.
"Gregory? Gregory!" The alarm in his voice surprised him, but he decided now was not the time to focus on extraneous things like feelings. He tried to stem some of the blood flow by pulling Gregory up towards him, still keeping his hand on the wound, pushing down as hard as he could until the paramedics swarmed around them.
Mycroft only moved back when Gregory let go of his coat, blue eyes wide as they carried him off to the ambulance. He jerked with surprise when Anthea came by his side, putting his umbrella back in his hands, forcing him into the reality of the moment. He breathed out, centering himself once more, "We'll follow the ambulance - leave SIS and the police to handle the shooter. Make sure to message ahead, have their best surgeon on hand."
"Yes sir, but some of them will have to come with us. The shooter ... he was Tong, sir." Anthea stated simply, as they started towards the large black car.
Mycroft jerked at that, before his lips pressed together, "I see. So this was a set-up. Have the ambassador's son framed for murder, start up a fight between the Chinese government and ours. Letting us both take the attention off of recent Tong activities."
"It seems so sir and ... we believe the assassin was trying to take care of two problems with one stone. We think he stayed to try and take care of you, as well." Anthea said slowly.
Mycroft's step jerked, slightly, as he looked back to the house, and his voice dropped to an icy level. "Oh, how very clever. I shall have to be extra clever, in kind." He paused, "So why take a shot at the technician?" He thought of how dark the house was, how Gregory had commented that everyone else had been cleared out, until Gregory radioed in for the tech. "...Unless in the confusion he thought it was me."
His lips pressed together, and he squeezed the umbrella in his grip, anger rippling through him. "Well then, we shall also add the price of being sloppy onto their bill." He rapped on the glass between the front and the rear of the car, his voice sharp. "Follow the ambulance. Then get the head of MI6 on the phone."
From almost the moment he was loaded into the ambulance, Greg was more or less oblivious. To the more intricate details of the plot he'd unwittingly dived into, certainly - but also to most everything else. The painkiller they had in him by the time they were on the road wasn't as effective as he might have liked, but it made him blank. The fear and the urgency died away and very little made it into his thoughts aside from his physical discomfort and - strangely - Mycroft's reassurances. Maybe it was natural to cling to those. The medics were repeating a variation on that theme.
At the hospital, he was present enough to speak with the surgeon - or, at least, to listen and nod and try to put on a good face. He was quickly becoming more exhausted than anything else, however, and he had enough faith in doctors generally and in the woman about to go digging around in his shoulder that the anesthetic was a welcome retreat, like falling asleep after a damned long day.
When he awoke in recovery, he had no idea what time it was, whether it was day or night, or really what on earth had happened; he was groggy, a little nauseous, and still hurting (what was the point of these drugs, anyway?) but deeply relieved to be awake. He could feel the obligatory worries about his work, the crime scene, and his officers pressing against the hazy boundary of his mind, but he let them stay there for the moment.
For now, all he wanted to worry about was twisting round to find a glass of water. It seemed enough of a chore to keep him busy for a good while.
When he turned, he would probably think that the drugs had finally kicked in, for there was Mycroft Holmes, sleeping in a chair near the bed, his hand holding up his head as he dozed. With the creak of the hospital bed, though, he started to stir, blinking.
He had been for hours, after the surgery. He could do nothing during it besides, well, fret, so he had turned his energy outward. Taking the Tong agent into custody. Informing the family what had happened with their daughter. Taking the Chinese ambassador and his son firmly in hand about what would be done for reparations. Informing Lestrade's ex-wife about the incident and then firmly telling her to stay away.
Finally, though, he received the text that Lestrade was out of surgery. That he would make it but it had been a close thing. The bullet had nicked a vein, but the worst of it had been repaired. Now it was just a matter of time. He got himself a change of clothes, and prepared to wait with Gregory, so he would not wake up ... alone.
There were other reasons, he realized, but he was not going to examine them. Let those be shoved down, firmly down. Still, they swirled around his dreams, and even as he woke, he lost the battle to giving Gregory a sleepy, pleased smile when he saw his eyes open. He cleared his throat, and sat up, making a face as his back cracked, "Ah, good, you are awake."
The surprise of finding Mycroft Holmes at his bedside was muted, as everything was, by the bleary after-effects of the anesthesia - but as Greg (very slowly) considered it, it seemed to make sense. He was the one who'd saved him, after all. Who else would it be? The only other candidates, his sergeants and his other men, were no doubt still busy. They'd visit, of course, but there was the job to do, and - what time was it, anyhow? They couldn't be expected ...
The relief he felt he hardly recognized as relief, wrung out as he was. But there was a warm sort of feeling, a comfort, in not being alone. Alone was what he'd come to expect of late, and any deviation in that flat line of solitude woke in him the perhaps over-eager urge to please, to try to keep the company he had.
It was a few moments later that he realized he'd probably been looking in Mycroft's direction for quite a while; that Mycroft had said something. Right. Focus. "You're -"
God, that sounded awful. He tried to clear his throat, took as deep a breath as he could, and made another go at it. "You're still here. How long have you ... How long's it been?"
There was nothing wrong with his memory, at least; he suddenly had a very clear memory of lying on the pavement and bleeding all over Mycroft. Fantastic.
Mycroft found himself caught in that dark, surprised gaze, and cleared his throat. Tugging his clothes into place, he cleared his throat as he shifted in his seat. If he had any less mental control, he might have even rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. "I ... have been here since the surgery was completed, and that was about twelve hours ago. You were shot yesterday."
He cleared his throat, pulling his dignity around him as he spoke. "I have arranged things here for you, as you ... well, since I owe you. Again. Your medical bills are on the Government, and the criminals have all been apprehended. I also took the liberty of informing your ex-wife you were here -- and that she was not needed."
He flexed his long fingers on his knees, "...I hope I did not overstep my bounds, there?"
Greg felt a little swoop in his gut at the thought of losing an entire day - twelve hours, Jesus - but that was silly, wasn't it? He was fine, he was here. There was nothing to be afraid of. All of that had passed him by while he was unconscious. As disconcerting as that was, it was over. No doubt the doctors would come in and tell him all about it, soon enough. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.
He swallowed clumsily. "No. That's - she can come by later, if she likes. Rather not wake up to that." He dropped his eyes for a moment, smoothing the sheet over the side of the bed. He was tired enough now; he couldn't imagine if she were there. "Thanks. But - did you get knocked over the head, or what?" He's hoarse and he can only imagine he looks like hell, but he manages a skeptical look, arching an eyebrow sharply at him. "You're the one who dragged me out of a firefight. How's it you owe me anything?"
He'd never been the best at maths, but this seemed like some pretty simple addition, to him. He tried to cough some of the soreness out of his throat, and winced. "I'm the one who'd still be lying on the street."
Mycroft leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together in his lap as he took in Gregory's expression. Some tension left his shoulders when Gregory backed up his thoughts on not having the former Mrs. Lestrade - in fact he nodded briefly. "I am glad I chose correctly, then."
One corner of his mouth twisted at that statement, before he sighed, resting his fingertips together in what was a Holmes gesture of pensive thought. "...The shooter was a jealous lover, just ... not who we assumed. It was a Tong agent - a woman in fact - who had been dallying behind her organization's back with the ambassador's son. He cheated on her, she ... got angry. Took the opportunity to make some extra credit with her people by framing him for murder."
He sighed, "The reason she stayed is because she recognized me. The Tong and I are ... what would one call being the arch-nemesis of an entire organization? Nevermind, hardly matters. The point is, she stayed because she thought she could have a chance to take out me. She didn't realize the tech had stayed behind."
Greg raised his eyebrows at that - arch-nemesis of an entire organization, indeed - and did his best to follow along. He shouldn't have been surprised, because of course Mycroft had his hands in more things than Greg even knew existed, but ... well, the Holmeses never ceased to amaze. He grimaced.
"So - she thought she'd be gunning for you." He glanced down at the bandages wrapped around his shoulder, and reached up with his good hand to hold it level at the site of the bullet wound. When he looked back up at Mycroft he was smiling slightly, an attempt at dark humor - but it didn't really reach his eyes. "What are you, three inches taller?" His hand dropped about that far - right to heart level. "She'd have got you good."
It wasn't a bad trade, all things considered. A non-lethal bullet for a lethal one - who wouldn't take that? The pain would pass. No doubt the physical therapy would be a bitch, but it wasn't death. He'd have to remember to thank the stupid bugger who'd gone running out into the hall.
He shifted in a vain effort to get comfortable, and waved toward the little table that was awkwardly out of reach. "If you want to thank me, you can pour me a glass of water. I'm - fucking parched."
Mycroft shifted forward, minutely, when he watched that grimace cross over Gregory's face. Concern flashed across his face, before he exhaled. The man was ... generally, fine. He had not asked Mycroft to 'fuss', after all. Still, he eyed the morphine drip, debating or whether or not he should inform the man it was self-applicated.
"Quite so." He too, looked at the bandage on his shoulder. His mouth twisted again at Gregory's insight - impressed he had caught onto that so quickly. "Yes, three inches, and she would have gotten me ... if not for a foolish mistake, and your bravery. I owe you." The smile was small, but wry. "Again."
Concern flashed again, and this time he rose to his feet, moving to shift the pillows so Gregory could sit more comfortably, then pulling the table towards him. He poured out the water, eyed it, then stuck the straw in as well. He gave Gregory a pensive look before he asked quietly, "Can you hold it on your own?"
"I guess you could call it bravery," Greg said, leaning forward obligingly - if stiffly - to facilitate pillow-shifting. He was beginning to understand which bits of himself he had to keep still in order to avoid the shooting pain that came with disturbing his injured shoulder. He settled back, grateful - and found himself looking up at Mycroft and a much-needed drink.
He smiled at him - something more genuine this time, more pleased, but still a pale imitation of his usual. He couldn't quite pull off the jaunty reassurance he was going for - hard to communicate everything's fine when you'd lost quite that much blood - but the attempt was there. He reached up with his good arm to wrap his hand around the cup.
"We'll see, I guess. This one's still all right, you know."
He managed to hold it, and took a long, almost desperate drink. When he'd finished, he handed it back, a little sheepish; he was weaker than he'd expected. Holding anything up for any amount of time was probably going to have to wait until he'd had a proper meal. "Thank you. I'll be too useless for stupid mistakes for a while, looks like."
"I would call it bravery - but then I would also have to call it stupidity. I suppose it was a little of both." Mycroft smirked, faintly, holding out the cup to Gregory. However, he stood nearby, his hand ready to take the cup back.
That smile ... well. That smile loosened something in Mycroft. Something that he was sure he still wasn't ready to look at. He glanced to the other shoulder, lips pressed together, before he looked back into Gregory's eyes again. He took the cup back, his tone thoughtful, "That is ... quite true. You will be out of commission for a few weeks."
He looked around, "Do you have someone you wish for me to contact, when you are released from here, to come and help take care of you?"
There was something on the tip of Greg's tongue; he automatically postured himself to say yes, of course, to wave off that concern before it could even land on him. Part of it was just his usual urge to put people at ease, but it had also just always been true. Of course he had someone. His mother, his mates, his wife.
Now, though - there really wasn't anyone. The realization settled on him uneasily. His smile dulled slightly, to something closer to determined than really carefree. But he kept it up, and just let his eyes drop to wher his blanket was tugged up to his chest.
"No - no, I'll be fine. They won't kick me out before I can walk, you know? It's just an arm." And it seemed like a much less daunting prospect than coming face to face with the fact that he was going home to deal with it alone. When he'd first met Mycroft, if anyone had told him he'd be reluctant to see him go, he'd have laughed in their face. But here he was, the only one who had stayed, even if it was out of a sense of obligation.
He tried a tight smile, looking up at him with a sort of grim resolve. "It doesn't take any more than that to microwave a cup of noodles."
Mycroft's expression creased into a frown at the thought of Gregory, alone in that ridiculous little flat of his, microwaving a cup of noodles all on his own. Something in his shoulders squared, and he spoke firmly, "Don't be ridiculous. If you need a place to take care of you, then that person is going to be me."
He took out his phone, and started to text his assistant and his household staff. "Do you still like all the same cuisine from the last time you stayed with me, or shall I change up the menu accordingly?"
He could not think of Gregory alone. Better that he be at home, with Mycroft, while he recovered. Any other thoughts beyond that were pushed viciously aside, and with good reason. He was doing this as a ... person concerned, and no more. Or at least, that was what he tried to tell himself.
Greg shouldn't have been surprised - and he wasn't, really, once the words were out of Mycroft's mouth. Embarrassed, perhaps, that he hadn't seen it coming even though it had happened before, and that perhaps it must have seemed like he was angling for it; but most of all pleased, and a little relieved. The warmth of the feeling took him by surprise. One didn't expect warmth around Holmeses, much as one didn't expect favors - never mind outright kindness.
But he ought to know better.
He gave an abashed (and subdued and rather croaky) laugh, fiddling with the blanket again for something to do with his hands. "Calling it cuisine's a little kind, I think. But - yeah. Creature of habit."
All too stubbornly so, apparently. A man who made as strong as impression as Mycroft did tend to leave a lasting mark in one's memory, of course, but Greg was going to have to see if he couldn't reshape it a bit. The picture he'd first made of him hadn't left any room for things like generosity.
"It's good of you," he added, managing to sound less impress than a little chagrined. "I won't say no. - Hell of a lot nicer than my place, of course."
Holmeses are not known for kindness. Or at least, that would be what Mycroft and Sherlock would want you to believe. Sadly, the more interaction they had with outsiders, the more that particular truth seemed to be coming off as a blatant lie. Not for the first time, Mycroft silently cursed John Watson. His affect on Sherlock was spreading to him. Again.
Although that laugh made it easier to swallow. He crooked up a smirk, then texted his housekeeper to make sure they stocked up again on all the particulars.
Generosity ... was strangely, something that he was getting rather good at. Had been good at, and it seemed impossible that people thought throwing resources and money at things seemed to be so hard to do. If you had it, why not use it? Delicately, of course. A razor blade, not a butcher knife.
"Yes. Quite so. Besides, I do not want you to struggle, on your own. Not after what I owe you." He sniffed at the text back, hoping against hope his ears were now not pink as he read, Oh is the Inspector coming for a visit?
Greg shut his eyes. "I'll be glad for the company."
That was by far the most compelling reason to accept the invitation, and the one he might not have admitted to had he not been quite so tired. It's always hardest to cop to what's the most obvious. He was bloody lonely, and had been for what felt like ages - well, well before the divorce - and it wouldn't take a man like Mycroft to see it. But for some reason, it was what he tried most to hide. It was a live wire; not to be touched.
But the current was running a little low, right now. Hard to find enough power for artifice.
Or anything else. But he made himself open his eyes again, and summoned just enough energy for a (somewhat haggard) grin. "You can prop me in the corner with a blanket - like somebody's invalid uncle. I'll be quiet as a mouse."
Mycroft looked up sharply at that, because the way it was said was so ... very raw. As if the last thing that Gregory wanted was to be left alone. It twisted something, in Mycroft's chest. Something he was going to have to examine, at length. For now though, his smile quirked up, reaching his eyes to match the other man's.
"I hardly think it possible you can keep yourself quiet for that long, Gregory. However, I shall make sure that you are comfortable." He paused, for a moment, before gently reaching out to squeeze his good shoulder gently, "And I would not want it that way, because I will ... also be glad for the company."
He cleared his throat, "... we can have you moved, as soon as you are deemed stable, by the doctors. Is there anything I should have packed, from your apartment?"
The touch was nice; in his addled state, Greg didn't think much of it past that - it seemed perfectly natural. There was plenty to sort through just trying to think of the list of objects he used on a daily basis. "I think - toothbrush, you know. The usual rubbish. Few clothes, I guess, for when I can get back into a real shirt." He couldn't say he wasn't pleased to be leaving behind paper gowns and hospital food. "Don't need much."
But he'd have plenty, he knew. The thought of that place was still a little surreal. "You've got a massive bloody house," he pointed out, drawling a little. "Seems like you ought to have plenty of company. Not an entertainer?" It might have been the drugs or the fatigue, but the prospect of Mycroft Holmes throwing a party was inordinately amusing. It shouldn't have been.
Mycroft squeezed again, once more, before pulling back to text Anthea. They would get the keys, pack his things -- wait, they? Yes, they. He did not think Gregory would like strangers, pawing through his garments. "Very good. I'll make sure that we pack a full compliment of outfits." One corner of his mouth lifted. "So I recall."
He snorted softly, as he texted, staying close to the bed. "That would require me having friends, Gregory, and I do not have any." He paused, thought about that, before snorting again, "Except ... perhaps you." He gave the other man a winsome smile, "Shall I throw you a party for when you get out of the hospital?"
Greg just gave a little shake of his head at full compliment of outfits - ranging all the way from slacks to jeans, not exactly an impressive span, was it? But Mycroft did have his flourishes. And he met that smile with his own, raising his eyebrows with as much mock excitement as he could muster. "What, the two of us, with our no friends? Sounds like a blast. Suppose your brother could come - and Donovan. There's the entertainment taken care of."
The peace and quiet sounded appealing to him, really. The same empty hours that made him dread going home (and thus stick around his office later and later as the week went on) seemed less daunting with the possibility of - well, sharing them. It felt like coming home ought to have felt, but hadn't for a very long time. Relaxing - and goodness knew he needed some of that. He wondered if Mycroft was capable of relaxation.
"Just have a bottle of whiskey open, and I'll be happy as a clam. We can call it whatever you like." It was about what passed for a party with him these days, anyway. He grimaced again, shifting his shoulders very carefully against the pillow at his back. "Believe me, I'll be looking forward to it."
Well, he couldn't have Gregory thinking all he needed was undergarments and a toothbrush -- oh dear that was the wrong train of thought. He cleared his throat and then tilted his head at that smile, feeling his melt a bit around the edges. "My, my, this will be an entertaining little fete. We should invite John, just to keep the peace."
Mycroft was capable of relaxation - although perhaps not as Gregory saw it. They had only spent a few evenings together while Gregory had stayed with him - schedules being what they were. Still, those had been very enjoyable evenings, and he would look forward to having more of them. Gregory didn't make his thoughts ... loud. It was more easy, to be alone, it seemed.
"Bottle of whiskey, a good stake and we shall call it an exclusive dinner party for two, me thinks." He nodded his head, making a note to buy the best whiskey he could find. "What else can I do for you?"
"Nice," Greg murmured, his smile twitching up again for a moment. "Exclusive. I don't go to many exclusive things."
All joking aside, he couldn't think of anything else at all - he'd already been quite well taken care of. Better than he could have expected, to say the least. No doubt he was forgetting something, some essential detail, but things seemed so much less essential when one had just had a brush with death and was being steadily pumped full of painkillers. Keeping his eyes open was the only chore he could manage.
"I think that'll be all for now, Jeeves." He laughed; it faded out into another cough. "Really - I mean it. It's plenty. Thank you."
"Well apparently we need to change that." Mycroft murmured softly, a faint smile appearing on his lips in turn.
He rolled his eyes at the 'Jeeves' comment, even though concern flicked over his face as Gregory coughed. He took up the water glass, lifting it up so he could drink again.
"You need to take it easy, Gregory. Your healing process may take some time." He soothed, gently nudging him back against the pillows. "I believe the best I can do for you right now - is to let you get more sleep."
"I can do that," Greg replied, nodding his thanks for the water and settling back obligingly. No one would have to twist his arm. "Like a champ."
And maybe when he woke up, he'd have more of his wits about him; maybe then he'd think of something better to say. He'd have plenty of time to come up with it, no doubt, even if it was just a hundred different ways to say: thank you. And a bit of work here and there, of course. But somehow, that wasn't foremost on his mind.
"You'll be tired, too," he added, with a slightly rueful smile - naturally it hadn't been the first thing that crossed his mind when he came to, but it ought to have occurred to him. "Glad you were here, though." He felt, somehow, as though he were in better hands.
Mycroft's lips curved into a wry and warm smile, before he put the cup back down on the table, "Good, although I am sure you are the champ in many other areas."
He went to pull his overcoat on, smoothing himself down to perfection to prepare himself to leave. It would not do to leave this room ... rumpled. He needed to be as together as possible.
He glanced over, as he is straightening his tie and vest. "Oh, I've gone on less sleep than this .., but I shall try to catch up." He looked at him, before his lips quirked up, "I ... didn't want you to wake up alone. I suppose that will be part of my job description for now."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Where it began.
A cheap hotel on the outskirts of London, the son of a very influential Chinese government official, a dead party girl, and a drug dealer. The rich boy and the drug dealer of course both claimed that the other one had killed the girl in a jealous rage over the other one, but both had been drunk and neither one of them really knew what happened that night.
Complications - the Chinese government was trying to get their little reprobate back.
Further complications - the dead party girl was the niece of the Home Secretary and a member of the Peerage, besides.
So naturally, a Holmes was sent to see what they could do to solve the issue. In this situation, the first one on-scene outside the police was surprisingly, the older Holmes. Even stranger than that, was who had called him.
He stepped out of the sleek car, crisp and dangerous in his dark suit with the yellow tie, his lips pressed in a thin line as he looked around. "Oh joy. A diplomatic nightmare waiting to happen."
Sally Donovan glowered at him as he approached the police line, Anthea in tow. "Oi now, this is a murder scene."
"Oh gracious, really? I thought it was the line for the ice cream truck. What with the flashing lights and cheery looking folk, all about." Mycroft smiled, one that actually made Sally look uneasy. "Off you go, Sergeant Donovan. I'm here for Inspector Lestrade. He ... called for me."
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As usual.
In this case, however, his concern was less with political ramifications than with the victim's family. He didn't know many people who moved in these circles - maybe just the one - and he wanted to be sure they wouldn't leap in and stonewall the investigation to save face. No doubt they disapproved of whatever connections had brought their daughter here, and wouldn't want to see them in the light of day.
He was waiting in the hall while the medical team made sure everything was square when Mycroft arrived - and waved him in from his position near the door. "Not squeamish, are you?"
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He grimaced faintly at Gregory's words, hooking his umbrella on his arm. "The fact that you have to ask - opens the door to all sorts of ugly questions."
He sighed as he looked around the area, blue eyes assessing. "To answer your question, not as squeamish as most would think. My work has taken me to ... interesting locales. I am still not going to like what I find, but that is more of a question of logistics then anything else."
He had to figure out how bad the damage was, before it could be controlled. He set his shoulders, gesturing for Gregory to walk forward first. "Let us see what we are dealing with."
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He hadn't expected anything else - at least Mycroft was marginally more sensitive than certain other visitors he'd had to crime scenes. Greg had long since lost the visceral side of what might be called squeamishness, but it would be a lie to say he wasn't often disturbed. The emotional impact of death never wore off, for him, but - at least it was on a delay. He could fret about it later.
After leading him down the hall, he directed Mycroft into the room in question, still a bit cramped with a forensic analyst and the crime scene photographer. The girl herself was slumped against the bed, chest riddled with far more bullet wounds than necessary to do the job - not a pretty sight.
"Personally, I'd call it a crime of passion," he said, a little dry. He could hear Sherlock somehow, somewhere: obviously. He motioned to the clutter of drug paraphernalia on the nightstand, which was currently in the process of being dusted. "But they were partying, too, so God knows how hopped up our shooter was."
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Still, it was something of a viseral punch to the solar plexus, to see the room. The needles, the blood staining out in a spread pattern (inaccurate shooting, someone just picking up the gun and shooting it without really pointing. Messy, 'crime of passion'. Sentiment gone horribly, horribly wrong.), and even the doll-like quality of the girl's blue eyes, staring out at nothing.
Mycroft lifted his umbrella, so he could kneel beside the girl, a pensive frown working over his face. "...this could have been Sherlock, in different circumstances."
He shook himself out of it, before he slipped his gaze over the room. "We can subtract the drugs, for the family's sake. It seems she was a careful addict - probably took it between her toes, and in the webbing of her fingers. That is a comfort, at least." He gazed at the body. "I will suggest a closed casket - even though her face is intact, her chest is all but caved in."
He measured the girl, thinking. "These were straight on, with no angle. So whoever shot her was standing up, and approximately her height."
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He shoved his hands in his pockets, watching in mild surprise (which he did his best to mask) as Mycroft actually got down onto the floor. With a nod, he glanced toward the open door where it led out to the hall. "We haven't got much on the shooter by way of a description. Just what we pulled from the bloody shoe print on the threshold - male, bit smaller than average. No one saw him." It would take time to pull the security footage if there even was any, so for now - a good Holmesian estimate would do as well as anything.
And one Holmes was as good as another, apparently. Even when it came to getting hands dirty. That was a bit of a surprise. "Could have been Sherlock," he allowed quietly, with a shrug. "Could have been you, could have been me. Anyone can get himself shot."
yah you're back!
And most of the time, the truth suffered, but justice did prevail. In that, Mycroft took comfort. He eyed the girl, her position of her body, her clothes, then frowned a little. "Just how tall are our two suspects? And was there anyone else in the house? Or anyone else expected?"
He pushed himself up, and up, his tall frame moving absolutely upright as he looked around with a keener gaze. "And, please indulge me a vulgar question - both young men claimed to have had sexual relations with her, recently?"
slowly but surely! <3
All the more reason to bring in an expert.
"They're both around five nine, five ten. Good bit taller than her. IF she was - I don't know, wearing heels ..." Which they hadn't found, of course. "Or if one of them was - seated, maybe. On the bed." Which it didn't seem they had been. So, lucky him - a mystery. The shoe print was a close match to one of the suspects', and it would take forensics to make a sure thing of it, but ... well, it wasn't perfect. "If there was someone else, he booked it before we got here." Which didn't make any damn sense.
Well I am glad things are starting to calm down.
Right. Focus. He gestured to the girl. "Look at her, she was in the middle of pulling on her skirt, and she had closed her sweater before that. Covering herself. Modesty, not something you would expect when speaking to her two lovers. She wanted the attention, wanted to flaunt. Whoever came in here to kill her wanted her, but she didn't want them ..."
He looked around, his gaze suddenly sharp, "...and I don't they have left this house."
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This time, of course, the thrill was cut off almost immediately by the plummeting feeling of something being decidedly wrong. "What do you mean," he asked, wetting his lips a little nervously, holding out hope for the moment that it wasn't quite what it sounded like. "They must have gone, if we -"
And that's when he heard the shouting. Then - a gunshot, unmistakable, and the clatter of his people taking cover, the frantic mix of radio and live voices. He was out the door into the hall before he knew it, that sick feeling taking a back seat for the moment to the crisis - to just getting a damn grip on things. "Stay there," he barked in the general direction of Mycroft and the one forensic technician looking like he might rather high-tail it out to the car, before taking off up the hallway toward the action. Just perfect.
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He frowned, faintly, as Gregory ran right into the action -- was he wearing a bullet proof vest, before the tech made a scared whimper and went for the door. Mycroft let out a hiss of, "Wait, you idiot!" just as he disappeared through the doorway.
Marvelous. Now Mycroft would have to make sure some hapless idiot didn't wander right into the path of a bullet. He sighed, looking back at the girl, before he carefully peered into the hallway, and tried to hear which direction the tech had gone in.
"Come back here, you do not even know the way out!"
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But then the kid from forensics darted ahead of him, and for a moment Greg wondered what the hell he was doing until he realized the poor idiot thought he should be following him. Oh, Jesus. He sped up and reached out as the tech ran headlong into the hall, hoping against hopt o grab him. "No, don't -"
There was a shot. Greg felt his shoulder scream with pain as he was toppling onto the tech to try to shove them both to safety into the adjacent doorway; somehow, through the sudden haze of shock he was able to look down and see that the kid wasn't hurt, and to wonder what in hell he was going to do. Wonderful.
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The only warning the shooter got was, "BALL!" as Mycroft's umbrella swung up and smashed the perpetrator in the face with the hard wooden handle. The gun went flying as Mycroft stepped back and jabbed the handle into the shooter's throat, then down into his, or her, stomach, as hard as he could, incapacitating the shooter as best he could. The shooter fell with an 'oof', and Mycroft darted off behind the doorway, slightly breathless as he wrapped his arm around Lestrade's waist, pulling him off the tech, and towards the safety of the door.
"Come on, grab him, and lift! Carefully!" He growled, before whispering to Gregory, "Lestrade, if you die on me, I am going to be unbelievably cross with you."
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"You've got - a bloody awful bedside manner," he grunted, gritting his teeth against the pain and managing only a very weak sort of glare in his general direction. "Aren't you supposed to keep me calm, or -"
Thankfully, only one of them was in any shape to bicker; Greg had to cut off his half-hearted attempt in order to focus on staying on his feet. He was coming back to himself, perhaps because of the adrenaline, but getting to the door still seemed like an insurmountable challenge. By that time he was vaguely aware of Sally and a couple of other officers running back in, Sally's thoroughly recognizable oh, fuck, and then a certain chaos of orders and radios. He made an attempt to add his voice to the mix and tell them all to get outside, but it was to no avail; all he could manage was to toss his good arm across Mycroft's shoulders and dig his fingers into the fabric of his jacket to try to keep steady.
"Be cross all you like, just don't drop me."
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Mycroft let out a curse as he managed to get Gregory away from the tech who was still yelling in a panic. He put Gregory on the ground, pressing his hand against the wound. Keeping the pressure down and tight. Worry creased his eyes as he called out to Anthea, "Call an ambulance! Now!"
He put his attention back on Gregory, keeping his hand down, looking at the man, "Well if you want better bedside manner, then you will have to live to see it. In fact, I shall charm your socks off, if you stay awake and keep your gaze on me. Right until the medics arrive, please."
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"Nobody dies from - from a bloody shoulder wound." The pain and shock and confusion mad it pretty easy for fear to breed, though, and he wasn't exactly feeling rational, or he likely wouldn't have snapped at the man who'd just saved his life. It was telling, perhaps, that e didn't look away. "If that idiot had just stayed put where I told him ... Jesus, you know that hurts." Most of the bite had gone out of his voice.
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He looked back at Gregory, before his lips twitched, "Oh, I am terribly sorry. Shall I just call off the medical care?" Better that he snap at Mycroft and stay conscious, then slip away into a coma. "Well, I will be sure to have him deported once we get a band-aid on your scratch."
Sirens in the background made some of the tension leave his shoulders, but he kept his gaze on Gregory's. "Help is almost here -- I am not sure about the shooter but I am sure Donovan has it well in hand."
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Several questions he knew he should ask wove in and out of his mind - how Mycroft had managed the shooter, where he was now, why he'd had the brilliant idea of barging into an active fire zone and dragging him out. None stayed long enough to form into words. When the sirens grew intolerable loud and then stopped, when he could hear the paramedics starting to tramp in his direction, he centered himself enough to release Mycroft's jacket and force out the closest thing to an apology he could currently muster.
"Thanks."
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Mycroft only moved back when Gregory let go of his coat, blue eyes wide as they carried him off to the ambulance. He jerked with surprise when Anthea came by his side, putting his umbrella back in his hands, forcing him into the reality of the moment. He breathed out, centering himself once more, "We'll follow the ambulance - leave SIS and the police to handle the shooter. Make sure to message ahead, have their best surgeon on hand."
"Yes sir, but some of them will have to come with us. The shooter ... he was Tong, sir." Anthea stated simply, as they started towards the large black car.
Mycroft jerked at that, before his lips pressed together, "I see. So this was a set-up. Have the ambassador's son framed for murder, start up a fight between the Chinese government and ours. Letting us both take the attention off of recent Tong activities."
"It seems so sir and ... we believe the assassin was trying to take care of two problems with one stone. We think he stayed to try and take care of you, as well." Anthea said slowly.
Mycroft's step jerked, slightly, as he looked back to the house, and his voice dropped to an icy level. "Oh, how very clever. I shall have to be extra clever, in kind." He paused, "So why take a shot at the technician?" He thought of how dark the house was, how Gregory had commented that everyone else had been cleared out, until Gregory radioed in for the tech. "...Unless in the confusion he thought it was me."
His lips pressed together, and he squeezed the umbrella in his grip, anger rippling through him. "Well then, we shall also add the price of being sloppy onto their bill." He rapped on the glass between the front and the rear of the car, his voice sharp. "Follow the ambulance. Then get the head of MI6 on the phone."
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At the hospital, he was present enough to speak with the surgeon - or, at least, to listen and nod and try to put on a good face. He was quickly becoming more exhausted than anything else, however, and he had enough faith in doctors generally and in the woman about to go digging around in his shoulder that the anesthetic was a welcome retreat, like falling asleep after a damned long day.
When he awoke in recovery, he had no idea what time it was, whether it was day or night, or really what on earth had happened; he was groggy, a little nauseous, and still hurting (what was the point of these drugs, anyway?) but deeply relieved to be awake. He could feel the obligatory worries about his work, the crime scene, and his officers pressing against the hazy boundary of his mind, but he let them stay there for the moment.
For now, all he wanted to worry about was twisting round to find a glass of water. It seemed enough of a chore to keep him busy for a good while.
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He had been for hours, after the surgery. He could do nothing during it besides, well, fret, so he had turned his energy outward. Taking the Tong agent into custody. Informing the family what had happened with their daughter. Taking the Chinese ambassador and his son firmly in hand about what would be done for reparations. Informing Lestrade's ex-wife about the incident and then firmly telling her to stay away.
Finally, though, he received the text that Lestrade was out of surgery. That he would make it but it had been a close thing. The bullet had nicked a vein, but the worst of it had been repaired. Now it was just a matter of time. He got himself a change of clothes, and prepared to wait with Gregory, so he would not wake up ... alone.
There were other reasons, he realized, but he was not going to examine them. Let those be shoved down, firmly down. Still, they swirled around his dreams, and even as he woke, he lost the battle to giving Gregory a sleepy, pleased smile when he saw his eyes open. He cleared his throat, and sat up, making a face as his back cracked, "Ah, good, you are awake."
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The relief he felt he hardly recognized as relief, wrung out as he was. But there was a warm sort of feeling, a comfort, in not being alone. Alone was what he'd come to expect of late, and any deviation in that flat line of solitude woke in him the perhaps over-eager urge to please, to try to keep the company he had.
It was a few moments later that he realized he'd probably been looking in Mycroft's direction for quite a while; that Mycroft had said something. Right. Focus. "You're -"
God, that sounded awful. He tried to clear his throat, took as deep a breath as he could, and made another go at it. "You're still here. How long have you ... How long's it been?"
There was nothing wrong with his memory, at least; he suddenly had a very clear memory of lying on the pavement and bleeding all over Mycroft. Fantastic.
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He cleared his throat, pulling his dignity around him as he spoke. "I have arranged things here for you, as you ... well, since I owe you. Again. Your medical bills are on the Government, and the criminals have all been apprehended. I also took the liberty of informing your ex-wife you were here -- and that she was not needed."
He flexed his long fingers on his knees, "...I hope I did not overstep my bounds, there?"
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He swallowed clumsily. "No. That's - she can come by later, if she likes. Rather not wake up to that." He dropped his eyes for a moment, smoothing the sheet over the side of the bed. He was tired enough now; he couldn't imagine if she were there. "Thanks. But - did you get knocked over the head, or what?" He's hoarse and he can only imagine he looks like hell, but he manages a skeptical look, arching an eyebrow sharply at him. "You're the one who dragged me out of a firefight. How's it you owe me anything?"
He'd never been the best at maths, but this seemed like some pretty simple addition, to him. He tried to cough some of the soreness out of his throat, and winced. "I'm the one who'd still be lying on the street."
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One corner of his mouth twisted at that statement, before he sighed, resting his fingertips together in what was a Holmes gesture of pensive thought. "...The shooter was a jealous lover, just ... not who we assumed. It was a Tong agent - a woman in fact - who had been dallying behind her organization's back with the ambassador's son. He cheated on her, she ... got angry. Took the opportunity to make some extra credit with her people by framing him for murder."
He sighed, "The reason she stayed is because she recognized me. The Tong and I are ... what would one call being the arch-nemesis of an entire organization? Nevermind, hardly matters. The point is, she stayed because she thought she could have a chance to take out me. She didn't realize the tech had stayed behind."
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"So - she thought she'd be gunning for you." He glanced down at the bandages wrapped around his shoulder, and reached up with his good hand to hold it level at the site of the bullet wound. When he looked back up at Mycroft he was smiling slightly, an attempt at dark humor - but it didn't really reach his eyes. "What are you, three inches taller?" His hand dropped about that far - right to heart level. "She'd have got you good."
It wasn't a bad trade, all things considered. A non-lethal bullet for a lethal one - who wouldn't take that? The pain would pass. No doubt the physical therapy would be a bitch, but it wasn't death. He'd have to remember to thank the stupid bugger who'd gone running out into the hall.
He shifted in a vain effort to get comfortable, and waved toward the little table that was awkwardly out of reach. "If you want to thank me, you can pour me a glass of water. I'm - fucking parched."
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"Quite so." He too, looked at the bandage on his shoulder. His mouth twisted again at Gregory's insight - impressed he had caught onto that so quickly. "Yes, three inches, and she would have gotten me ... if not for a foolish mistake, and your bravery. I owe you." The smile was small, but wry. "Again."
Concern flashed again, and this time he rose to his feet, moving to shift the pillows so Gregory could sit more comfortably, then pulling the table towards him. He poured out the water, eyed it, then stuck the straw in as well. He gave Gregory a pensive look before he asked quietly, "Can you hold it on your own?"
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He smiled at him - something more genuine this time, more pleased, but still a pale imitation of his usual. He couldn't quite pull off the jaunty reassurance he was going for - hard to communicate everything's fine when you'd lost quite that much blood - but the attempt was there. He reached up with his good arm to wrap his hand around the cup.
"We'll see, I guess. This one's still all right, you know."
He managed to hold it, and took a long, almost desperate drink. When he'd finished, he handed it back, a little sheepish; he was weaker than he'd expected. Holding anything up for any amount of time was probably going to have to wait until he'd had a proper meal. "Thank you. I'll be too useless for stupid mistakes for a while, looks like."
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That smile ... well. That smile loosened something in Mycroft. Something that he was sure he still wasn't ready to look at. He glanced to the other shoulder, lips pressed together, before he looked back into Gregory's eyes again. He took the cup back, his tone thoughtful, "That is ... quite true. You will be out of commission for a few weeks."
He looked around, "Do you have someone you wish for me to contact, when you are released from here, to come and help take care of you?"
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Now, though - there really wasn't anyone. The realization settled on him uneasily. His smile dulled slightly, to something closer to determined than really carefree. But he kept it up, and just let his eyes drop to wher his blanket was tugged up to his chest.
"No - no, I'll be fine. They won't kick me out before I can walk, you know? It's just an arm." And it seemed like a much less daunting prospect than coming face to face with the fact that he was going home to deal with it alone. When he'd first met Mycroft, if anyone had told him he'd be reluctant to see him go, he'd have laughed in their face. But here he was, the only one who had stayed, even if it was out of a sense of obligation.
He tried a tight smile, looking up at him with a sort of grim resolve. "It doesn't take any more than that to microwave a cup of noodles."
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He took out his phone, and started to text his assistant and his household staff. "Do you still like all the same cuisine from the last time you stayed with me, or shall I change up the menu accordingly?"
He could not think of Gregory alone. Better that he be at home, with Mycroft, while he recovered. Any other thoughts beyond that were pushed viciously aside, and with good reason. He was doing this as a ... person concerned, and no more. Or at least, that was what he tried to tell himself.
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But he ought to know better.
He gave an abashed (and subdued and rather croaky) laugh, fiddling with the blanket again for something to do with his hands. "Calling it cuisine's a little kind, I think. But - yeah. Creature of habit."
All too stubbornly so, apparently. A man who made as strong as impression as Mycroft did tend to leave a lasting mark in one's memory, of course, but Greg was going to have to see if he couldn't reshape it a bit. The picture he'd first made of him hadn't left any room for things like generosity.
"It's good of you," he added, managing to sound less impress than a little chagrined. "I won't say no. - Hell of a lot nicer than my place, of course."
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Although that laugh made it easier to swallow. He crooked up a smirk, then texted his housekeeper to make sure they stocked up again on all the particulars.
Generosity ... was strangely, something that he was getting rather good at. Had been good at, and it seemed impossible that people thought throwing resources and money at things seemed to be so hard to do. If you had it, why not use it? Delicately, of course. A razor blade, not a butcher knife.
"Yes. Quite so. Besides, I do not want you to struggle, on your own. Not after what I owe you." He sniffed at the text back, hoping against hope his ears were now not pink as he read, Oh is the Inspector coming for a visit?
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That was by far the most compelling reason to accept the invitation, and the one he might not have admitted to had he not been quite so tired. It's always hardest to cop to what's the most obvious. He was bloody lonely, and had been for what felt like ages - well, well before the divorce - and it wouldn't take a man like Mycroft to see it. But for some reason, it was what he tried most to hide. It was a live wire; not to be touched.
But the current was running a little low, right now. Hard to find enough power for artifice.
Or anything else. But he made himself open his eyes again, and summoned just enough energy for a (somewhat haggard) grin. "You can prop me in the corner with a blanket - like somebody's invalid uncle. I'll be quiet as a mouse."
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"I hardly think it possible you can keep yourself quiet for that long, Gregory. However, I shall make sure that you are comfortable." He paused, for a moment, before gently reaching out to squeeze his good shoulder gently, "And I would not want it that way, because I will ... also be glad for the company."
He cleared his throat, "... we can have you moved, as soon as you are deemed stable, by the doctors. Is there anything I should have packed, from your apartment?"
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But he'd have plenty, he knew. The thought of that place was still a little surreal. "You've got a massive bloody house," he pointed out, drawling a little. "Seems like you ought to have plenty of company. Not an entertainer?" It might have been the drugs or the fatigue, but the prospect of Mycroft Holmes throwing a party was inordinately amusing. It shouldn't have been.
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He snorted softly, as he texted, staying close to the bed. "That would require me having friends, Gregory, and I do not have any." He paused, thought about that, before snorting again, "Except ... perhaps you." He gave the other man a winsome smile, "Shall I throw you a party for when you get out of the hospital?"
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The peace and quiet sounded appealing to him, really. The same empty hours that made him dread going home (and thus stick around his office later and later as the week went on) seemed less daunting with the possibility of - well, sharing them. It felt like coming home ought to have felt, but hadn't for a very long time. Relaxing - and goodness knew he needed some of that. He wondered if Mycroft was capable of relaxation.
"Just have a bottle of whiskey open, and I'll be happy as a clam. We can call it whatever you like." It was about what passed for a party with him these days, anyway. He grimaced again, shifting his shoulders very carefully against the pillow at his back. "Believe me, I'll be looking forward to it."
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Mycroft was capable of relaxation - although perhaps not as Gregory saw it. They had only spent a few evenings together while Gregory had stayed with him - schedules being what they were. Still, those had been very enjoyable evenings, and he would look forward to having more of them. Gregory didn't make his thoughts ... loud. It was more easy, to be alone, it seemed.
"Bottle of whiskey, a good stake and we shall call it an exclusive dinner party for two, me thinks." He nodded his head, making a note to buy the best whiskey he could find. "What else can I do for you?"
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All joking aside, he couldn't think of anything else at all - he'd already been quite well taken care of. Better than he could have expected, to say the least. No doubt he was forgetting something, some essential detail, but things seemed so much less essential when one had just had a brush with death and was being steadily pumped full of painkillers. Keeping his eyes open was the only chore he could manage.
"I think that'll be all for now, Jeeves." He laughed; it faded out into another cough. "Really - I mean it. It's plenty. Thank you."
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He rolled his eyes at the 'Jeeves' comment, even though concern flicked over his face as Gregory coughed. He took up the water glass, lifting it up so he could drink again.
"You need to take it easy, Gregory. Your healing process may take some time." He soothed, gently nudging him back against the pillows. "I believe the best I can do for you right now - is to let you get more sleep."
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And maybe when he woke up, he'd have more of his wits about him; maybe then he'd think of something better to say. He'd have plenty of time to come up with it, no doubt, even if it was just a hundred different ways to say: thank you. And a bit of work here and there, of course. But somehow, that wasn't foremost on his mind.
"You'll be tired, too," he added, with a slightly rueful smile - naturally it hadn't been the first thing that crossed his mind when he came to, but it ought to have occurred to him. "Glad you were here, though." He felt, somehow, as though he were in better hands.
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He went to pull his overcoat on, smoothing himself down to perfection to prepare himself to leave. It would not do to leave this room ... rumpled. He needed to be as together as possible.
He glanced over, as he is straightening his tie and vest. "Oh, I've gone on less sleep than this .., but I shall try to catch up." He looked at him, before his lips quirked up, "I ... didn't want you to wake up alone. I suppose that will be part of my job description for now."