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."