"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."