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."
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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."