Author: lavenderchaosquill

Fandom: (BBC) Sherlock

Rating: T

Warnings: Swearing.

Length: 900 words

Pairings: Mystrade (Greg/Mycoft)

Disclaimer: Oh look, my favourite bit. All these characters (because none of my OC's are mentioned in this fic) belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle/Mark Gatiss/Steven Moffat (aka, The BBC) ect... I'm just borrowing them for a while, kay? I swear to return them (mostly) in one piece :)

Summary: Sometimes Sherlock pushes just a little too far. Which is why, every so often, Greg opens the door to find Mycroft on his doorstep; under the weather and in need of a hug and a little comfort.

Mystrade. Songfic.

Hey guys and gals! :) Just a small fic, featuring one of my favourite, most precious OTPs. Basically, I was listening to KT Tunstal's album Eye to the Telescope, and the song 'Under the Weather' came on. This fic literally just popped up in my head. So I found the lyrics, got it down and cleaned it up a bit.

So here you go :)

I highly recommend listening to the song whilst reading it, seriously, go find it on youtube, it's amazing. In fact, go buy the whole freaking album. It's perfect.

Hope you enjoy the fic!

Squeak :3

Mycroft's PoV -Greg's PoV - Song Lyrics

Under the Weather

[Mystrade]

Under this national rain cloud
I'm getting soaked to the skin
Trying to find my umbrella
But I don't know where to begin

It was nearly half eleven at night when Mycroft turned up at his door, soaked through to the skin and without his trademark umbrella. It only took a second to work out why, but it took even less time to yank him in from the cold and the wet and into his arms.

And it's simply irrational weather
Can't even hear myself think
Constantly bailing out water
But still like I'm gonna sink

It was stupid of him, he knew, to be wandering around in only his coat in this weather, but he'd just had to get out. Out and away from Sherlock and his never ending arguments and pokes and stabs at him and his problems with the world and its occupants. He knew that Sherlock was only digging; trying to illicit a reaction from his brother- a childish game- but he couldn't help it. He was good at hiding the pain beneath an artfully schooled expression, unfortunately, he'd become used to it. But sometimes it was just too much. Which is why he'd simply walked out of the apartment and out into the rain, leaving his umbrella standing forgotten against the side of the sofa.

'Cause I'm under the weather
Just like the world
So sorry for being so bold
When I turn out the light
You're out of sight
Although I know that I'm not alone
Feels like home
Feels like home

He'd come to Greg's because he felt safe. It was calm, and nice, and nothing like the unbearable tension at Sherlock's, or the lonely silence of his own apartment. In truth, he hadn't even been thinking; he'd just walked out of 221B Baker Street and kept on walking. But turning up in the middle of the night for Greg to welcome him with a warm smile, a kiss, and a hug was the best thing that he could have hoped for. Greg had once told him that he was always welcome; no matter what time or what reason. It seemed the Detective Inspector was intent on staying true to those words, and Mycroft would never be able to thank him enough for that.

You say you feel like a natural person
You haven't got nothing to hide
So why do you feel imperfection
Cut like a sword in your side

He hated the way Sherlock always took jibes at My's weight, My would always pass it of as another part of their banter or bit of sibling rivalry, but Greg could see that it cut him deep. Much deeper than Mycroft would like to admit.
It wounded him.
Greg thought- no, Greg fucking knew- Mycroft was perfect in every damn way, especially to him. He didn't know why Sherlock kept insisting on poking fun at My's weight, but it was really starting to fucking bug him.
He would talk to Sherlock; tell him to back the fuck off, before Mycroft started to starve himself again.
Before Mycroft really did start to loose weight.

'Cause you're under the weather
Just like the world

So sorry for being so bold
And I need somebody to hold
When I turn out the light
You're out of sight

Although I know that I'm not alone

Mycroft let go of Greg and watched as he padded of into the kitchen, throwing a look over his shoulder that was so full of love and understanding it nearly brought Mycroft to his knees.

Feels like home
Feels like home
Feels like home
Feels like home

He kicked off his shoes and put them by the door, hanging up his sopping coat and jacket on the coat stand and taking off his tie.

Yes, it feels like home
Yes, it feels like home

Once the tie was hung up, Mycroft undid the top two buttons of his shirt and flicked off the lights. He grabbed he huge tartan blanket that was thrown over the end of the sofa and pulled it up and over his knees, settling down to wait for Greg, in the little flat that was slowly beginning to feel like home.

Oh 'cause I'm under the weather
Just like the world
And I need somebody to hold
When I turn out the light
You're out of sight
Although I know that I'm not alone
Feels like home

He'd text Anthea later and tell her to cancel all Mycroft's meetings for the next twelve hours or so, give Greg a decent chance to be with him before he had to go dashing off to save the world again. He should probably ask her to grab My's umbrella as well, but Greg wanted to do that himself; just in case he happened to run into Sherlock, and possibly end up punching him in that smug, dickish face of his.

But before any of that, he would make a start on cheering his boyfriend up. So Greg dug around in the fridge and pulled out a carton of ice cream, grabbing some spoons for the two of them.
He and Mycroft would sit and snuggle- yes, snuggle- together under the blanket in the dark and watch crap TV whilst eating as much ice cream as they possibly could without throwing up.

Because fuck Sherlock.

Mycroft was perfect to him, and Greg would always be there when his My was a little under the weather.