Chapter 10

Pain. Blinding pain. His eyes weren't even open yet, but the glare spiking through his eyelids was enough to tell him that doing so would be a mistake. Unfortunately, his need for the bathroom was shortly going to trump his need to keep his eyes shut. It felt like he was in his bed, but he had no memory of getting there. Dangerous to make assumptions.

Cautiously peering through a narrow slit, he groaned in agony. What had possessed his decorators to make everything white? The glare caused by the invading sunlight was sure to kill him. Or perhaps he simply wished it would. At least he had confirmed his location. His bedroom. From here he would be able to navigate the entire flat without opening his eyes.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The abrupt change in orientation threw his equilibrium into what could only be described as a 'tizzy'. If he didn't open his eyes, his white carpet would suffer the consequences.

Resolutely, Mycroft opened his eyes. It only took a moment to steady himself before snapping them shut again. Odd. He was still completely dressed, sans shoes and tie. The tie was on his night table, his shoes neatly laid by his bed, incongruously next to a white rag on the floor.

Sliding off the bed, he staggered into the master bath and took care of his most urgent needs. He washed his hands and splashed some water over his face. Gods, he was slow today. He straightened and felt a bit triumphant when he didn't fall over.

Wait.

Rag? Not a rag, a dress shirt, not one of his own. Torn. Buttons gone. Shoes by the bed, not removed by himself. Who….Gregory.

Dear Lord, what had happened last night? Once he heard from John Watson (he really must see about getting a national holiday for that man) that Sherlock was alright, he had begun to console himself over his greatest failure. The call from the doorman announcing Gregory Lestrade had been unexpected. He had continued to drink while awaiting the dressing down he was sure to receive from the DI.

He vaguely remembered Gregory gifting him with Sherlock's drug kit, complete with loaded syringe. Thank heavens it was still loaded. He remembered nothing else.

Now, there was Gregory's shirt, torn, most likely ripped off of the man, on the floor next to his bed. He had to find him, find out what happened. How badly had he messed up this time?

He made his way back through the bedroom, through his sitting room, and into the hall. The flat was completely silent. He braced himself with a hand on the wall as he approached the main area of the flat.

His stomach gave a ghastly lurch and he had no choice but to head into the bathroom off the hall. He splashed more water on his face and that seemed to fend off the worst of the nausea. His head was bowed down, letting the water drip off, when he spied the bin. What was…? Sherlock's syringe. Empty. The needle bent where it had struck the bottom of the bin.

No.

What had he done?

He raced down the rest of the hall and burst into the sitting room. For all his haziness, he could only see one thing, and that he saw in ultra high def clarity.

On the sofa.

Gregory.

Unconscious.

Arm flung out.

Swollen red welt at the elbow.

"Gregory!"

Mycroft flung himself across the room and collapsed next to the sofa, whipping the coat from the DI's unconscious form. Relief flooded through his entire being as the sleeping man began to stir.

"Myc?" He blinked and shifted up onto an elbow as he took in the trembling British Government kneeling on the floor next to him.

"Mycroft? What's the matter? You ok?"

"You're alright. Thank heavens, you're alright." He gasped a few times as he tried to get control of his breathing.

"Yeah, I am. Why wouldn't I be? Bit of a headache, but nothing major." He smirked at the obviously ill man before him. "How're you feeling?"

"Me? Gregory, your arm! I found the needle….you didn't…"

"The what? The drugs? Is that what this is about? Christ, Myc, of course I didn't do that! What do you think happened last night that made you think did that?"

"Honestly I…" Mycroft ran a hand down his face. Now that the fear and panic had dispersed, he was embarrassed at his outburst. Embarrassed and nauseous. Definitely still nauseous. "Honestly, I have no idea. I remember nothing after you gave me Sherlock's kit. I woke to find your torn shirt on my floor and an empty syringe in the bin in the bathroom." He stared at his feet, chagrined at his overindulgence the night before.

Greg chuckled, but not loudly, there was still the matter of his headache. He sat up, stretched and got to his feet, pleased with how steady he was on his feet. He shrugged on his suit jacket in lieu of a shirt.

"Nothing? You don't remember ripping my shirt off? Kissing me? Proposing?"

Mycroft's head snapped up, his eyes meeting Greg's. Any color remaining from his earlier embarrassment vanished.

"What?" It was barely a whisper.

Greg let out a bark of a laugh, and then winced at the thud in his skull.

"Just kidding, Mycroft. You didn't propose." He turned toward the kitchen. "C'mon. Let's get some water and food into you, then you'll feel better." Inside, Greg was grinning like a fool. Let Mycroft wonder if he had kissed him last night.

A quick inspection of the kitchen revealed coffee as well as all the fixings for a fry up.

"How do you want your eggs?"

"Gregory, I-" Mycroft stammered.

Greg, cut him off. "Mycroft. Eggs?"

"I need to say this, please, Gregory!" Mycroft paused a moment, gathering words, breath, and courage.

"I'm sorry for anything that happened last night that could have offended you. Not just for last night, but the last few days as well. It was never my intent to deceive you, just let you know that I wasn't as...unavailable as it may have seemed."

"I get it, Myc, I do. The relationship thing is hard to navigate even when you know what you're doing. I have one stipulation. It's a deal breaker. You don't lie to me. Ever. About anything. I know there's stuff with work that you absolutely can't tell me. I can't discuss active cases with you either. That's not what this is about. It's about being able to trust you. My ex lied and screwed around on me for years, made me look like a right fool, she did. I'll not put up with that again. Don't answer right now. I want you to think about it. Make sure that it's something you can commit to. You ever lie to me or manipulate me again, it will be the last you see of me."

"I understand, Gregory." Mycroft took a deep breath, relieved. He couldn't have done anything too awful last night, like propose. He was a bit miffed at Greg for pulling that one on him. He hadn't denied the kissing allegation, though. Had he kissed Greg? Has it been any good? Greg was still here talking to him, so either it hadn't happened, or it hadn't been bad. "Oh, and Gregory? Scrambled."

The coffee finished brewing so Mycroft poured two cups and then moved himself out of the way to the bistro table near the window. While Greg puttered around, preparing toast, eggs and sausages, Mycroft began his assigned task. Swearing to never lie to Greg would be easy to do, but would he really be able to do it? Mycroft was a politician and a Holmes, for crying out loud. Honesty was not a default setting for him. It would require a real effort on his part, cover stories had become a specialty of his. Not dissembling was going to be a challenge. He looked over to where Gregory was flipping sausages in the pan, glimpses of his bare chest peeking out from his open suit jacket. Challenge accepted.

Breakfast passed in amiable conversation. Mycroft had to admit that with food, water and coffee he was feeling much better, even the headache had faded to the background.

As they began to clear their plates a thought occurred to Mycroft. In all the chaos of the morning, he realized he hadn't heard from either Sherlock or John. He mentioned as much to Greg.

Greg smirked. "Well, I'd call that a good sign. They must be occupied."

Mycroft blushed at the thought of his little brother being 'occupied', then blushed harder at the thought that maybe, eventually, he and Gregory might be 'occupied'.

"Who would have guessed that the British Government was still capable of blushing? Mycroft you are positively adorable."

"I am many things, Gregory," Mycroft pulled himself up to his full height and attempted to look dignified in spite of the flames adorning his cheeks, "but adorable is not one of them."

"Sure thing, Myc." Greg winked in a most condescending manner.

"Gregory, I have been thinking about what you said earlier. About always being honest. To be completely honest with you, it won't be easy for me. For most of my adult life, deception has been rewarded, in one manner or another."

Greg pressed himself closer, stepping into Mycroft's personal space. "Then maybe we should find some way to reward honesty." Greg placed his hands lightly on Mycroft's hips.

Mycroft swallowed nervously. Was he ready for this?

"Yes, um, quite. That could help matters immensely." He felt his mouth go dry as Greg leaned even closer, his exhale becoming Mycroft's inhale. The whispering touch of lips barely skimming across his own was as shocking as it was fleeting. The gentle glide of Gregory's tongue across his lower lip was quickly replaced by a playful nip.

Greg pulled back fractionally and waited for Mycroft to open the eyes he had no recollection of closing.

"What do you think, Myc? Can you do it? Do you want this, us, badly enough to be completely honest with me?"

There was no other possible answer.

"Yes," Mycroft breathed, and leaned in to seal his promise.