#MystradeStoryTime #TW #HeadInjury #NoGore
Disclaimer: It's been a hot minute since I've done one of these--or much writing at all. [Thanks, coronavirus sponsored anxiety disorder!] So bear with me...

Mycroft Holmes did not panic. He was calm. Cool. Collected. He was The Ice Man.

None of which explained why he was quietly losing his shit as he heard Sherlock and Dr Watson's rapid footsteps pelting after the suspect.

The suspect who had jumped DI Lestrade, dealt him a blow,

and raced off into the warren of old, disused warehouses.

'Keep him conscious until the ambulance gets here,' Watson had yelled over his shoulder, 'try to keep him talking.'

Excellent. Small talk with the man he had a long-standing crush of humiliating strength on. Easy peasy.

"Lestrade," Mycroft said in a firm voice as he watched the handsome older man's eyelids drift slowly downward. "Can you hear me?"

"Course I can," Lestrade muttered, "Ain't deaf, am I?"

"Sorry, I suppose I'm a trifle loud."

"'s alright," Lestrade soothed, fumbling for, and finding, Mycroft's hand. He appeared unaware that he had set off a series of minor explosions in Mycroft's ribcage. "No need to shout, love."

Mycroft's mouth hung open in brief shock before he mouthed 'love' with bewilderment.

To his recollection no one had ever termed him 'love' before.

Of course, the man had suffered a serious blow to the head.

Mycroft found himself patting Lestrade's hand, which was still curled around his. "There, there," he said rather helplessly. He was rubbish at comfort.

"Right here," Lestrade murmured.

"What's that?"

"You said there, and I said I'm here," Lestrade grinned a little, cockeyed and fond. His eyes, slightly unfocused, tracked Mycroft's face. "Sorry if I'm worrying you, love."

There it was again. Love.

Mycroft squashed his foolish heart firmly underfoot. The man was wandering in his wits. It meant nothing.

Although...the way he was petting Mycroft's hand was...misleading. One might almost say, amorous.

"The ambulance will be here soon." He adjusted Lestrade's head on his own

helplessly crumpled coat, which he had shed to act as a makeshift pillow. "They'll have you feeling better in no time."

"Could use a kiss," Lestrade suggested, smiling at Mycroft as if he were delighted at the sight of him.

Ridiculous! No one was ever delighted at the sight of Mycroft Holmes!

"I'm sure your latest paramour will be delighted to bestow upon you as many kisses as you desire," Mycroft said, a trifle acerbically. Well, he could be excused a bit of acid, no?

"Whatsit?"

"Pardon?"

"Whatsit--what you said--my what?"

"Your paramour?"

"Thatsit." Lestrade nodded, then winced. Mycroft laid a hand on his brow and he settled. He tried not to preen.

"Whatsa paramour?"

"Your, ah, latest ladyfriend."

Lestrade snorted, "Haven't got one, have I, smarty?" He closed his eyes.

"Lestrade!"

His eyes jolted open. "Why're you shouting again?"

"You're...falling asleep."

"Have som'thing against naps, do you?"

"Not as such no. It's merely that you could be concussed. You must remain awake."

Lestrade patted his hand. It was quite comforting. Although he should really be comforting Lestrade. But the man was excellent at it.

Imagine if...well, imagine if he had the man to come home to after a long day dealing with the crooks and liars that peopled Whitehall.

"'m awake, really." Lestrade blinked owlishly to prove it. "Just wanted to close my eyes a tiny bit, sweetheart."

Sweetheart! Forsooth, first love, and now sweetheart!

Mycroft willed his heart to cease its foolish capering. "I'm afraid your health isn't as robust as Dr Watson supposed," he fretted, leaning closer to peer into Lestrade's eyes, to check his pupils in the uncertain light.

"Mm," Lestrade hummed as he leaned up a tiny bit and pressed his lips to Mycroft's. Shock--and not desire!--left him rooted in place. His mouth fell open with still more shock. Lestrade, the scampish scoundrel, took advantage of Mycroft's temporarily wandering wits to French him.

Oh Lord. The man's tongue needed to be registered as a WMD. Mycroft, bewilderingly short of breath, panted against Lestrade's skillful lips.

"That's nice," Lestrade whispered when he pulled away some moments, or hours, later. He had settled a fond hand in Mycroft's hair,

as they kissed, and now he scrunched his fingers gently, mussing the normally impeccable strands further. "Been wanting to do that for ages."

"You-you have?"

Lestrade smiled sweetly, "Course I have. Haven't you?"

"Well...yes."

"That's alright then. C'mere, give us another kiss, eh, gorgeous?"

"Your head..."

"Is right here behind my lips. Good place for it. You can keep an eye on things." Lestrade grinned wickedly, "Might want to run your hands over my body, make sure I'm not injured anywhere else."

"What a very good idea," Mycroft, no fool, agreed enthusiastically, and bent his not-inconsiderable skills to the task. Engrossed in his errand of mercy he didn't hear the calvary arrive. The first he knew of it was Sherlock's disgusted shout. "Ugh! Mycroft! Get off of Graham."

"The name's Greg," Lestrade corrected mildly. He smiled into Mycroft's dazed eyes, "You try and remember that too, okay, gorgeous? I like 'Lestrade' but hearing you moan Greg is even better."

Straightening his bowtie, Mycroft stood as emergency services loaded Greg into the

waiting ambulance. Abandoning his coat & umbrella, Mycroft ducked into the ambulance and took his place at Greg's side, their hands finding one another automatically. "I should quite like to hear you moan Mycroft," he said politely. Donovan, at the rear of the ambulance, coughed.

Both men ignored her. "I think that can be arranged," Greg promised, giving his hand a squeeze before relinquishing himself to the tender mercies of the EMT. "Later..."

#MystradeStoryTime #InCaseOfEmergency #TheEnd #Fin