#for clarity im not getting top surgery just yet
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oh my god im gonna be able to swim next summer. maybe this summer if i heal fast enough
#😢#for clarity im not getting top surgery just yet#theyre finally fixing my injured eardrum that gets infected whenever there's water in there#imagine swimmer's ear but 1 million times worse#its been like that since i was a baby and they forgot to tell my swim instructors so i kept failing swimming lessons
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PLEASE DONT READ IT YOURE SENSITIVE TO LGBTQIA+ TOPICS!!!!!!!!:
sometimes i just sit there and wonder what i identify as.
i grew up in an area where i didn't have much representation of anything, "gay" was an insult and colours were dedicated to specific chromosomes. if you grazed football as a girl, you were seen as a tomboy alongside if you even looked at claires you were just odd. i think some messed up part of me still believes that, despite every fibre in my being disagreeing with it. there wasn't much representation of being homosexual in a form or another, mainly just jacqueline wilson books i peered into with such curiosity and utmost wonder.
it sort of struck me that i was different when i was much younger too. hell, sleepovers with girls scared me since they smelled so "sweet" or they were much prettier than me. we all watched films with the odd kissing scene and wanted to peer into the mirror, maybe attempt at looking into it without shame. it didn't stick, yet it didn't wipe off. i kissed a girl on her cheek in my bedroom when i was about nine, fags the most ive ever done, and i don't count it fully either. i kissed a girl on her hand too but still, that doesn't count in my books. nobody ever had the "it's okay to be gay" talk with me but they never had the "being gay is a sin" either. it just sat uncomfortably in the room. all the pins and homemade flags were just pretty colours opposed to something with significance in this world. ive tossed the majority of the relics besides a pin i bought when i had a sense of freedom for the first time but that's about it at most. we still haven't talked about it, and we don't intend on it either.
i remember my mom watching a tv programme with me, her eyes flickering towards me whilst saying "i don't get why people come out. i get where she was coming from, as if it was natural, but she was also the figure who never brought up these sort of conversations. the woman who made me feel a sense of crushing burden when i felt a sense of anger. i just shrugged it off, and never gave my views on the matter. i think if i had the confidence, i would have said something along the lines of "it's because we live in a society where showing who you really are needs courage".
i think i did tell her i was pansexual when i was younger too, this was during a mist of things where id say random bullshit to them as a joke, hoping they'd want to linger nearby. i haven't said a word yet.
gender was another thing that puzzled me, which still does. i never really thought much about it, i just thought you were female, male, or non-binary. that's it. no more options, just three buttons and you could click one. i used to lie awake, my mind thinking about issues for me to go 'holy shit am i trans??' which obviously still happens; why would i be writing this out otherwise? i dipped into being demigirl to nonbinary to immediately agender and i sort of sat there, sticking a label on it like they have to me with other diagnoses. i go from wanting big tits and being the epitome of feminine beauty to wanting to have top surgery and going by a new name. i know gender is a spectrum, but some part of me knows everyone around me wouldn't accept me, thinking im more mentally ill than i am.
i don't know why i decided to type this out either. maybe to give myself clarity instead of chastising myself for what's happened in my world.
ive only ever dated afabs. one cis. one somewhere between demigirl and nonbinary and the other transmasc. i know i hurt them one way or another, and so did they. i speak to one of them a few times now and again but for the other two, i apologised to one of recent and it's stuck to my mind. the other i fucked up so bad it hurts to look into a mirror. i think amabs scare me and i don't know why. i attach myself to older guys in films and loosely to other people, remarrying shane in stardew over and over again. one minute i have a preference and then it drastically changes.
my friend once said that people who are lgbtqia+ must have some evolutionary default in them, which i believe heavily. i have autism and probably some other stuff undiagnosed (my autism is clinically diagnosed yall) so that checks out. i saw a survey a while back that most people who are lgbtqia+ are diagnosed professionally or self with something along the lines of adhd, autism, and other mental disorders. but that's all we are. disordered motions, grasping onto conclusion.
maybe one day i will find somebody and it will make perfect sense. maybe i won't find anybody. for now, i know that i can only try, and when i try i collapse in tears wondering why nobody likes me.
#lgbtqia#lgbtq community#questioning#vent post#rambles#discovery#BuzzFeed gay quiz#AM I GAY OR SOMETHING??#AM I TRANS OR SOMETHING??????#I SHOULD PROAOBLY STOP OVERTJING RAHHHHHK
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You passed out at Will Smiths house? Patrick Part 4
After a few days or communication got back to normal I was hearing from him every single night and day. It made me feel so loves so appreciated and I felt back for what happened over labor day weekend. He said he just sat there felt alone over the holiday weekend. I looked at my southwest points and how much a flight to LA would be and I asked him if I could come over and see him. And turned out he was going to be in LA with a Monday off and booked the trip that day and tried to plan something with him over the next few weeks.
It was incredibly difficult to plan with him, he never wanted to make a set plan and finally I told him I had to book an Airbnb would I get to see him both nights even if he had to work and he agreed. He said he was staying at his brothers house in Silver Lake and that he had to work in Burbank in the morning.
I was looking at places I wanted to stay and I found an awesome mansion in the Hollywood Hills. So fancy so posh, it had a hot tub, four bedrooms and two balconies and an awesome root top patio with views of the Hollywood sign. I was going to get to stay with my beautiful new man in an awesome place.
He told me wouldn’t be able to see me the first night, so I traveled down to Laguna to stay with my friend Vanessa. All did was talk about Patrick and then it happened he Facetimed me to tell me how excited he was to see me! Holy cow I got off the phone and wanted to faint I was so excited. I was leaving Laguna beach early the next day I could arrive earlyish to the Airbnb, I needed to freshen up and get the place ready for Patrick’s Arrival.
I showed up and the place was awesome multiple different rooms and areas for so much fun. The thing that I couldn’t find was the TV clicker, I didn’t think we would be doing much watching of TV anyways.
I jumped in the shower and did my hair and makeup and put a sexy skimpy dress on with my silk robe over top. I heard a knock at the door and I received a text message, I had sent him the code for the door. And I heard the door open. I got chilled I was so excited to see this man I haven’t seen since June and we had talked everyday. I ran down the stairs and turned the corner.
There he was all 6’4 of him, Holy freaking cow, It was gorgeous there he was again. He gave me a huge hug and wrapped him large arms around me and gave me an amazing kiss. He had a backpack on him and nothing else.
Where did you park? Oh I found a place.
I gave him a tour out to the first balcony and he towered behind me and rubbed my body all over. He kissed my neck and I trembled at the knees. Staring out at the city with him behind me I thought to myself, I could really get used to this. He sat down on the couch and he tried to find the remote, I looked and I couldn’t find it either. Dang it. I guess we gotta just head up stairs. It was around 9:00 o’clock and we still have three other rooms to check out and a giant patio.
We walk up stairs and turn the corner, I take my robe off and lay on the bed infront of him and then the magic happened for hours and hours and hours. I looked at the time and it was around 2:00am, I knew he had to get up in a few hours an leave around 8:00. I recommended we got to bed as we will have tomorrow night as well.
As we laid their holding each other for the first time, it felt so right. I asked him what the W on his arm stood for, Oh it is weaver my last night. Honestly, that is the first time I had heard his full name Patrick Weaver, seemed generic but why would I think any differently.
So do you snore or have sleep apnea? Why because I am a big guy? No I don’t. Oh thank goodness just a lot of my friends have it. Total lie all my ex boyfriends have it, cuz im into the big men.
He held me in his arms all night it was amazing. I felt so warm and secure. When he woke in the morning he wanted to get frisky again and used his magic Chicken leg position. I swear it made me cum so cute each time, No man has ever done that to me. He had to shower before heading to work and he grabbed his phone and headed into the bathroom, I thought it was odd he grabbed his phone but I didn’t think much of it. I tried to make plans for the evening but he was working at Will Smiths house and Chelsea Handler was going to be on the episode so he wasn’t sure how late but he would come right over after to squeeze me and snuggle me again.
We walked downstairs and I gave him a big hug and a smooth jazz kiss. I grabbed his left hand and looked and joked no ring tan! That is great.
He let out a little laugh and gave me another kiss. I will see you tonight
I went immediantyl back to bed, I was exhausted from three plus hours of love making. I woke up around 12 with three messages from Patrick. How much fun he had, how adorable I am and how exicted he was for tonight. I was so excited too just getting to sleep next to him again was magic enough.
As the day drew on we kept texting and I updated him on all the weed I got at the dispensary and around 4:00pm he sent me a picture Here is Will Smiths back yard
I told him I was going to go keep working for a few hours, do you wanna get dinner tonight or should I eat alone?
A few hours past and I hang out on the rooftop balcony doing work and researching how soon after ovaulation the morning after pill works, Becuae I checked my schedule I was ovulating and I let Patrick cum inside. I was so worried but also so excited to see him again tonight.
I looked at the clock and it was 7pm and I haven’t heard back from him yet. So I texted, im gonna get some dinner hope you get off soon. I figured out the closest restraint it was about .6 of a mile away and it was the fanciest sushi restratrant with Gardens and all the fun atmosphere. I called and ordered 4 sushi rolls after an ordeal where I had to text the owner of the restaurant my owner but hey I was able to walk down and get sushi. When I arrive the manager ever offered me a free shot my choice of course, I asked for Tequila the best they had. It was regualy over $25 a shot. I kept looking at my phone and no messages from Patrick. As I walked back to the Airbnb. I decided to call. No answer but it still was ringing. It was about 9:00 now and I understand that shoots can get off late so I just choked it up to that. I set him a picture of my sushi to see if he would text back. I was starting to get worried when I got inot the back at 10:30 and had heard anything. I even check Chelsea handler social media to see if she was still at the shoot. Nope she was posting stories from home.
I was so upset at this point, I called again. NO answer at all but it was still ringing. I sat in the bath and just cried. And cried and cried until I thought fuck it im gonna jump in the hot tub. I started the hot tub and the entire top floor of the houses power went out. I started crying fuck this. I texted Patrick. Are you okay hopeing if I had done something wrong he would atleast responded to that.
I texted the Airbnb owner to help with the power as I sat in the dark room all alone, I had planned an extra sexy time tonight with toys and all the bells and whistles, I cried some more until I cried myself to sleep. When I woke up the first thing I did was check to see if I had a message from him and nothing.
My heart shattered I was having trouble breathing how could I travel across the country for a man who would just ghost me half way through our planned trip.I was trash and a a sad lonely woman and I started to attack myself and see how it was my fault he left me. I texted him again to say I was worried and hoped he was okay.
My flight was in about 4 hours which in LA time meanted I needed to leave for the airport soon. I smoked an entire gram of 710 hash in the time my friend came to pick me up. She mentioned shit it smells ike weed. Well shit I got my heart broke.
Looking down at my phone to yet another blank screen with no messages, I arrived at the airport and texted one last time, Im sorry you felt like this is how you needed to treat me Patrick, I could use some clarity on my end of what happened between us. I hope you are okay.
I landed in Colorado no message, I cried and cried on the uber ride home. How, who what when and why did this just happen. My heart was crushed and broken and confused. I woke up the next morning and still nothing. All my friends were so worried about it. Finally threes after I got back. The text finally came through Im Sorry Shannon, I passed out at Will Smiths house and had to go to the hospital for three days I finally got my phone back you did nothing wrong im so sorry sorry.
Are you fucking kidding me he passed out at Will Smiths house and that is why he didn’t come back to the Airbnb this all seems fake.
But nope it was year he had the scars and everything to show for it. I felt so bad again. THE MAN I love was in pain and all I could think about was myself.
I cared about him, I wished I could of have been with him at the hosipital. He reassured me his brother came and saw him and his family was there.
Thank goodness. But with heart issues, when would he even have time to come see me if he had to get a heart surgery done, and who would take care of him? Oh god I know I would if only he would let me.
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took a nap.
dreamed for the first time in a while. met a lot ofpeople in my dreams. “catie the clown from nickeoldeon’s spongebob squarepants”, she introduced herself, very mom-like, heavyset and nice to hug. a middle aged man was tagging along w her that we brought along making clumsy passes but she was flirting too. something like “guess what word i want you to wear?” (????) and she said “umm Z!” and he goes “nah you know that letter” and she was laughing. (????) met a dude in a mohawk pushing an empty wheelchair who went into a derelict looking building, we were playing and laughing in the alley, he asked us a question we couldnt answer then kind of mumbled to himself, “at least they have hair. im meeting a lot of good people here.” we heard a crash and popped in to see if he was okay, the apartment of the lobby was really cramped, dark, and seedy, but the middle-aged man in there followed us out and then that’s where i met him and ‘catie’. we left the building and turned around and saw two giraffes poking their heads out over the wall of what might have been the backyard? we smiled and waved at them, telling the mohawk guy (who i guess eventually came with us) to come over and look. he was shy but he finally did. there were other people at the wall who thought we were smiling and being silly toward them, then ducked their heads behind the wall. the giraffes kind of smiled at us, then stuck their black tongues out at the people who hid. we were all really nervous because apparently some kind of nuke had been launched or was talking of being launched, there was some sort of “nuclear notice” that had been pasted up everywhere. so we knew we were all going to die very soon but the friendliness i felt was genuine. there was just a tinge of melancholy, like “I wish this isnt what it took to bring people together”.
i havent been to my grandparents’ house in a long time. there is a space between the woodshop and the main house, backed up by the wall to the neighbor’s, that’s just a small empty patch of grass. next in my dream we had set up a big blanket fort there. i had made itmyself but my brother joined me later. i was trying to get reading done, or something. i felt very safe there, but also felt like i had made it so i could become safe. there was a part where i ws reading murals on wood panels, like they were giant advertisements made of canvas or something, but also were the walls of the fort. some detached voice , i dont recall everything now, was liek ‘we dont know yet beccause blizzard hasnt hired you yet’ and i rolled my eyes. the ceiling caved in due to some shitty little white puffy dog that jumped on top and i was pissed cuase i got trapped under all these blankets, but it reverted itself and xena was there. i saw her face and her eyes with great clarity and i could feel myself petting her. it was dark, like a nap, cozy, and warm, dimly lit from the waning light outside. i was with my dog in the blanket fort, eating oatmeal and scrambled eggs (in the same bowl, for some reason, and was told to put ketchup on the eggs, which i never do, and also did not go at all with the rest of the oatmeal. the eggs tasted like the oatmeal too, maple syrupy, and it was all a big mess. it was in a paper cup, like at an ice cream place, but it was warm and even though it wasnt very good all mixed together i could taste the individual flavors. so i was there with my dog in the blanket fort feeling safe.
that was my dream. the last time i had dreams this basic was back in 11th grade when my sleep disorder started really coming to a head and i wasnt getting much sleep at all, and then i wasnt eating either. i remember having a dream where i just sat down and calmly ate food and that was basically it. i just got to eat food and it tasted good. and i remember when we were reading about moments of prolonged high stress or trauma, how even the vocabulary of people’s dreams can become reduced, showing very direct basic images to fulfill waking needs, like it does with children. so it has things like a clean house, a safe place, a soft bed, eating candy or good food, etc. this dream just now was still pretty complex but compared to my other dreams it’s extremely basic. just wanting to be around friendly people, to get big warm hugs, to feel safe and secure, and petting my dog no less. didnt have to jump through many hoops of interpretation, as it were. i think everything is just surmounting now. the insane cramps, papou in the hospital, having to solve my medical, not having a job or knowing when i can get a new one or what i should do, just my life generally being a mess. im so fucking tired all the time i can barely even play video games. i played hots so much yesterday because i had to do something that wasnt focusing on the pain, and i had a stimpack so it gave me a ‘reason’ to.
i was driving with my dad yesterday because we were going to get a rat to feed topaz. my mom “has been meaning to” do it for like a week, just like she was “meaning to” take me to see papou until he called up, barely able to speak, and said “get me out of here”. if he hadnt done that i wouldnt have seen him, nor, do i think, would they have gone the extra push to get him out of the hospital. shit just kept going wrong. id been meaning to write about this for a few days, since it happened. i had been wanting to see papou again since i got back from my trip, because i was leaving shortly before his surgery and i wanted to tell him about it and show him pics when i got back. when i walked into the room he looked so bright, and i immediately walked over and held his hand. a nurse was dealing with his IV or something and he said to her “This one is my favorite. She’s a genius.” i’m among five grandkids and my papou always brags about us but this is the first time i’ve heard him say i’m his favorite. or to specify a favorite at all. and especially because i’m the least accomplished of the other four grandkids. the three are in line to be lawyers, all within in my uncle’s (my papou’s son) firm. my sister is back on track to becoming a teacher, interning at our middle school and passing all the credential tests, or whatever it is. all i do is stupid cartoons and try not to fucking kill myself. i went to college basically at the behest of my family and i’ve only ever had one real job, which was retail. i volunteered at the arts center and stuff when i was a teenager but while i was in most of high school and in college i didnt do shit. i only ever left my dorm to go to class or raves. i barely fed myself. i was so fucking depressed and just meeting all the wrong people left and right. one time my mom told me, “you know, the only grandchild papou has a picture of in his wallet is you.” he talks SO much about “the grandkids”, how we have “more degrees than people”, for which he is very proud. i’m doing nothing but keeping my head above water—and barely that—but i walk in and he announces i’m his favorite, and a genius.
before i left, he said to me, which he’s said to all of us before at one point or another—”you are my legacy”. my papou was an engineer and a war hero, jumping out of planes and getting purple hearts touring north africa during world war ii. how am i supposed to uphold that?
so, anyway, i was driving with my dad, or rather sitting in the car w my dad, he was driving. i told him i had been driving a little, “even though mom thinks i just sit in my room all day.” “yeah, and ‘i think’ all she does is sleep all day,” he says mockingly. i laughed. nervously. we get to our usual pet store and they dont have any large rats. topaz is 7 feet long. she needs the biggest rats we can find. technically she should be on bunnies but i cant stomach that, nor do we feel like hiring a handler (legally you have to. nobody sells ‘feed bunnies’.) so we call up some other places. we end up having to drive across town which takes an hour at 4pm, and i tell dad “well they might have more on monday, the guy said,” and dad said, “No, this is what we’re doing. because who knows what that guy knows. we could show up monday and there still aren’t any. so it’s a little more work, but i said i was going to get a rat today, and i’m going to do it. we’re not gonna rely on what that guy says. see, this is what you have to do; you have to take matters into your own hands. You follow through. This is what I always have to do; it’s my job. I follow through for people.”
i wish my dad was around more, just in general. he works so often that he’s basically inaccessible but we all rely on him for everything because he makes the money, which is why he’s never around. my mom works for him and, little harsh here, but is useless when it comes to executing tasks without any pressure (so guess where we all got it from). we talked about her for a little bit. essentially, my dad is the reason anything ever happens. my mom, nowadays, is the reason nothing happens. she pushes things away hoping they’ll just disappear, i guess. i see it a lot in myself and i hate it. i hate feeling as helpless as she does and i hate having to rely on someone helpless like her because my dad is always gone doing the ‘heavy lifting’ like making sure we can all be alive.
not to be fucking predictable but i want to be reliable. i want to follow through. like my dad.
any dad, really.
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Actually,
Here is a Mystrade ficlet. It was originally meant to have some smut with it but The Reichenfuckening 2k17 has basically burned a hole out of the bottom of my ability to write. I hope this is alright for anyone still liking fics at the moment. It has hurt/comfort and some bloody injury (not graphic). It’s all under the cut but it turned out pretty long so if you prefer you can read on AO3. Love 💜
“Lestrade –” Sherlock’s voice is tight, harsh. Greg can’t even open his eyes yet. Long years of habit had him swiping the screen before he was awake. “Lestrade, are you there? Wake up!”
Greg groans. “What? What is it, Sherlock?”
“My brother – Christ, Greg, my brother –” Sherlock sounds as though he’s running.
Greg’s eyes fly open. Sherlock just called him Greg. “What about ’im? ’S’normally him calling me about you.” He sits up, stomach twisting with the sudden hit of adrenaline.
“John and I are – we have a case, and there was a – a warning,” Sherlock pants. “I told him he could be in danger but he must not have listened – there was a message, about ten minutes ago –”
Greg fists his hand in his hair. “Sherlock – listen to me. This isn’t making sense. Give the phone to John.” He’s never heard the detective sound so frenzied, so unable to explain with clarity.
“Lestrade –” explodes Sherlock, but there follows the confused sound of the phone being wrenched from his grasp.
“Seems like the group we were tracking have got Mycroft,” pants John. Even though his breath is coming in gasps, he sounds a lot calmer than Sherlock. “Sherlock’s using my phone to send you the address we’ve been given. It’s Mycroft so I guess you’ll have to coordinate with… fuck, I don’t know who with, but some sort of – ring Anthea, I guess? They might already know, but they must have taken out his security –”
“Christ,” groans Greg. He’s already out of bed, speakerphone on as he pulls on jeans, t-shirt and jumper. “You’ll need to send me the demand – threat – whatever it is as well. I’ll pass it all on to Anthea and get in touch with my team.”
John relays this to Sherlock and Greg’s phone vibrates several times.
“We’re on our way there now,” says John, voice taut. “Meet you there.”
“Listen, John, I don’t know if they’ll even let me attend –”
“Just – just ring Anthea,” snaps John. Greg hears the sound of Sherlock’s yells receding into the distance, cut off abruptly as John hangs up.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” swears Greg, pulling on socks. He’s already dialling Anthea’s private line.
*
The special ops team storms the building with almost no delay at all. Greg can see snipers on the surrounding roofs. Anthea stands apart, next to one of those ubiquitous black limos. No-one seems to be stopping Sherlock and John from following the team in, so Greg goes too. His heart beats wildly as they follow the dancing lights of the SO team’s head torches through the abandoned warehouse. Sherlock’s movements are jerky. Greg has never seen him so uncoordinated, so thrown. In the flash of a torch he sees John’s hand rest gently in the small of Sherlock’s back.
And then chaos. Shots, shouts, the screech of metal against metal, and Sherlock takes off running, John not far behind; Greg finds himself pushed to the floor by a burly Special Ops officer, the breath punched from his body. When he can speak again, the commotion has died down – “Sherlock – John – went that way –” he croaks.
“My team are on them, sir,” replies the SO man. “Following a couple of this lot.” He allows Greg up.
“And – and Mycroft Holmes?” asks Greg. Since Sherlock’s taken off, he supposes this will be his task.
The man’s walkie-talkie crackles, and he listens, then speaks out of the corner of his mouth. After a few moments he turns back to Greg. “Secure. Although –” an intake of breath, a slight tipping shake of the head.
“Should I – can I –?” Greg asks.
“Just waiting for the go-ahead, sir,” returns the man, calmly. After a minute his walkie-talkie crackles again and he acknowledges with a code. “This way.”
They move forward through the dank gloom, still following the bobbing torches. Shortly the space opens out. In a pool of bright light Mycroft Holmes is slumped on a chair, legs sprawled; his umbrella lies nearby, navy coat a dark puddle a few metres away. An SO officer is untying his arms and hands.
Greg’s brain registers dimly that there is something odd about the angle of Mycroft’s right leg.
Mycroft’s hair is plastered across his forehead; blood runs down his face from a long gash of a cut above his left eye. There’s a clotted knot of blood at his lips, too. He is crumpled oddly on the chair; there is a single diluted pink track of a tear from his right eye, and his breathing seems oddly laboured.
“Christ, fuck,” exclaims Greg. He’s seen people in worse shape than this; he’s seen people dead in a variety of fucked-up ways. But there is something so – so wrong about the unfailingly elegant Mycroft Holmes in this crumpled, broken position. “Can I –?” he’s already moving forward.
“Sir,” says the SO officer sharply. A tight grip closes on his shoulder. “Our initial assessment suggests a badly broken leg, broken ribs – possibly all his ribs – and concussion. An ambulance team is being brought in now.”
“Alright – I just –” Greg runs his hand through his hair. His mouth fills with saliva. He swallows down a wave of nausea. “Has anyone talked to him though? I could – I won’t touch him – I’ll just stay with him. Talk to him.” He notes with an odd, cold sense of detachment that he is shaking uncontrollably. “Only his brother’s not here – gone – he might –”
“Alright sir,” says the SO soothingly. “Let me walk you over there.”
The laboured, bubbling sound of Mycroft’s breathing is more and more obvious the closer they get. His eyes are only half-open. Greg crouches down next to him. He doesn’t break his promise not to touch.
“Mycroft?” He takes a deep breath. “It’s Greg – Greg Lestrade. Don’t try and respond or anything. Just – just so you know, we’re here. Well, Sherlock and John are – they’re coming back. We’re here.”
Mycroft’s eyelashes flutter a little, but Greg can see the sticky weight of blood making it hard for them to move. His lips part with an audible tick, blood clotted between them.
“There’s an ambulance team coming,” Greg continues. “They’re nearly here.” He tries to keep his voice low, soothing. “They’ll get you all fixed up.”
There’s a tiny wry movement at the corner of Mycroft’s lips, but he clearly cannot speak. Suddenly Greg feels the Special Ops officer’s hand on his shoulder again, and he’s being pulled back as the medical team take over. Greg tries to close his ears to the single, agonised cry that escapes Mycroft as he is gently laid on the stretcher. It is the sound of a wounded animal.
His own knees feel like jelly.
*
Sherlock stays at the hospital for seventeen hours, following leads in the case on his phone, sweeping around the waiting room and viciously deducing anyone who tries to share it. John brings him cup after cup of coffee. After a couple of hours, he tells Greg to go home.
When Greg returns, Sherlock informs him shortly that Mycroft has emerged safely from surgery and may wake up at any time. John yawns, waking from sleep in one of the incredibly uncomfortable hospital chairs.
“We’re going, much to do,” says Sherlock, curtly.
“Hang on,” protests Greg. “You’ve stayed here all this time and now you’re leaving, just when he might wake up? You aren’t gunna –”
“Yes. And no,” says Sherlock, sweeping out of the room. John sighs, and raises a tired eyebrow at Greg.
“He doesn’t think we got all of them,” John sighs. “He thinks there’ll be another demand.”
“Right.” Greg rubs his eyes. “I need you to bring my team in on this. It’s already been near fatal. You two should never have tried to handle this on your own.”
John nods. “I’ll talk to him.” He walks slowly, a little unsteadily, after Sherlock.
Greg exhales and swears quietly under his breath. It’s not really his place to go and see Mycroft, but Sherlock’s fucked off, and now… honestly, Greg wonders if there’s anyone else who will come and see the man. He doesn’t trust Sherlock to have notified their parents, and John told him recently that Mycroft wasn’t married. For years, he’d assumed...after all, he wore a ring. Wrong hand, but…well, could be lots of reasons for that. Anthea will come, he supposes. A colleague. Not really…Christ. Why couldn’t Sherlock’ve just popped his head round the door, at least?
Greg’s known Mycroft for years, now. Sometimes it’s felt like being at his beck and call, a tame helper dog for Sherlock. In recent years, though, calm has reigned. Brief monthly meetings to discuss Sherlock, and the occasional dinner or drink in the same cause, always initiated by Mycroft. Greg doesn't take it upon himself to ask. He has no illusion of having the right to monopolise this man's time. From the hints Sherlock’s dropped, he could well be running Britain.
Security on the door of Mycroft’s hospital room scrutinises his warrant badge closely, then nods him in.
Mycroft’s leg is in traction, and for a moment Greg can’t see his face; but when he does, he takes a sharp breath. No longer bloodied, the size of the neatly-stitched gash above Mycroft’s left eye can be seen all too clearly. His right eye is swollen shut, his bottom lip bruised and broken. The sheet is pulled up over his chest, but Greg can see the top edge of a horrifyingly large purple-red bruise. Mycroft’s shoulders are pale, bruised in places, but dusted with light freckles.
I knew he was ginger. The thought is so incongruous that Greg bites his bottom lip.
There is a purpling weal around the man’s slim, pale neck. There are what look like thumb prints around it. Greg swallows, hard.
“Is it so bad, Detective Inspector?” Mycroft’s voice is croaky, harsh; he takes a sharp breath after speaking, then presses his swollen lips together to stifle what Greg is sure would have been a moan of pain. “I have not seen a mirror,” murmurs Mycroft.
Greg steps closer and pulls a chair to the side of the bed, sits down. He smiles gently. “You’re not exactly a picture right now, put it that way.”
Mycroft coughs a little. “No change there, then.”
Greg grins. “Don’t cough, you’re not meant to cough with broken ribs. Dad had a couple of falls before…” he trails off.
Mycroft blinks with his left eye. “I seem to have a host of contradictory complaints, Inspector. The nurses did inform me I should not cough too much, but the after-effects of…” his fingers twitch on the duvet, “…constrict my throat rather. And I understand that to avoid chest infection I should move around periodically but –” there is a wry twist to the side of his mouth. He flicks his fingers towards his leg, raised on traction.
Greg sits back, sighs. “Fucking hell, Mycroft.” Embarrassed, he runs his hands down his thighs to his knees. “Sherlock – I mean, he was here, he stayed the whole time you were in surgery –”
Mycroft nods, very slightly. “And I assume that you are here to take my statement? I will be undergoing a full debriefing in the next hour; I wondered if perhaps, to avoid duplicating the account, it might be possible to –”
“Yeah, sure,” says Greg quickly. “Actually my DC’s going to sit in and take notes on all that. I just thought I’d come and –” he hesitates. “Since I was here.”
Mycroft’s left eyebrow flickers up and he winces as the stitches pull. Greg can’t help a short huff of laughter.
“You’re going to miss not being able to do that for a while,” he grins, cheekily.
Mycroft’s left eye is accusatory. “My eyebrows are very useful in my line of work,” he whispers.
Greg chuckles, knocked rather off-guard by how drily funny Mycroft can be, even in circumstances like this. He reaches over and pours a small glass of water. “Do you – should I –?”
Mycroft eyes him, and Greg thinks that he really has gone too far now. Unbelievably, the man gives a small nod. Greg holds the glass to his bruised, split lips, helps him take a few sips. He winces every time he has to swallow.
“Christ,” murmurs Greg as he places the glass back on the bedside table. “Please tell me they’ve got you on some pain relief.”
“Morphine, I understand,” croaks Mycroft. “Please do not ask me for any State secrets. I’ll probably tell you.”
Greg grins. “Such power.” He runs his hand through his hair. He can’t stop his eyes running to Mycroft’s bruises, to the weal and fingermarks around his throat. “Your leg,” he says. “Is it –?”
“Quite badly, I understand.” Mycroft gives a tiny one-shouldered shrug, and winces.
Greg watches him. “How can you be so…” he sighs. “You don’t seem too worried.”
“Unfortunately, Inspector, this is neither the first nor the most severe torture session I have experienced,” says Mycroft flatly.
Greg can feel his eyes widen, his lips part. He isn’t sure what to say. “Fuck. Fucking hell.”
Mycroft closes his left eye and leans his head back on the pillows. He tries to take a few deep breaths, which Greg recognises as advice from the nurses for avoiding chest infection with broken ribs.
“So…” says Greg. “That was…I mean…I hadn’t realised you had such an – active role, I suppose.”
Mycroft’s eyelashes flutter, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “All in the distant past, Inspector, I assure you.”
“Right.” Greg bites his lip, watching Mycroft’s elegant, long-fingered hands on top of the sheets. At least they didn’t go after those. “Your ring’s gone,” he says, stupidly.
Mycroft’s eye blinks open. He looks at Greg with surprise. “They took it off during surgery,” he murmurs. “I understand it is with my other personal effects.”
“Of course,” says Greg, shifting in his chair. He presses his lips together. “So…Sherlock’s following another lead, chasing down the organisation behind all this, apparently.”
Mycroft nods. “I would appreciate –”
“Already told ’em they need to bring us in, don’t worry.” Greg smiles at the look of naked concern in Mycroft’s one good eye. “Honestly, you’re in here in this state and you’re still just worried for him.”
Mycroft’s cheeks tinge very slightly pink. He clears his throat fussily, and winces.
Greg immediately regrets making him self-conscious. “So – I expect your team’ll be turning up soon. I’d better – er…” he gestures to the door. “Go and make sure DC Cook is ready and waiting to take down your statement during the debrief.”
Mycroft nods, very slightly. “Thank you, Detective Inspector.”
Halfway to the door, Greg turns on his heel. “Actually – why do you still call me that? You asked me to call you Mycroft, and I do, and every now and again when we have dinner, you call me Greg – or, well, Gregory half the time, which is weird because the only person I can ever remember calling me that was me Grandad, but still, and then between every meeting we seem to…” he clears his throat, gesturing vaguely between them, “...regress.” He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and stares at the floor.
Greg steals a glance from under his eyelashes. Mycroft’s left eye is blinking rapidly, and he swallows painfully. “I apologise, Gregory,” he says, carefully. “I shall not forget, from now on.”
Greg nods, and makes to turn away. “I could – er, if you didn’t mind, I mean, I could…come and see you again.” He clears his throat. “I mean – I expect Sherlock and John will be quite busy, so…” He stops and looks at Mycroft.
“That would be…” the other man pauses. “Quite welcome.” He coughs very slightly. “Thank you. Gregory.”
Greg can’t help a smile. “Right. Great, I mean. Okay. Well I’ll see you soon.” He turns resolutely to the door. “Bye then.”
*
“Gregory, you really did not have to do this, my security team could perfectly well have –”
“Shut up Mycroft. Go and sit down in the living room.”
“I need to move around, now the wires are out, the physiotherapist was quite clear –”
“How is it possible that there is literally nothing in your fridge? Not even condiments? What the hell kind of kitchen is this anyway –”
“This is a new flat.” Mycroft’s voice is tight. “Since the incident, of course, the previous flat is now…” he gestures slightly with one hand, not allowing his crutches to fall.
“Oh, crap,” sighs Greg. “Sorry. I didn’t think.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Has your stuff been brought over?”
“Enough of it, I expect,” returns Mycroft. “Anthea will have taken care of it. She has had weeks to do so.”
Greg nods. “Right. Well I’m going to go and get some groceries.” He grins. “Stay here and try not to get kidnapped.”
Mycroft rolls his eyes. “For goodness’ sake, Gregory, I am sure Anthea will have scheduled a grocery delivery.”
Greg rolls his eyes in return. “Oh yeah, sorry for thinking that you might need to actually do something a mere mortal would, like the shopping…” he takes the sting out of his words with a cheeky smile. “Bloody Holmeses. You’re both the same.”
Mycroft stamps one crutch on the floor. “Take that back.”
“Nah.”
Both Mycroft’s dark grey eyes snap fire at him, his right eye no longer swollen shut, only faint traces of bruising still evident. And there is the frisson of something else, something extra behind their words that has been tormenting Greg for weeks. Just a ghost of a possibility. Perhaps the tiniest hint of…flirtation. He feels himself flush.
“You need to sit down,” he says, taking refuge in this, in looking after, in taking care.
Mycroft groans. “I have been lying down for weeks,” he grumbles, as Greg shoos him towards the living room. “And I don’t need groceries, anyway, I do not intend to eat for several months.”
“Mycroft Holmes, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard you say yet.”
Mycroft drops onto the sofa and arranges his crutches next to him. He glares at Greg intensely.
“Oh shut up,” says Greg, taking off his jacket and laying it over the back of a chair, then taking a seat. “You know you’re not fat. You’re just fishing for compliments.”
He feels the tone of their conversation shift and slip dramatically. He sees Mycroft’s eyes widen and his cheeks tinge pink. The man looks stricken. “I assure you, Inspector,” says Mycroft quietly. “I am the last person prone to self-deception of that kind.” He glances down at the baggy jogging bottoms he’s forced to wear over his cast. He’s wearing a white shirt and navy cashmere jumper with them – smarter and more expensive than anything Greg owns, probably – but Greg can feel the distaste radiating from him nonetheless.
Shit.
Greg sighs gently and leans forward in his chair. “Oi, I’m sorry,” he says. “I was just – y’know, teasing. It wasn’t the time. I get that. I’m sorry.” He fights the urge to get up, to go and put his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder.
Mycroft nods. “Don’t start calling me Inspector again,” says Greg, with just a little humour in his voice. “We’ve come so far.”
Mycroft smiles, very slightly.
“You ought to stop worrying about – you know. The way you look.” Greg takes a breath.
Mycroft clears his throat, turns his ring on his finger. “You are right, Gregory. It is immaterial.”
Greg presses his lips together. His stomach flips. “Nah – you’re taking this all wrong. I just meant –” he stands up, edges closer to the doorway. “I just meant you’ve got nothing to worry about. Honestly. I’m going to put the kettle on.” He bolts for the kitchen.
There isn't any tea, or milk, of course.
*
The dialtone purrs and Greg feels the now-familiar flip low in his stomach as the call connects.
“Gregory?” Mycroft sounds surprised.
“Alright?” Greg smiles to himself. “Just wanted to check whether the cast came off okay.”
Mycroft clears his throat. “Yes. I will have to work hard to regain former muscle strength and tone, but otherwise everything is progressing acceptably.”
"That’s great news,” says Greg. He can feel his cheeks heat. He presses his pen into the pad of post-its on his desk. “I – I know you’ve been working at home but you’ll be back in the office soon I guess, and I just thought…you probably won’t have much time then – so tonight we could – I mean, we’ve still got Rebecca to watch, out of the boxset…” he takes a breath. “You’re probably still not up to cooking much, I could make something, if –” he hesitates. “If you want. At yours, I mean. Just to make things easier.”
He can hear a little intake of breath at Mycroft’s end of the line. He bites his bottom lip, and rolls his eyes to heaven. Bloody idiot. Blathering on like a complete twat. He’s opening his mouth to try and repair the damage when Mycroft speaks. “That would be – certainly. Yes. Although –” Greg winces, but Mycroft’s next words make him smile. “In fact I would be keen to cook this evening. Something simple. But I understand from the physiotherapist that recovery of muscle strength will be most easily achieved if I start completing daily tasks again.”
Greg draws a triumphant exclamation mark on the post-it notes. “Great. What time should I – I mean, if no-one gets murdered – should I come round about…?”
“Seven-thirty would be suitable,” returns Mycroft.
“Okay. Brilliant. Um – see you then. Bye Mycroft. Bye.”
Greg hangs up with a huge, cheek-aching grin.
*
Greg puts the glasses of wine down on the coffee table and drops onto the sofa, rubbing his stomach. “That was amazing, Mycroft,” he smiles. “Where did you learn to cook like that?”
Mycroft makes a self-deprecating noise, and bends stiffly to pick up the remote. “Should I start the film?”
“Mmm, great,” hums Greg, through a sip of superb white wine. He lets his gaze play over the long, slim form of Mycroft Holmes, dressed formally for the first time in weeks, in dark grey tweed trousers and waistcoat, white shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. “You know, I think you ought to keep the stubble.”
He sees Mycroft’s posture stiffen slightly. “In fact I had been planning to remove it before returning to work,” he says. “It has been somewhat difficult to shave properly while on crutches.” He lowers himself carefully onto the sofa next to Greg. The opening titles of the film start to play.
Greg shifts and settles on the sofa, looking appraisingly at Mycroft. “Nah, I think it looks great. You should keep it. Shows off how ginger you are.” He smiles.
Mycroft grimaces. “Precisely.”
Greg rolls his eyes and makes a cross noise. “Stop it.”
Mycroft huffs a small sound of amusement. “You did not have to go through school with red hair.”
“Oh, bollocks to all that.” Greg grins. He looks over the rim of his wineglass. “Gingers are gorgeous.” Fuck fuck fuck, what’s he going to say to that? Christ, what the fuck was I thinking?
Mycroft seems speechless for a moment. “Hardly.” The corner of his mouth twists, and he looks to the television.
Greg’s heart hammers in his chest. That was a brush-off, wasn’t it? Was it? So hard to tell, with Mycroft. If there’s one thing Greg’s come to understand, it’s that the man erroneously believes himself to be ugly through and through, with only the redeeming features of his brain and his willingness to break himself on the altar of keeping the country running. Fuck. Greg takes a gulp of wine.
“Well I like the stubble,” he says, obstinately. He sighs. “Actually, it feels a bit like the night before school, you remember that feeling? Sundays are bad, but the end of a school holiday – when you know you’ve got to go back the next day, and your heart just sinks, and the clock seems to go twice as fast.”
Mycroft brings his eyes back to Greg. He looks mildly questioning. “In what sense?”
“Well…” Greg takes a deep breath. “You’ll be back at work, and you’ll be so busy. I’m guessing I won’t see you that much. Any more.” He drinks again, watching Mycroft anxiously for his reaction.
“Gregory…” Mycroft seems rather lost. “I – it has been very kind of you to look after and amuse me while I have been recuperating, but I assure you that I will not need to impose any further…” He hesitates.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of,” says Greg, in a rush. Mycroft just looks confused, now. “No, I mean – actually,” Greg puts his wineglass down on the coffee table. His heart turns over. His cheeks are heated with just enough Dutch courage. He kneels up and moves closer to Mycroft on the sofa. “Actually I can’t –” Can’t let this get away. Can’t let this end. He puts his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders. Softly, slowly, he moves them up to hold Mycroft’s head between his hands, fingers in his hair, thumbs gentle across his cheeks. His gaze flickers from Mycroft’s eyes to his lips, checking for permission, for refusal –
Mycroft’s eyes are wide, full of disbelief.
Greg closes the distance, a gentle press of lips, the startling, long-ago familiar feel of stubble against his tingling skin, the rush of need held in check by uncertainty, the deep-down, perfect rightness of Mycroft’s smell, of the way his lips feel –
The warmth of Mycroft’s hand, tentative as it curves around his upper arm, their kisses still chaste – is it – that’s not a rejection, is it?
Greg pulls back, lips sensitive, craving more, heart plummeting as he sees Mycroft’s expression of absolute, utter bewilderment.
“Oh God,” he groans, hands hesitant on Mycroft’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please talk to me, if that’s not – if it’s not okay – we can forget it –”
Mycroft parts his lips, takes a breath. “Gregory –”
“Fuck, I’m so sorry Mycroft, I –”
Mycroft puts one of his elegant hands over Greg’s. “Me?” There is nothing in his voice but absolute astonishment.
Greg lets out a wobbly huff of laughter. “Christ, Mycroft, of course you, what do you mean – what do you mean?”
“I –” Mycroft takes a breath. “I had no idea – that you even – I –”
Greg chuckles, a little shakily. “I thought I was being really obvious. ‘Gingers are gorgeous’?”
“Red-headed women, I assumed,” says Mycroft, tentatively.
“Red-headed everyone,” smiles Greg. “But quite specifically you. To be clear. If you want to, I mean.”
“Oh.” Mycroft looks as though he’s back on morphine. He blinks glassily. “I’m terrible at this. I haven’t – for years. You will end up hating me.”
“Mycroft, I fell in – um – this – with you while you were grumpy and barely able to move. And also when I didn’t know for sure you were ginger. I ought to point that out. It’s just a bonus.”
Mycroft rolls his eyes, and Greg smiles. It feels as though his heart is expanding at a dangerous rate.
“I'm terrible at this too,” continues Greg. “I worked all the time and shut my wife out and she cheated on me and I tried to ignore it. None of that's exactly healthy.”
“I work all the time too.”
“Then we’re both as bad as each other.”
“I haven't –” Mycroft hesitates, but the joking tone of the conversation seems to save him from stopping altogether. “I haven't slept with anyone in ten years.”
“I haven't slept with a man in twenty-five.”
“In case you hadn't noticed, I find it hard to express my emotions.”
“No, you do fine once you trust someone. You just don't trust most people.”
Mycroft blinks at him. “You are at least ten times more attractive than me.”
Greg grins. “I find you sexy and elegant even when you're wearing jogging bottoms, in a cast and on crutches. Even when you're grumpy as hell because your painkillers have worn off.”
“You are manifestly both wrong and deluded, but I confess I do not have the willpower to continue trying to correct you.”
“You can correct me anytime.” Greg feels his cheeks heat as he hears himself say the words. He coughs. “Sorry.”
Mycroft raises his eyebrow. “Interesting.”
“You're enjoying having the use of your eyebrows back, aren't you?” chuckles Greg. He smiles slightly madly at this gorgeous man who appears to have just agreed to...well. He's not exactly sure where they stand yet, but even so. “Does this mean I can kiss you again?”
Mycroft’s face is a picture of disbelief, but he gestures helplessly. “Certainly.”
Greg leans in to nuzzle Mycroft’s stubbly cheek, running the tip of his nose down the side of the other man’s. “Perfect,” he smiles. The feeling of stubble teasing his lips steals his breath. He presses his lips softly to Mycroft���s, amazed at the sheer rush of sensation and the squeeze of his heart in his chest, beating hard, a drumming tattoo in his ears that he’s sure must be audible in the room.
And then Mycroft’s hand, hesitant around the nape of his neck, pulling him in; and the kiss changes nature, they both press just a little closer together as it intensifies. Their lips slot together, part and tease – Greg takes a breath, and nips Mycroft’s bottom lip, then soothes it gently with his tongue. He gives a little groan as Mycroft responds, drawing Greg’s tongue inside.
“Gregory,” whispers Mycroft, fingertips stroking the sensitive hairs on the back of Greg’s neck.
“Mmm?” Greg’s busy trying to draw him back into the kiss, soft teasing pecks to Mycroft’s lips.
“Stay here.”
Greg pulls back suddenly, biting his lip. “What?”
Mycroft’s eyes are bright, his cheeks tinged very slightly with pink. “Tonight. You should stay here.”
Greg looks at him for a long moment. “Sure?”
Mycroft takes a deep breath. “Absolutely.”
Greg can’t stop himself grinning. “Alright.” He smoothes his hands down the front of Mycroft’s waistcoat, hesitates. “But...we don’t have to. You know. If...if you don’t want to. Or.” He watches the slightly wry twist to Mycroft’s lips.
“Thank you, Gregory,” he says, eyes soft, tone sardonic. “I shall bear that in mind.”
Greg laughs. Stubborn sod doesn’t want to be coddled. “And ignore it?”
“Entirely.”
“Right.” Greg leans in to steal another kiss. “I’ll follow your lead then.”
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