Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mycroft was struggling to remember what his hands felt like without blood on them. He couldn’t see anything other than the drying red-black stain. He had his hands sitting between his thighs, collapsed into the chair as he was. He studied the drying pattern and the little flaked off edges. He studied the clots between his fingers and the itching feeling of it drying on his arms. He wanted to laugh. Covering him could possibly be the last remnant of his husband he would ever hold.  His throat ached over the manic laughter bubbling there. He couldn’t lose his husband. He couldn’t.

Growing up a serious little boy who didn’t believe in the fairy tales his mother read to him; he often scoffed at the line ‘happily ever after’. There couldn’t be a happily ever after because no story ended with a happy ending so convenient. He had always wanted his mother to read him the rest of the story because married and walking hand in hand into the sunset couldn’t be it. It had become a nightly ritual between the two of them before his brothers had been born to have her make up complicated, interwoven stories with the familiar fairy tales. Red riding hood building a hunting lodge. Cinderella campaigning for the rights of servants everywhere. Snow white founding the animal rights movement. Then his brothers had been born, mother’s health had declined and bedtime stories reverted to their proper retelling by the help. And then as all children must do; he had grown up. The nanny had always said there had been no growing up to do other than vertically.

It had been quite by accident that he had met Greg, he had been waiting for his brother to arrive sitting in Sherlock’s favourite armchair and the door had been thrown open by the most furious face he could recall seeing. The Inspector had been lit from within with righteous fury and with no Sherlock in sight turned to the only available outlet. Greg had been magnificent. He had sat there rendered mute by the glory of his rage. Normally he would have cut his opponent off at the knees and stolen their words with a few well-placed threats but as Greg had pointed and gestured and growled he was lost. There were few individuals in the world capable of that feat and they normally had a nuclear armoury at their disposal.

He hadn’t been aware that he was smiling until Greg had pointed it out even angrier. Mycroft hadn’t been trying to patronise him; he had simply been unaware and schooled his face into well-worn neutrality in an instant. As easily as he had flown into his life Greg had stormed out of the door grumbling obscenities beneath his breath. He had sat in that armchair stunned and confused; feeling the cogs whirr and spin at ever increasing speeds desperately trying to figure out what had just happened. Greg had proven to him, thirty something and the small boy he had once been, that love had the ability to take what you knew and turn it on its head with nothing more than a glance and a few words. That fairy tales could happen as easily as breathing. He’d rationalised it away and had every agent under his command stalk him meticulously. But as Sherlock brought Greg back into his world again and again, as the increasing gravity of the man consumed him he never read a single thing; greatly preferring to unravel the puzzles and mysteries of Greg Lestrade himself.

It suddenly occurred to him that he couldn’t see his ring. The broad band of gold lay hidden beneath a few clotted clumps, barely visible. He swallowed back the irrational fear that surged up his chest. He knew the ring was there. A little bit of blood wasn’t going to vanish it from his finger. He flexed his fingers and swallowed again.

“Sir.” Came a firm, feminine voice. It was a greeting and question rolled into one.

Mycroft knew without looking who stood at his shoulder. Anthea, his ever loyal partner and almost silent friend. Something unclenched at the thought of her, she would have covered everything for him without asking. She would have diverted and arranged and glared into submission any plans that needed him. She slid elegantly into the little plastic chair beside him, a manicured hand coming into view holding a shiny blackberry.

“Your messages.” She informed him.

He made a noise vaguely related to speech and she slid it back into her purse, an enigma in itself he had found as she could produce almost anything from it at any given time. A silent, deadly Mary Poppins. The thought of her carrying a carpet bag and singing with small children almost made him forget about the blood on his hands.

“Your brothers will be here in the next fifteen minutes if the traffic is fair. Shall I go and find John?” She queried.

As if she had summoned him, John’s familiar tread echoed up the corridor. He closed his eyes. John approached, sure footed and then shuffled a little as he began to kneel. Two strong capable hands landed on his knees for balance and as John seated himself more comfortably on the hard hospital floor. Mycroft opened his eyes. John appeared as he almost always did. The comforting stability of John brought the world onto a more even keel.  His customary jumper and jeans, his hair neatly brushed and smelling of home. Mycroft eyed his belly and felt his eyes begin to burn with tears. He swallowed desperately. The tears forced their way over the edge and he began to sob.

“John…I..I, I…I can’t lose him! If..I..If he doesn’t pull through…Christ what will I do? I can’t…I can’t do this without him!” He collapsed as much as could; feeling as though a black hole of despair had opened in his chest and every thought, rational argument, feeling, memory with any shred of happiness was falling down into the blackness beneath his sternum. John rose as gracefully onto his knees as he could manage and enveloped him in warmth and the familiar smell of SherlockJohnHome all rolled into one. He felt the gasps tearing at his chest and John’s steady hands soothing over his shoulders. He could feel the whispered words of comfort touch his ears but couldn’t figure out how to understand them. The gasping came quicker and harsher and the edges of his vision began to blur.

Two strong hands grabbed his cheeks and forced him to look away from his hands. John’s steadfast gaze linked with his.

“Mycroft, I need to you to listen as carefully as you can. Okay? I need you to slow your breathing because it’s not helping. Just hold your breath for a second, I know it’s hard okay. Just try, please Mycroft.”

John’s words made sense and he could tell that he was being irrational. That he was having a panic attack and he needed to calm himself otherwise he would pass out. His rational mind knew it and was desperately wishing he would calm. The rest of him was devoured with the consuming fear of a life without the man he loved. He could feel his body trembling. He hated it.

John grabbed one of his bloody hands and placed it on his slow moving chest; coving the shaking digits with his own steady ones.

“You can feel my chest moving, yeah? I know it’s slow. I need you to focus on my breathing. The slow inhalation. The slow exhalation. Inhalation. Exhalation. I know you can do it Mycroft. What does the wool feel like Mycroft? Does my chest feel warm, cold? Focus on me, on this.” John spoke smoothly.

Mycroft felt his mind begin to turn with the new information. He felt his mind begin to catalogue the texture of the wool, what breed it would have likely come from. He felt his mind begin to catalogue the soft give of the jumper to the harder planes of his body, to the soft heat. He felt his mind log the length and depth of each breath beneath his hand and felt John squeeze his fingers just a little in encouragement. His mind followed the trail of bread crumbs placed before him and he felt his vision return to him. His breaths slowed and although shaky let him focus back on the room in front of him, on John. The patient, calm centre of everything.

When he finally felt calm enough to look away from the hand covering his own he was greeted by John’s customary smile and the faces of his brothers standing unsure and borderline worried at the picture presented to them. John gave his hand one final squeeze and almost before he had begun to rise, Sherlock slipped in behind him and offered his hands. Mycroft sat back taking a deliberate slow breath. He counted to five and then released the breath just as slowly. His fingers fidgeted but he rose on steady feet. John slotted himself into the waiting arm, grasping Sherlock’s shirt with a tight fist.

“I’m going to wash up.” He spoke quietly, everyone watching his movements with eagle eyes.

He walked stiffly to the bathroom a few feet down the corridor, keeping the count for his breaths inside his head. He locked the door and looked down at his hands. The blood had been dislodged slightly by John’s hands and had left his palms mostly bare. His ring glinted weakly in the fluorescent lights overhead. He dared a glance at the mirror and could barely recognise himself. His skin looked wan and eyes sunken into his face. He looked wrecked, flecks of blood on his face and a few strands of hair coated. Greg would be ashamed of him. If their positions reversed, he knew that Greg would have been strong and kept himself together. He would have made sure that everyone was notified and that the situation was under control. He would have been strong. In a rush of self-hatred, he flicked the hot tap on, dousing his hands in near scalding water. The instant rush of pain gratified him; pulling the loose threads of his mind into its usual tightly woven tapestry. He scrubbed his fingers clean and started on the rest of him, the sound of the water rushing into the sink a soothing white noise that his raw mind could cling to.

He started slightly when a knock echoed through the room. His hands were beginning to burn brightly; the blood long since gone. Another knock prompted him to turn off the taps and open the door to reveal the worried face of his youngest brother. Q, armoured in his favourite cardigan, reached for his collar and smoothed the corner back.

“The doctor has come to speak with us. She wants to speak to you specifically.” He said delicately.

Mycroft followed him docilely down the corridor to the little group. The doctor stood aside with John talking quietly; her face drawn tight. As they approached everyone fell silent.

“Mycroft?” She queried, at his mute nod she continued. “Your husband is still in surgery; I’ve come to tell you that he’s suffered extremely heavy bleeding. From what we can see the placenta had come away from the uterine wall and started to bleed, as it pulled away the baby went into distress meaning that the bleeding was worsened.  He’s required several blood transfusions. He crashed twice. I can’t predict how the rest of the surgery is going to go but take heart that he has pulled through this far. And that you’re a father to a very vocal baby boy, he’s in intensive care at the moment due to his surprise entry into the world but he is doing well so far. Barring any complications he’ll be a bonny little lad.” She smiled just a little.

Mycroft stared straight at her, searching her face. He couldn’t care that the baby was born. He didn’t give a damn in that moment whether the baby survived. He wanted to know whether his husband was going to be out of surgery soon, whether he’d recover and be the man he loved. He wanted Greg. He wanted to be heading home for lunch and sitting at the table sharing a cup of tea with his husband. He wanted to be looking forward to cooking dinner for his family and wondering what they were going to do for Christmas. He wanted to go back to the night before and prevent Greg from having to go through any of it. Before he could voice his thoughts and possibly shock his family even further the doctor continued.

“Mycroft there is one really important thing I need to discuss with you before I leave. On top of this, the surgery and premature labour, Greg might lose the ability to carry more children.” She finished delicately. She eyed his face and flicked her gaze to the rest of the group.

“What do you mean? Lose his ability to have more children. Surely you just sew him up after the bleeding had stopped.” Q questioned, slightly harshly.

“I mean, that there has been a lot of trauma. Internally there is a lot of damage without us going in to stop the bleeding due to the tearing away of the placenta. There will probably be scarring which could prevent another pregnancy from establishing. And that is if the surgeons can stop the bleeding. If they can’t stop the bleeding; trust me they are doing everything possible, Greg might have to undergo a hysterectomy. It will be a last option but it is a possibility due to the amount of bleeding he had suffered.” She phrased every word as delicately as she could but Mycroft could catalogue the minor twitches and pauses; reading the words she wasn’t saying.

Greg living through the next couple of hours was unlikely.