Title: Wound
Author: Jessie Blackwood
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Fandoms: Sherlock
Rating: PG
Note: These are a series of ficlets, short fiction pieces (I hesitate to call them drabbles because I think they're too long, despite the loose definition being 500 words), inspired by one-word prompts from my followers on Tumblr, because I wanted to celebrate passing the 50 follower mark.
Over the last two years since losing my best friend and soulmate, Heather, everyone on Tumblr, particularly the Mystrade crew, have quite honestly saved my life and my sanity. So thanks, guys. These little one-shots are prompted by all of you and are my thank you. I hope you enjoy.
Summary: This prompt was from the lovely Lilynevin on Tumblr, Brooklyn09 on AO3, 'wound', so this is for you. I make no apologies for the Three Garidebs reference...

***

“Ow, ow, that...hurts...ow, Mycroft…”

“Gregory, please. Stop squirming and let me...Drat. Now look what you made me do.” There was a sharp smell of antiseptic as the bottle tipped, spilling its contents on the bathroom floor. “I have half a mind to make you clean everything up.”

“Yes, dad…”

“And for that, you shall be punished.”

“You can’t. I’m injured.”

“You call this injured?”

“Yeah, wounded in action, Myc.”

“Wounded. In action. Seriously?” Mycroft was the embodiment of patient exasperation.

“Yeah, well, if I hadn’t dived, Manchester would have won. Can’t have Greater Manchester Police beating the Met, can we? I’d never live that down.”

“Well, I suppose the saving grace was that you won.”

“Yeah, we did, didn’t we?”

“Now please be still and let me clean your wound, Gregory. You are still leaking. I am not sure that you shouldn’t have gone to A&E. This looks like it could do with stitches.”

“You could call John?”

“Gregory, I am not calling John Watson at this hour.”

“It’s not ten o’clock yet. Think of how long I would have to wait in A&E…and you’d have to wait with me...”

“Fine, I shall text.”

“How bad is it?”

“Not serious but a football boot to one’s head does have the habit of slicing skin enough to mar your beauty for life, Gregory. I am not pleased. This will scar.”

“Yeah, but come on, Myc. It’ll give me a roguish look.”

Mycroft raised an eloquent eyebrow. “Rogue you may be, but roguish you may not look if it means you will be scarred for life.” Mycroft stopped speaking for a moment, and Greg was alarmed to see he was serious, deadly serious.

“Mycroft, it’s just a little…”

“No, Gregory. I... I might have been sitting at your hospital bedside tonight, not trying to clean a wound to your eyebrow. If you had sustained a kick to your head, you might have…”

“Been concussed… I get it, Mycroft. Look, I’m fine. Not concussed...not at all, I am not seeing double, no headache, nothing.”

“...been killed,” Mycroft said softly.

“Mycroft…” Greg paused, gazing at the man who was trying to appear as though he wasn’t worried sick, but Greg knew better. He frowned. “Mycroft. I am okay,” he said carefully. “The kick was...unfortunate. But it happens. Why are you so cut up about it...sorry, no pun intended.”

“I knew a boy at college like you, reckless, loved football, played every chance he got. He got kicked in the head during practice. Practice, mind you. He was dead by the time the ambulance got him to hospital. A bleed on the brain, nothing anyone could do. They simply could not get him to hospital fast enough. I...I know you love football, but…”

“Oh, Myc. I’m sorry. I get it now. I…” Greg sighed, reaching to wrap his arms around his lover. “I love playing, and sometimes I don’t take as much care as I should. I’m no spring chicken anymore either. Maybe I should try to take it easier.”

“You shouldn’t have to compromise something you love for me.”

“Of course I should, Myc. Because I love you, more than the bloody football.”

It was worth a wound, Greg thought, it was worth many wounds, to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind the Iceman’s mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. Greg caught a glimpse of the great heart as well as the great brain. But, he wouldn’t put himself at risk again. It wasn’t fair on Mycroft.

He endured John’s examination and subsequent gluing the skin together with medical grade superglue, suffering the stinging sensation and the discomfort because Mycroft deserved him to behave and cooperate, even when John did grip tests and shone his penlight into Greg’s eyes to check for concussion. John warned Mycroft to watch for drowsiness, or sudden inability to speak or raise his head or arms. He warned him to watch for sudden headaches or fainting. When he had gone, Mycroft returned with tea for them both. Greg was suddenly rather tired. He accepted the tea gratefully.

“I am sorry, Myc. Truly. I wasn’t trying to put myself in danger. I was playing a game, for the god’s own sakes. But, I will try not to get into any difficulties.”

“You will fail, miserably. And so you should. It isn’t right of me to interfere with the game you love.”

“Well, yeah, but at least I’ll try to take more care. Come on, Mycroft, Let’s go to bed. I need my rest, I am a wounded man.”

Mycroft gave him the side eye but smiled, indulgently. “Just promise me you will take more care and I shall live with that.”

“You have my word, Mycroft. Always. I adore you, love. Nothing is more important than you.”

Mycroft smiled indulgently. “Except, perhaps, beating Greater Manchester Police, 2 - 1 in the semi-final?”

Greg grinned. “Should have seen my tackle though…”

***