Title: It was the policeman in the kitchen...or possibly the bedroom.
Author: fanficwriter101
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade & John/Mary
Fandoms: Sherlock
Disclaimer: The characters from the show aren't mine, they belong to others. No copyright infringement intended. Any characters you don't recognize are mine. Feedback would be nice, positive feedback would be nicer. Enjoy!
Category: Sherlock (BBC 2014 version) Mystrade slash (implied) hurt/comfort fluffy fic
Rating: R to be safe for content not topic
Characters: Ensemble
Series: No
Spoilers: None intended but anything from Seasons one, two and three (including the unaired pilot) might get a mention. DO NOT READ ULESS YOU'VE SEEN SEASON THREE - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!
Summary: Let's play deductions. Oh, I already deduced everything. Boring.
Archive: Just tell me where it's going
Additional 'stuff': This is one of those fics which just wouldn't stop going round in my head when I saw the 'clues'. Apologies in advance for the slight Cluedo reference. And, also now, as, apparently, that needs to be said, DO NOT use my fic without permission. I don't want to cause ANYONE embarrassment. Some parts Mycroft's POV, others Sherlock's POV. Hopefully it will be obvious which parts are which.


He's wearing a lightweight suit. It's November. Season of mists and expanding waistlines. And, for my brother at least, wool suits. Or at least a wool and cotton mix. The weather can be so changeable.

But, in all the years I've known him, and there have been a lot of them, he's worn dark colored suits from harvest festival to Easter. Except now. This...it is cream, wheat, yellow...I'm not sure. But I am sure it's not of his choosing. So either he's being forced to wear it or...someone...suggested it. He doesn't seem under pressure and he hasn't used an of our trigger words, or signals, so far. And she's here...that woman he seems unable to function without. And she hasn't signaled to me that she's being forced into being here.

When I surprised him a few hours later, John didn't react exactly as I anticipated. With a bloody nose and a massive headache, I decided not to check into a hotel but to pay an uninvited visit to my brother. I want to know who has caused a change in his wardrobe habits. And get some painkillers. I could pick something up, but it's easier to raid my brother's medicine cabinet than risk a dealer this time of night.


Pimlico...later that night

Mycroft knew no-one would get past George, the concierge, without permission, if they asked for his flat, or even his floor, so he was more than a little surprised when the doorbell buzzed.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes sir...should I um...?"

Mycroft looked at the small black-and-white picture of the two men on the other side of the door, sighed and pressed the door lock.

"Thank you George. Sherlock's just been up to his usual..."

"It's been a while Sir." The concierge defended himself.

"Yes George. My brother has returned from his...European travels...he will probably be dropping in..."

"Never." "Now and then."

Sherlock and Mycroft's words crossed in the man's mind and he smiled as he left them to it. Boys will be boys after all.


Sherlock's eyes swept the open-plan space in the time it took Mycroft to fetch a cloth to make sure his brother wouldn't drip blood anywhere.

His eyes strayed to the kitchen - a white plastic dish drainer beside the sink with two sets of bowls, side plates, dinner plates, knives, forks and spoons, carefully washed up and left to drain.

Then further into the apartment - the bedroom door half-open, double bed - that was to be expected, his brother's weight fluctuated somewhere between gigantic and enormous most of the time - but the pillows were a surprise. The bed had been neatly made but the pillows were different. One was an expensive feather and down mix, evident from the pattern beneath the cotton cover even through the paisley patterned pillowcase. The other was a cheaper foam filling, no feathers, just a dent in the center where the occupant habitually placed their head.

The final, almost unnecessary clue was on the hall table at his side - a letter, addressed not to his brother.

Sherlock re-formed his smile into a grimace of discomfort as he pressed the linen cloth to his upper lip. It hurt. John had hurt him. John. Hurt. Him. His eyes pricked and he blinked crossly, irritated at how much it bothered him.

"Have you eaten?" Mycroft walked back into the room, text sent, awkward situation avoided.

Sherlock huffed, scowled and flopped onto the cream leather sofa all in the same moment.

"Hmm...well, you'll want to bathe...I hope."

Sherlock pulled his feet up, bending his knees and wrapping his arms around his shins, ignoring Mycroft's horrified look at the damage Sherlock's shoes would be doing to the sofa.

"What's wrong with John?" Sherlock asked softly.

Mycroft frowned. Surely Sherlock understood...then he looked down and saw Sherlock's expression of sad incomprehension. He sighed quietly. "Sherlock...I tried to tell you...John has...moved on."

Sherlock stood suddenly, pushing his brother aside, striding quickly into the spare room.
Mycroft gave his brother the few minutes it took to make two cups of tea, then glanced across, saw the bedroom door was ajar and walked over, standing in the doorway, looking in.

Sherlock was standing with his back to the door, staring out of the window. He had taken his shirt off and, in the dim light of the energy saving bulb on the ceiling a few feet away, Mycroft saw new bruising beginning to darken his brother's back, particularly over his worryingly prominent shoulder blades.

Mycroft coughed softly, his expression softening as Sherlock turned, his eyes damp.

Putting the cups down, Mycroft sighed and crossed the few feet to stand in front of his brother. "Oh my darling, come here. Shh..." He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, more than a little surprised when Sherlock simply accepted his embrace, even leaning in a little, his body stiff with the unfamiliar position he suddenly found himself in.

"He pushed me over, then he punched me...then he head-butted me." Sherlock sniffed, mumbling into Mycroft's shoulder.

Mycroft sighed and was about to say something similar to 'I told you so' when Sherlock seemed to realize how unusual his behavior had suddenly - and completely unexpectedly - become, and he pulled away, scowling crossly.

Mycroft pretended he hadn't noticed the change in Sherlock's manner and continued gently: "Go and have a bath...make sure the water's hot and stay in for a while. You'll hurt in the morning and if you relax now at least you'll get a good night's sleep. Take the tea with you and I'll bring you something to ease the discomfort."

Sherlock unzipped his trousers, letting them fall, leaving them on the floor as he headed towards the bathroom.

Mycroft sighed tiredly and collected Sherlock's clothing, folding his trousers over the wooden rail beside the window. Taking a clothes hanger from the wardrobe, he was just about to hang his brother's shirt up when he noticed the small, randomly distributed bloodstains. Apparently the rough-and-tumble of the evening had opened the nearly-healed wounds on Sherlock's shoulders and back.

He took the shirt, soaking it in cold water and salt in the kitchen sink, leaving it to return to the bathroom. Seeing, yet again, that Sherlock hadn't bothered to close the door, Mycroft walked in, frowning unhappily at the pink tinge to the steaming water. "You're bleeding."

"Excellent deduction, brother dear." Sherlock retorted, but even he realized he wasn't really in the mood to wind his brother up.

Ignoring the half-hearted sarcasm, Mycroft sat on the edge of the bath. "Open."

Warily, Sherlock opened his mouth and Mycroft tipped two small pills onto Sherlock's tongue. "Try not to get blood on the walls or the carpet."

Picking up the teacup, Sherlock took a gulp and swallowed the red and white capsules, looking up at Mycroft, hiding his unhappiness that his plan had been anticipated. "Yes Mummy."

Mycroft ignored the jibe once more, silently congratulating himself on his self-control. Mummy would have been proud. Although she would probably have been somewhat cross at how he had let Sherlock find out about Mary. He pushed the thought from his mind and reached out, gently ruffling Sherlock's damp curls. "I have an early meeting in Portcullis House. I shall try not to wake you."

Sherlock scowled and tried to pull away but he was hampered by being trapped in the bath with Mycroft very close to him. "You knew. You knew he had Mary and you didn't tell me. I hate you!"

Sherlock sounded extremely childish but, given how his evening had apparently gone, Mycroft didn't have the heart to chastise him. Instead, he said evenly: "Come along now Sherlock...the water's getting cold. Use the black towels please...I was going to throw them away this week anyway." He got up and left Sherlock to it.

After a few minutes, Sherlock climbed out of the bath and reached for one of the pile of large fluffy pale cream colored towels, making sure to press it to his numerous small wounds, dotting the fabric with bloody stains.


Mycroft left Sherlock time to change into the pyjamas he had left on the bed, heard the sounds of the bed springs easily accepting Sherlock's slim frame, waited a few minutes then looked into the room through the partly-open bedroom door.

Sherlock lay on his stomach, the soft cotton material stretched over his back, his head pillowed on his arms. He turned his head as Mycroft entered the room, staring, silently, his sleepiness as evident as his unhappiness.

"Do you have everything you need Sherlock?" Mycroft asked softly.

"He broke my phone."


Sherlock nodded, lifting himself onto his side. "He didn't mean to."

Mycroft looked around the room. "Where is it?"

"In my jacket. The screen's shattered."

Mycroft lifted the smartphone from Sherlock's jacket, carefully avoiding cutting himself on the shards of glass in the pocket and still attached to the phone.

"I'll take care of it." Mycroft's tone was reassuring and he saw Sherlock's eyes begin to close as his brother shifted down the bed. He walked across the room and tucked the bedclothes around Sherlock's shoulder. "Everything looks better after a good night's sleep."

Sherlock twisted his head to look up at his brother. "Those pills were useless. My back feels like it's broken."

"Well, I might not be a doctor, but I'm fairly certain that's not the case, brother dear."

At the word 'doctor' Sherlock scowled crossly and turned his head away. Mycroft smiled at the simple gesture and placed his hand lightly on Sherlock's neck, thumb and forefinger massaging gently. "We'll speak to John tomorrow, sort things out, all right?"

"We?" Sherlock queried, still not moving.

"Yes. We, Sherlock. Unless you want to deal with John and Mary alone?"

Sherlock huffed at his brother's rhetorical question and tugged the bedclothes over his shoulder.

Sensing Sherlock's tiredness and wanting to let him rest, Mycroft straightened up. "Sleep well little brother."

Sherlock lifted his head just a little, watching Mycroft cross the room. "There's something wrong with Mary, isn't there?"

Mycroft reached the doorway and flicked the light switch off, darkening the room, hiding his discomfiture at Sherlock's insightful comment. A couple of hours with the woman and Sherlock knew, probably, as much as hours of research into 'Mary Morstan' had provided him with in the report he had read months before. "Go to sleep now Sherlock."


Not even Mycroft's loud exasperation as he found the pile of blood-speckled towels woke his brother.


The following morning...

Sherlock woke slowly, tired and his head and back aching equally badly. He reached across to the bedside table and pulled the phone towards him. As he had expected, it was identical to the one which had been destroyed. There was a single voicemail, from Mycroft. "I'll pick you up at noon. We'll go and see John and Mary and sort things out."

Sherlock scowled at the memory of the previous evening which was reinforced when he rolled onto his back and groaned at the discomfort across his shoulders.


Some weeks later...

"Car. Now. Please." BM

Mycroft read the text message and smiled briefly at Sherlock's change of 'signature' from his initials to BM. Best Man. But the message itself was worrying. Please. Sherlock had said - or texted - the word 'please'. Mycroft frowned, worrying about the implications of those six letters while he organized the car his brother had requested.


Later that night...

"So...how was the wedding?" Mycroft asked carefully.

"Tedious." Sherlock scowled, his voice laden with tiredness.

"So...Sherlock...I thought you'd have gone back to Baker Street..." Mycroft hated the edge of anxiety he knew was infused with his hesitant observation.

"You were right Mycroft. We appear to be seeing a lot more of each other since John and Mary's wedding." Sherlock said lightly, suppressing a grin.

Mycroft restrained his own huff of annoyance and waved his hand at the spare room. "Oh go on then. But no experiments, Sherlock, Of *any* kind."

Smiling gleefully, Sherlock headed into the bedroom.

Mycroft lifted his phone from the kitchen table and flicked through his messages. Among them was a message, sent less than an hour earlier: "Sherlock ID'd the killer. Nicked him. Will be a while."

Mycroft couldn't help being a little relieved. He began to type the reply: "Sherlock's here. Might want to..."

As he tried to think of how to explain to the recipient that they might want to stay the night somewhere else to avoid any awkward questions, the front door opened.

"Managed to get Donovan to deal with the photographer slash attempted murderer so I wasn't as long as I thought I'd..."

Mycroft sighed as he heard the soft chuckle of amusement from behind him.

"Well well, brother dear. And there was I, thinking when you said you weren't lonely that you just didn't know that you were. I was wrong. You're not lonely. You have a...goldfish."

Greg shook his head, yawned and headed for the bathroom. He was knackered and was still more than a bit annoyed Mycroft had flatly refused to accompany him to the wedding. He had no intention of getting involved in whatever stupid argument the brothers were in the middle of when he arrived.