Title: Fan the Flames
Author: Jessie Blackwood
Pairing: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Fandoms: Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Series: 1) Bonfire Heart, 2) People Like Us, 3) Days Like These Lead to Nights Like This
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are not my characters, they are public domain. Anything that resembles Sherlock BBC belongs of course to Mr Moffat and Mr Gatiss and is theirs alone. The plot is mine. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is otherwise purely coincidental.
Warning: AU
Note: This is only a little piece in my Bonfire Heart series, People Like Us. The Yemeni air strike that killed forty boys on a day out in the province of Saada less than a week ago got my notice. It's where I set Greg's MSF group in my story. It got to me. When children die in conflict there is something very very wrong, and then I thought, what would Greg do. How would he react to the news. What might Mycroft do? I also have no idea if our Foreign Secretary will say anything. Doubt it. However, this is my possibility...
Summary: Greg gets home before Mycroft and turns the television on, only to be triggered by the events unfolding on the news. Mycroft cares for his partner as best he can.

***

I’m going to be late tonight. Meeting with the Board at 6, may go on a while. Don’t wait for me. I shall get a taxi home. MH

The text was timed as 14.23. Greg glanced at his watch. He had been in surgery for the last six hours. He had showered and changed into his street clothes, and now it was nearly seven and Greg was ready for a take away and bed. He sighed and sent a quick text back.

OK. Ordering in. Miss you. Good luck and take care. XXX GL

Was it soppy and stupid for a man in his fifties to be sending text kisses to his partner? Possibly, he thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He drove home as fast as London traffic would allow.

He phoned the local Thai place and ordered for the two of them, making sure there were things he knew Mycroft would like. Then he went to make himself some tea. He pottered about a little, emptying the dishwasher and tidying magazines in the living room, then went to change into more comfortable clothes. As he pulled on soft sleep pants and a t-shirt, Greg decided to put a movie on while he waited for the food and his partner to arrive home. Assuming the meeting didn’t go on too long, Mycroft might be home within the hour.

Everything went to Hell when he turned the television on. The news was broadcasting, showing the twisted remains of a bombed out bus, desert sand everywhere, wailing people… Greg watched the story unfold in abject horror… A school bus in Yemen, forty boys aged between six and eleven… No, no, no, his horrified brain supplied. Not again… No…

Mycroft was more than irritated with the Board members. The meeting had dragged, nobody committing to a decision, until he had been ready to tear his hair out with frustration. As the clock ticked past eight, Mycroft cleared his throat rather noisily. He had long ago stopped putting up with having his evening ruined. He rose to his feet in disgust and suggested coldly they reconvene tomorrow. Nobody objected. He walked briskly out of the hospital and hailed a cab, further irritated that the traffic stalled and kept him waiting.

When he got home he was past ready for a decent take-away, as Greg had suggested. His taxi pulled up just as a man was exiting the property heading for the bike that was propped against the wall. The box on the back indicated that he was delivering take away. Mycroft moved past him and went to the door. His key was barely in the lock before he heard a voice behind him.

“Hey, you live here?”

Mycroft turned around. The man was standing in the gateway, grasping an insulated bag in one hand. “Yes, I do,” Mycroft answered.

“You gonna pay for this or what?” Mycroft frowned.

“What do you mean? Did nobody answer the door?”

“No, they didn’t,” the man said with exaggerated patience. “I tried the bell, and then the door, twice. Nothing.”

“My partner should have answered…” He glanced back at the door, puzzled.

“Yeah, well, they didn’t. So…?”

“Of course….” Mycroft reached for his wallet.

Inside, he could hear the television on. “Gregory?” he called. Nothing. Possibly in the loo? Mycroft couldn't hear the shower, so he discounted the main bathroom. As was his routine, Mycroft hung up his coat and toed off his shoes before heading into the kitchen to deposit the food on the countertop.

“Darling?” he called. Nothing. That was odd. Gregory's coat and shoes were in the hall, as was his briefcase, which meant he was very definitely home. Mycroft went into the living room and found the television still on, broadcasting some BBC drama, but no sign of his partner. Vague worry stole into his heart and he swiftly began searching the other rooms.

He heard the sounds as he got to the top of the stairs; muffled and coming from the bedroom. Relief washed through him, but the curled up form of his lover, huddled under the duvet, sobbing like his heart was breaking did nothing to quiet his mind.

“Gregory? Greg, Love, I'm home…” There was a loud sniff and a hiccup.

“My?” Mycroft’s heart twisted. He sounded so bereft.

Lost in his misery, Greg hadn't been aware of anything since he had stumbled up the stairs, blinded by tears. The news report had brought everything back; the heat, the blood, the despair, the grief… Mycroft's voice was a shock, but a welcome one.

“Oh, my darling, what on earth has happened?” Greg felt the bed dip under his lover’s weight as the man sat down. Greg gulped and snuffed and blinked red-rimmed bleary eyes.

“The n.n.news,” he stuttered, voice gruff.

It took Mycroft a few precious seconds before he realised what would have caused his lover to have such a traumatic response.

“The bus?” he suggested. “The Yemeni school bus?” Greg nodded, miserable. Mycroft shed his jacket, undid his cufflinks and rolled his shirt sleeves up. He loosened his tie and slid it off, then slid himself onto the bed, gathering Greg into his arms. The man turned toward him, snuggling close, burying his face in the crook of Mycroft's neck. One arm snaked around him and Greg held on.

“F.f.forty…” he managed. “How is that right…?”

“It isn't, my dear. It isn't."

"I might have m.m.met those kids...It's near where we were..."

Mycroft sighed sadly. "In no universe is it right, my dearest, but war is war. It is ugly, painful, and terribly unjust. There is always collateral damage, however unjustified it might be. I have tried to put a word in the correct ears, I have done my best to say the right thing to the right person, but it is out of my control. I am so sorry…” He felt Greg's arms tighten around him. He was shaking his head.

“No, love, don't…don't beat yourself up about it. You've done as much as you can… I never expected that much.”

Mycroft smiled. “Anything I can do, my darling. I'm only sorry it's not enough.”

Greg shook his head again. “Don't apologise. You tried. It's just…” He took a shaky breath. “Brought it all back…”

“Do you need me to call Kristen? You should perhaps talk this through.”

“I don't want to talk about it to Kristen. I want to…explain…how bad it was. I want to go into detail…but...I can't. It's too…disgusting. It's not…nice. I can't do that to anyone.”

“I don't suspect it is very nice, but… Greg, I am not a shrinking violet. I will not flinch. I have a very strong stomach and if you want to tell me the details, then please do so.”

“I...Mycroft...not sure…”

“Try me,” Mycroft urged. “Or if you prefer, write it down in all its gory detail. I will read it, and let you know if I can talk to you about it. If so, we shall talk. About all of it. Would that suit?”

Greg sighed against his skin. “Yes, okay.”

“After dinner though,” Mycroft said firmly. “Our food is downstairs.”

“Oh, damn. I didn't hear the delivery…”

“A good job I arrived before the man left, so no harm done. We can reheat. How are you feeling now?”

“Just a bit shaky, a bit sad. I'll be okay. Thanks, love. Sorry I fell apart.”

“For goodness sake, do not apologise, my darling. You are an amazingly compassionate man. You care so much for those in pain.”

“Maybe too much…”

“Nonsense. The world needs compassion, Greg. Otherwise, where would we be? When atrocities go without being challenged it is a poor place indeed. I have spoken to the PM about this and I have been assured that the Foreign Secretary will be contacting the Saudis to register our displeasure concerning their actions. Beyond those assurances, I am unable to offer anything more…”

“Wait, wait, wait…” Greg raised his head. “You…have spoken to...the PM? Let me get this straight… You have spoken to the Prime Minister?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Of course...? Mycroft, you don't just speak to the Prime Minister... At least, us ordinary mortals don't.”

Mycroft smiled, rubbing soothing circles on Greg's back as they lay together. “Gregory, this is… commonplace to me...and you are not an ordinary mortal. Your talents surpass ordinary by a long way. May I remind you also that your stepfather is Equerry to Her Majesty.”

Greg sighed. “Yeah, well, he is my step father, Mycroft. You know I’ve never wanted or needed the connection with him, despite his insistence some times. I've never been privy to his contacts, and if he goes to Palace events, then mum goes with him, not me. It's not something I even think about.”

“Well, we will be remedying that. I want you as my plus one when I am next invited to a reception, but if you don't eat right this minute, you will fade away before such an illustrious event can occur. Come on, humour me.” Mycroft tugged back the duvet, encouraging Greg to get up. The man struggled to sit, then yawned. His hair was rumpled, and his shirt was creased, but he couldn’t bring himself to care much.

Sitting downstairs around the kitchen table, tucking into pad thai and noodles, Greg began to feel better. Tea was placed in front of him and he sipped it appreciatively, allowing the stress to bleed away.

“Thanks, love. It was just...a bit much, I guess.”

“Speak to Kristen when you next see her. Emotional responses to deep seated triggers are to be expected, but it might be worth saying something.”

“I will. I liked your suggestion by the way, to write it all down.”

“Yes, well, tried and tested methods, Gregory. It might help with your sessions with Kristen too. Now, you look tired. That will also have contributed to your distress. Let me take care of you, darling.”

“Nowhere I’d rather be, love.” Greg allowed himself to be drawn close and guided up to bed again. The two men settled under the covers together, twining limbs in a comfortable and comforting embrace.

“Rest well, my love,” Mycroft murmured, placing a soft kiss on Greg’s hair.

“You too, Gorgeous,” Greg muttered and closed his eyes. “Thank you for being mine.”

Very soon the only sounds to be heard were soft breaths and the occasional quiet rustle of cotton sheets.

***