Hey gang! Decided I wasn't done playing with Mycroft and Greg after all. Please R&R!
Greg got into his car, slamming the door behind him.
That insufferable twat, he thought to himself. That pompous horse's ass!
He was seething as he whipped his car onto the street, traffic laws be damned. Fourteen months together and Mycroft has the nerve to sever things just like that.
"I'm sorry Gregory, but I do not wish to continue seeing you."
For fuck's sake, what did that even mean?
Greg snarled and swore as he hit a patch of traffic. Sherlock had been right, damn him. He had told Greg in that first week that he was just a bit of a rough for Mycroft, a man like Mycroft would never stay with a man like Greg. Too posh, too caught up in appearances. Well, he'd be free to focus on his appearances now. Find himself some poncy little wife named Mitzi or something like that. Never mind the fact Greg had loved him, and had somehow deluded himself into believing Mycroft loved him too.
He slammed a fist down on the steering wheel, hard enough to bruise the knuckles. He'd fallen for it, hook line and sinker. Idiot.
Greg had never handled breakups well. When he was twelve and his first girlfriend Nancy had dumped him he had run home crying to his mum. When he was nineteen and had caught his first boyfriend Liam cheating on him, Greg had keyed Liam's car and put his fist through a plate glass window. Now that Mycroft had summarily kicked him to the curb, Greg had taken up smoking again. He stomped around the office, scaring interns and the other DI's alike. After two weeks of this, Sally became exasperated and made him leave work early.
"You're worse than the freak, running around here hissing like an angry tomcat. Go home, have a drink, calm the fuck down."
Begrudgingly he did as was told, went home and had a drink. And then another. And then another. Within the space of an hour he had gotten himself properly pissed, drinking just about every alcoholic beverage in his flat. This did not make him feel any better, it just made the room spin and the floor more difficult to keep a firm grip on. He stared around his apartment dazedly until his eyes fixed on a framed picture in the bookcase. He took a few weaving steps towards it, grabbing it with the grace of a toddler.
It had been taken at John and Sherlock's wedding a few months before. It was a candid shot, Mrs. Hudson had been sneaking around trying to catch the guests unawares. She had succeeded with Mycroft and Greg, who had been having a very animated (and drunken) conversation on the lawn. Greg had been in the middle of dramatically rolling his eyes and gesturing heavenward with his champagne glass, Mycroft had been laughing uncontrollably and resting one hand on Greg's hip while wiping at the tears of mirth rolling down his face with the other.
Greg tried to grit his teeth but instead bit down hard on his tongue, drawing blood. He threw the picture across the room, taking satisfaction in the sound of breaking glass before staggering across the room and passing out on the couch.
"You look like hell," Donovan commented.
He groaned rubbed at his bleary eyes. It had been by the sheer grace of God he had woken up in time to go to work that morning, although he was seriously wishing he hadn't. His head was throbbing mercilessly and the goings-on in his stomach reminded him very much of the scene from Alien where the little creature burst out of the one man's torso.
"I can't decide which I'd wish for more: hangovers to be a legitimate medical excuse to qualify a sick day or homicidal maniacs who would have the decency to take a day off once in a while," he grumbled.
Sally snorted. "You know that freak is just going to make that headache worse."
"Nice try, but I want to catch this guy soon. Preferably in the next ten minutes, so that I can lapse into a coma in peace," Greg replied.
"It's not a 'guy' you're looking for," a familiar drawl said behind them.
Greg turned warily towards Sherlock and John.
"It's a female," he continued. "Girlfriend. Comes over on the premise of making him a nice salmon dinner, poisons his portion."
Before the Detective Inspector could ask how Sherlock had come to this conclusion, Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed to the kitchen.
"Already looked, pan has debris from two filets, one dirty plate in the sink and the plate on top of the stack in the cupboard is damp suggesting it was recently washed; she tried unsuccessfully to make it look like she was never here. Really Lestrade, you really shouldn't have needed me for this, although I can see you're hungover so I'll forgive you this time."
Sherlock strode out of the room, coat billowing behind him. John watched after him in admiration. He turned back to the relieved Lestrade and the scowling Sally.
"I don't know why we don't just ask the cabbie to wait a minute, it's such a waste to have to get another one back," he joked dryly.
Greg nodded absentmindedly, Sally stalked out of the room.
John looked at him. "Can't say I blame you for getting pissed mate. I hope Mycroft wasn't drinking though, that's probably the last thing his system needs right now."
Greg furrowed his brow. "How'd you mean?"
John looked taken aback. "Well I mean it probably can't do any harm. I haven't exactly read up too much on it but it can't really help."
Greg's head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, what John was saying wasn't properly registering.
"Really can't help what? What're you on about?"
John paled. "He…hasn't told you?"
"The sodding bastard broke up with me," Greg snapped. "Didn't tell me shit except that he was done with me. What are you talking about?"
John's jaw quivered. "Well I- I don't know how to tell you this. Mycroft came into my office a few weeks back and they came back positive. He's got cancer Greg. Lymphoma."
Greg's head swam and he staggered backwards into a chair.