Just a bit of fun Mystrade pre-slash weirdness. I own nothing. Enjoy!

~Bee


"Sherlock, it is of no consequence to me that you are bored. It is not my duty to entertain you!"

"Mycroft, right now I am finding your voice quite similar to the insistent drone of a small insect, would you be a dear and hold your breath for ten minutes or so? There's a good lad."

Mycroft sniffed indignantly. "Come now brother mine, you know that I have made it my mission to outlive you purely out of spite."

Greg and John sat transfixed, watching the exchange like it was the final match at Wimbledon.

Without moving from his reclined state on the sofa Sherlock picked up his Browning from the coffee table.

Greg vaguely wondered why the pistol was on the coffee table in the first place, but thought better of it not to ask.

Sherlock lazily waved the weapon in Mycroft's direction. "Like I would let that happen."

Mycroft sneered. "Come now Sherlock, shooting me would only upset Mummy unnecessarily." He quirked an eyebrow. "Although that has always been your raison d'être, has it not?"

Sherlock leapt off the sofa ready to protest this apparently heinous accusation but was rudely interrupted by a loud crack. In his haste, he had forgotten about the gun in his hand. Pointed at Mycroft.

All the color drained from the politician's face as he swayed and fell backward. Greg was up in an instant. "Oh fuck, John call an ambulance!"

The army doctor obeyed, nearly breaking his thumbs dialing the emergency number.

Greg knelt beside Mycroft. "Mycroft where did it hit you?"

Mycroft opened his mouth but no sound came out. "Christ, he's in shock," Greg muttered. He ripped off the politician's jacket, frantically searching his torso for the wound. "Fuck fuck fuck," he mumbled, ripping the man's waistcoat off so hard the buttons flew off, one of which hit Sherlock squarely in the eye. The consulting detective cried out in pain and fell to the sofa melodramatically.

"Serves you right!" Greg barked over his shoulder. He turned back towards the elder Holmes, whose lips were trembling as he stared blankly ahead. "Mycroft, Mycroft stay with me." He cupped Mycroft's cheek and turned his face towards his own. "Mycroft where were you hit?"

Mycroft lifted a shaky hand towards Greg, grasping at the detective's sleeve. "Detective…Detective Inspector…"

"I'm here, Christ, I'm here Mycroft."

"I don't believe…I don't believe I've ever properly thanked you for…for all your help with Sherlock over the years…I…" he inhaled sharply, wincing. "I…am eternally grateful to you…"

"Hey," John said quietly. No one paid him any mind, all the attention in the room was focused on the dying British government.

"I…Inspector, I must tell you that I have always valued your friendship. There are…not many people I can refer to as…friends. Perhaps it is only you I can…properly refer to with that term."

Greg's eyes welled with tears. "C'mon, don't be like that. You'll be fine." He again scanned Mycroft's body for the bullet hole in vain. "I can't even see where it hit you, that's a good sign right? You'll be fine!"

"Uh, Lestrade?" John called.

A smile ghosted across Mycroft's face. "Ever the hero." He shook his head, coughing slightly. "I fear I have cheated death one too many times. I am truly blessed to be able to see you before I succumb…" his voice faded and he closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself. When they reopened, they were a beautiful shade of milky blue. "I love you Gregory Lestrade."

Greg's jaw dropped. "Wh-what? Why didn't you ever say anything? Christ Mycroft, if I had known…"

Mycroft shook his head, giving another faint smile. "The magic 'if' is the most dangerous of man's creations." He breathing was shallow now and his eyes were unfocused.

Greg's tears were flowing freely now. "Jesus Mycroft, if I had thought I even had a shot with you," he bit his lip. He pulled Mycroft across his lap face cradled his face in both hands. "Oh Mycroft," he whispered.

"Greg!" John bellowed, finally snapping the detective's attention away from the dying man.

"What?" Greg cried angrily.

"I don't think the bullet even hit him," John said flatly. He pointed to a small hole in the wallpaper. "Pretty sure it went through here."

Greg blinked.

Mycroft's eyes snapped open in shock. "Wh-what?" he asked in disbelief, searching his own torso.

John didn't know whether or not to laugh, so he looked up at Sherlock for guidance. Naturally, the consulting detective's slender frame was wracked with silent laughter, large giddy tears rolled down his gaunt cheeks as he pressed the heel of his hand to his injured eye. John chuckled and after a few moments had joined Sherlock in deep belly-laughter.

A few moments passed before Mycroft could fully digest the idea that he was not dying, nor even actually wounded. It took several more moments for him to realize he was still being cradled by a very confused-looking DI. "Ah-ah!" he cried, jumping up and trying to straighten himself. For once, he was completely and utterly speechless, without any way to save face.

Greg was still crouched on the ground, bewildered. "Er…what?"

Mycroft gaped, his cheeks pinking. "I…I must go!" He darted out of the room.

Greg caught him in the hallway. "Bloody hell, hang on a moment. Just…just lemme process this. You're…you're fine?"

Mycroft stared at the wall, cheeks now a deep fuchsia. He nodded.

"Oh thank God." Greg slumped into the wall, clutching his heart. "Fuck, that was terrifying."

Mycroft nodded tersely. "Quite. Really Inspector, I must be off."

"Hang on," Greg said, grabbing Mycroft's sleeve. He paused. "Did…did you mean it? What you said back there?"

Mycroft bit his lip and nodded, still avoiding eye contact. "Please, do not feel obligated, I understand the effects of duress."

"Fuck, Mycroft." Greg spun the man towards himself. "I meant what I said. Shit, I deal with death and hostages and what have you every day of my life but I don't think I have ever been more terrified than when you hit the floor back there. Damnit Mycroft, life's too bloody short!" With that, he leaned up and sealed the distance between them.

His lips scrabbled for purchase on Mycroft's for a moment before securing themselves. One of his hands crept up to the back of Mycroft's neck while the other rested on his firm chest, right above where his heart was beating out a samba. (Yes, it seemed the Ice Man did have a heart after all, and a certain Detective Inspector sent it all aflutter.)

After a few moments, Mycroft tentatively kissed Greg back, closing his eyes and wrapping his arms around the DI.

Though it had been a false alarm, it felt much more like a second chance.