After three days, Mycroft accepted that he legitimately might have been losing his mind. Even in his past life, working missions undercover, he usually still found at least a few minutes in which to compose his thoughts. Now he had to play the lovestruck partner when outside the cottage and the stuffily impersonal professional while inside it and everything felt horrifically backwards. Gregory seemed to have no problem doing the same, though, so Mycroft gritted his teeth and tried to pretend it was all fine.

The worst part was, Mycroft could see it. Could imagine vividly what this getaway could have been like if circumstances had been different. He'd do only the minimum work necessary, would cook for the both of them and surprise Gregory with his favorites at every meal, and they'd spend a lot more time in bed. Or - he admitted - possibly a similar amount of time in bed, but otherwise occupied.

"Whatever you're worried about, stop it," Gregory mumbled. They had their backs to each other and were on extreme opposite sides of the mattress, as had become their routine, but the first hints of daylight were working their way through the curtains and Mycroft knew exactly what Gregory would look like in that moment. Hair mussed, eyes still closed, salt-and-pepper stubble covering his jaw. He'd taken to wearing t-shirts and pajama trousers to bed, which was no doubt Anthea's addition to their luggage, but in Mycroft's imagination they were both nude and Gregory's skin was tantalizing in the golden light of dawn. Mycroft huffed and rolled to his back.

Gregory groaned. "I can hear your annoyance from here."

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to." He rolled over, blinking sleepily up at Mycroft. "Go make yourself a cup of coffee and take it out on the other world leaders or something. Seriously. I don't like this any more than you do but your gloominess is keeping me awake."

Of course. Because as much as Mycroft was a prisoner of the situation, Gregory had it ten times worse. Mycroft went.

"Mycroft. Mycroft."

The world smelled like Gregory. Mycroft inhaled deeply and pressed his cheek closer against the cool fabric of Gregory's shirt. "Smell so nice," Mycroft sighed.

"Don't you dare go to sleep on me. Mycroft!"

Mycroft blinked himself the rest of the way awake but didn't move. He was lying on the sitting room floor, half draped over Gregory's lap, and Gregory was wet. "You're wet." He hummed. "And cool. Feels good."

"It's drizzling outside, and you're burning up." Gregory kept an arm around Mycroft's torso even as he punched numbers into his mobile. "Stay here with me, yeah?"

Why would he go anywhere else? Mycroft took another long lungful of Gregory's scent. Soap and fabric softener and a hint of sweat and it was hard to sort it all into words in his head, but he wanted to lock this smell away to remember later. His mind was completely, blissfully blank of anything except Gregory, and Mycroft couldn't remember ever feeling better.

"John." Gregory practically barked it. Ah. Mobile. Call. "It's - yes. About ten minutes ago, I think. No." He was quiet a moment. "Look, this is a hunch, but tell Sherlock you need his birthday list. Now. He'll know what I mean. " He twisted his head to look down and meet Mycroft's gaze. "You're going to have to talk me through what to do with him."

Birthday list? Sherlock hated birthdays. He would have deleted the knowledge of his own birthdate, if he could. He never requested presents because he never got any. Mycroft must have made a confused noise, because Gregory reached down and squeezed his hand and just like that, Mycroft forgot whatever it was he'd been about to say. There was some indistinct yelling coming from the phone. The few words Mycroft could make out were expletives.

"Can you put me on speaker?" Gregory was still squeezing Mycroft's hand, little rhythmic pulses, and Mycroft sighed in contentment. "No, both of you," Gregory said, less shouty this time. "Sherlock, that birthday. However many years ago it was - you remember what you took? Yes, I damn well recognize this. You went all mellow housecat and it scared the hell out of me. 'Totally cleared your mind,' I think you said. I've seen enough damn drug addicts to know what it's supposed to look like, and this isn't it. Give John the list."

Oh. That list. Mycroft hummed a bit into Gregory's chest. "M'brother's clean now," he mumbled.

"I know." Gregory ducked down and pressed a worried kiss to the top of Mycroft's head, the sensation melting down over Mycroft's scalp like the first spray of a warm shower. He didn't even seem to realize he'd done it. "You're damn lucky his little concoctions were so memorable, though, because otherwise I'd be panicking and you'd be on your way to hospital and there'd be no way to cover this up. He really is a good chemist, much as it pains me to say it."

Mycroft stiffened and pulled away. "Can't go to hospital."

"I figured - Sherlock said the same, way back when. What the hell were you doing outside, anyway?"

He'd been out because . . . Mycroft frowned. "I don't remember."

"Found you lying at the end of the drive with a needle in your arm. Getting rained on. I heard a car, but didn't see anyone. Damn lucky you had your umbrella - you didn't tell me Anthea re-wired your panic button to my phone until the alarm went off and scared the shit out of me."

"Didn't know." Trying to remember the morning so far was dangerously like thinking, which hurt. Mycroft's brain also felt like it could only hold one thing at a time, and Gregory was a much more interesting topic. "Want you to hold me," Mycroft found himself saying.

Gregory huffed out a little resigned sigh, but he shifted them both so he was sitting with his back propped against the sofa and Mycroft could curl up in his lap. Mycroft's limbs felt strangely lethargic. The new position meant he could bury his nose in Gregory's neck, though, where the morning stubble ended and the collar of the t-shirt began. "Don't want to overheat you," Gregory murmured. "Just sit there for now."

John came back on the line, then, and commenced talking Gregory through the annoying process of making Mycroft move. All Mycroft wanted to do was to enjoy the sensation of Gregory's skin against his own, but John (and by extension Gregory) kept insisting he do things like sit up and drink some water and count backwards from ten and attempt to move his fingers and toes individually and then all at once.

"Fever's coming down, I think," Gregory said into the phone, "but if he reacts like Sherlock did it may be an hour or two before he's feeling back to normal." He was silent for a minute, listening, then . . . "I'll do that. Thanks. Call me if anything turns up."

Gregory had such a nice voice. He could say things in that voice. Mycroft wasn't quite up to any sort of actual sexual activity at the moment, but it occurred to him it would be quite nice indeed to have Gregory say things and then maybe later, when Mycroft was feeling less muddled, they could do those things together. "Tell me to come to bed, Gregory," Mycroft said. "I want your voice to say things. And touch me. You, not your voice. You have a very nice voice."

Gregory chuckled softly. "This part's new, at least. Sherlock just ended up petting my jacket and muttering about bees for an hour." He prodded Mycroft into standing up - with significant help - and half-walked, half-dragged him to the bedroom. "What's it like? The high? I've always wondered."

Mycroft closed his eyes and tried to focus on an answer. "Empty," he finally said. "Bit vague and everything's fuzzy around the edges, but the world is quiet and it's nice. I'm not worrying anymore. I like you here."

"Not really what I was expecting when I signed up for this," Gregory said with a wry twist of his mouth, "but it's interesting to say the least. Come here - get the rest of the way on the bed."

Mycroft looked down and was surprised to find he was no longer standing, but was listing at a sharp angle over the footboard. Propping himself up with both hands but doing an inadequate job, apparently. Gregory had abandoned his post as human crutch and was pulling back the covers to leave just a simple sheet on the bed. Mycroft took a minute to assess the situation, mentally strategized to the best of his current ability, then carefully walked around the corner of the bed so he could collapse face-first onto the mattress without an uncomfortable footboard bisecting his abdomen. "Lie with me?"

Gregory shook his head. "Anthea's reviewing security footage and I promised John I'd tell him and Sherlock what little I could as soon as you were set. No nausea yet?"

Mycroft shook his head no.

"Going to get a bowl for you for later, then," Gregory said. "You'll probably need it. Just lie there and try to focus on doing that creepily brilliant analysis thing you do. You're working with a bit of a handicap, I know, but-"

"I love you," Mycroft blurted out. "I thought you might react poorly if I told you."

Gregory froze, then slowly licked his lips and blinked twice. "Mycroft-"

It was important to get this out, though. Urgent. Mycroft held up a hand - still not great fine motor control, but it got the point across - and Gregory stopped. "Don't say it's the drugs, because it's not. I have to tell you now because I'll go back to being worried after. You're the best thing that's happened to me in a long time and I want you down here. You're too far away."

"You're still high," Gregory said gently.

"Do I ever say anything I don't mean?"

Gregory tilted his head, assessing, but he still looked skeptical.

It was enough to kick Mycroft into actually trying to think. "You want analysis. Fine." Thinking made his headache hurt, dulled the lovely floaty feeling, but Gregory needed to believe Mycroft was serious. "If this is the same cocktail Sherlock used - which I agree it probably is because this is the exact state my brother yearns for on danger nights - it's safe to assume I'm being set up to have a familial substance abuse issue. I suspect there's probably something at my residence now, paraphernalia and more of the same drug mixture. Sherlock's issues are a long-standing but relatively closed secret; we can assume an 'anonymous' source will either make them public soon or threaten to expose both of us as addicts. No one on my security team has the resources to make this a successful blackmail attempt, therefore someone else is pulling the strings. A colleague, perhaps, or a wealthy individual with a specific political goal. Money is unlikely to be the end goal; if it were just money this person could have blackmailed Sherlock long before now." Mycroft levered himself - with some effort - up to his elbows so he wasn't just flopped on the bed. "There. Does that prove I'm lucid? Lower inhibitions, yes, but nothing I wouldn't have felt otherwise. Now get on the bed."

It took several seconds for Gregory to remember to close his jaw. "Well fuck me," he breathed. "You can do all that while high off your arse. Just . . . bloody buggering fuck. Damn."

A tendril of hope awoke in Mycroft's chest. "You found that seductive?" He phrased it as a question, but the new heat in Gregory's eyes was obvious. "Muscle control isn't up to fucking yet, but I'm willing to try."

"Mycroft, you - fuck." Gregory sighed and shook his head. "We'll talk about this later, okay?"

Mycroft's instinctive response was to argue, to drag Gregory down to the mattress, but he suddenly became aware of the fact that nausea was now an issue. Perhaps a bowl near the bed would be a good idea after all.