Mystrade one-shots

I've got you

Mycroft was cold. He'd always been a cold man, the iceman they called him, rid of emotion. This was different now. He was cold, finger tips turning white, lips blue, cold. That didn't really stop, he couldn't stop it. Not even as Greg began to stroke down his arms to stop the shaking from his exhausted body. They'd been taken two weeks ago.  Greg wasn't worried about getting out, he knew Anthea or Sherlock would find them, he was worried about Mycroft not getting out.

Today had been the worst day so far. Greg has been fairly well off, only three of the fourteen days did they even touch him, Mycroft however was taken out for hours at a time. He always came back worse off. Today he was shaking like a leaf. Today, Greg couldn't do anything to ease the pain. So he sat, silently, and rubbed Mycroft's back, occasionally blowing on his finger tips to keep them from freezing off.

It took awhile for Mycroft to stop shaking, even then he still looked awful. Greg found himself wondering when the last time Mycroft had eaten or had anything to drink.  The DI himself had nothing special, but enough to keep him going without any issues. Mycroft however only really slept occasionally. Exhaustion seemed to get to him quickly in here.

"Mycroft, darling I need you to at least drink something, you can't keep this up." Greg pulled Mycroft into his chest a bit more if that was an option but Mycroft just shook his head.

"N-no.... no that's for you." Mycroft mumbled tiredly, going back to being curled up against his body, which held the only bit of warmth he could find. "I'm okay."

Greg wanted to argue, it felt like they argued about this all the time. All the time... that was almost funny, this cell had become their life. It was upsetting. More than just that. Greg just wanted to go home. Back to his job where he was bored and overworked, where he would come home to find Mycroft and their daughter curled up on the couch asleep.

He missed all of it and as much as he tried not to. He was beginning to lose hope, especially as Mycroft's condition just got worse.

Whipping was the hardest. Those were the days that not even these walls could block out the screams. They weren't the sounds that anyone would forget easily, the crack followed by sheer agony.

Greg couldn't decide if he was more settled when Mycroft came back conscious or when he wasn't. This time, he was definitely awake.

With every step he took he looked unstable, falling into Greg when he got in there even though he wasn't pushed.

The door was shut the moment Mycroft hit the ground, his bloodstained shirt clung to the wounds but there wasn't a tear in it. They'd done this on bare skin.

Greg looked it over quickly, smoothing Mycroft's hair back with a nervous hand. Hushing him when he shifted and he cried out.

"Hey, hey, shhh, you're alright. I'm going to clean this up." Greg said as he looked him over. He didn't know how to do this. The best he could do was wipe the blood away and pray that it would heal. "How does sleep sound gorgeous? Hm? Why don't you get some sleep?"

Never in his entire life did he want Mycroft to fall unconscious so badly. This was hurting him to watch, knowing that he couldn't fix it.

Mycroft's hand, which hand found Greg's shirt tightened a bit and it was clear that he was trying to remember how to speak properly.

"I love you." Mycroft said, it sounded easy, a normal thing. This time, this time was different. It didn't sound right, not muffled like it was in Greg's trouser leg. Not while Mycroft couldn't breathe properly because of how badly it hurt. None of this should be happening.

"I love you too. I'm going to help you sit up so that you can breathe a bit easier and then you can sleep right here on my shoulder alright?" Greg said hopefully and waited for him to nod before doing as he promised.