The Call

        I felt a hand squeezing mine. I was groggy, heavy-eyed, and weak. Without opening my eyes, I moved my hand to trace the features of the one clinging to me. Greg. It was Greg. His hands were always rough but surprisingly gentle.

        As I attempted to sit up, he tightened his grip. "Try to stay still," he said softly. My right arm was completely numb. I opened my eyes to find that my vision was blurry, at best. Morphine. I was loaded full of morphine. The last thing I could vividly recall was Greg kissing my arms, then saying that he loved me. Had I replied?

        "What happened?" I asked Greg, trying to turn my head toward him. The numbness of my right shoulder wouldn't allow me to make eye contact with him.

        "You're gonna be fine."

        That wasn't an answer to my question. I clenched Greg's hand harder to show vexation. "What happened?"

        "A man you put in prison shot you. Well, he tried to shoot Lestrade, but you thought it'd be a good idea to push him out of the way. Caring - causes a lot of trouble, doesn't it brother dear?" Sherlock was speaking from the corner of the room. He needed to keep his distance, no doubt, from the morphine pump. Far too tempting.

        Greg leaned in. "Showed your hand with more than your eyes this time." He kissed my temple before straightening up.

        I closed my eyes and tried to breathe deeply, but a sharp pain on my right side stopped my diaphragm from expanding. Now, I could remember. A bit. Amon Reluz. We'd been dealing with his sister. He had my gun. The bullet would have hit Greg's abdomen. "It may not be advantageous for me, brother mine, but it seems to have been for Greg."

        Sherlock's mobile vibrated. "Anderson, what've you got? Not much, I assume," he demeaned as he walked out of the room.

        "I'm trained to face armed and violent criminals, Mycroft. I wish you wouldn't have..."

        "You would've died," I interrupted.

        "How can you be sure?"

        "His hand was unsteady, but there's no doubt the bullet would have blown through the bottom of your liver. You wouldn't have survived without a transplant, and even that would have been fruitless if the hemorrhaging wasn't stopped soon enough." My speech was slow and unmetered. I was impaired by more than morphine. "I'm taller. If I blocked his shot at you with the side of my body, taking into consideration the speed of his tremor, he'd hit my arm or my pelvic girdle. Less chance at severe damage."

        "Sometimes I wonder if that mind of yours is a blessing or a curse."

        It took a moment to muster the right words. "Well, in this case, Greg, I do believe my mind was motivated by something else."

        Before I could endure any more thought, his velvety soft lips were on mine.

        "What did they operate on?" I asked as his mouth left mine. It was clear to me now that I'd been under a potent anesthetic.

        "Your pelvis. Like you said." Greg's voice carried the sound of amazement. "The bullet grazed your arm and then lodged itself into your side. Something about a wing?"

        "Ilium wing."

        "Yeah. That's it. The top part was shattered. So, they had to remove the lead and a lot of bone fragments."

        That explained the unique pain I'd felt on impact. If the wing was shattered significantly enough, they would have replaced it. "And?"

        "And - now you're The Six Million Dollar Man."

        "Titanium?"

        "Yep."

        "At least six weeks' recovery."

        "Right again," he laughed.

        "I'll need to call Anthea to arrange assistance with..."

        "No. You won't."

        "I can never be completely out of commission, Greg. Especially if Elizabeth is -," I paused. "How is Lady Smallwood?"

        "She didn't make it," declared Sherlock, returning to the room and walking toward my bedside. "And you will be out of commission for at least four weeks. No work at all. I've already spoken with the Prime Minister."

        "You ?"

        "Don't you remember, big brother? That EPA you filed ages ago? You wanted to make sure our parents didn't have to make all the decisions if something happened to you."

        "I'm perfectly alright. I'm conscious. You have no right to enact Power of Attorney."

        "On the contrary, you were unconscious for a while. I had to speak with your masters anyway to reassure them that Jeanette and her brother were both in custody and that all threats were neutralized. Your laptop is in good hands, now."

        "What do you expect me to do for four weeks without work?"

        "Well, since you go in for all that sentiment stuff now," Sherlock began, glancing at Greg, then back to me, "I'm sure you can find something to occupy your time." He flipped his coat collar and walked toward the door. "Of course, you'll need to get creative. No physical exertion, you know."  The door echoed as it slammed behind him.

        "Look, I'm sorry he did all that. But it's for the best. You know it is. Take time to rest, and you'll be good as new in no time." Greg stroked my forearm as he spoke.

        "Greg, I can't just lie in bed for four weeks."

        "I promise. It won't feel that way. I'll stay with you and look after you. We'll find things to do. The time will pass before you know it."  He was trying valiantly to make things better. 

        My vision was clearing just slightly, and I could see in his eyes that he was feeling guilty. "What's wrong, Greg?" I prompted.

        "You don't know? You don't know something?"

        I cocked my head and gave him a scolding glance.

        "Sorry," he murmured. "What's wrong? What's wrong? Well, Mycroft, it was my job to protect you."

        "This isn't your fault, Greg. I pushed you out of the way."

       "Yeah. Well, if I were smart, I would've been prepared for that. If I could figure people out like you and your brother, I would've known you were going to do that."

        "Greg..." He didn't give me time to speak.

       "And now, here we are." He shuffled his feet with frustration.

        "Yes, Greg. Here we are - alive. We're both alive." He had a look of disgust in his eyes and shuffled his feet again. "When I think about it a bit more, four weeks on the mend might be - enjoyable."

        "You think?"

        "Well, if nothing else, I can force you into as many consequential conversations as I like without you being able to seduce your way out of it."

        His furrowed brow raised, and he mustered a half-grin.
 

***
 

        The succulent aroma of bacon coaxed me out of a deep sleep. I reached for my watch on the bedside table. Day twenty. I heard Greg's solid footsteps on the staircase. As I looked up, his silver head peeked around the mahogany door frame. "G'morning," he offered as he glided toward me. "Ready?"

         He had decided that making a full English would provide some sort of incentive for me to independently descend my three levels of stairs. I had, admittedly, not been incredibly cordial to the physical therapist who had tried to visit twice already.

        "Fry up's ready. Down ya' come." He stopped next to me, visibly preparing his body to brace my shoulders.

        "I can stand just fine, Greg."

        "I know. Just in case." He gripped my shoulder with a touch of comfort rather than physical support.

        I offered my hand, and he laced his fingers with mine. "Don't help me. Just walk with me?"

        "My pleasure," he granted with a wink.
 

***
 

        Greg had been outstanding. He had waited on me and doted upon me every day. It felt quite nice. Despite my temporary disability, it felt like we were finally living the life we had talked about so often over the years. He had spent the afternoon at work in my bedroom. He'd emphatically insisted that it was a surprise and refused to offer any clues as to what he was planning. In return, he'd made me vow to avoid any deductions, organic or attempted.

        He had finally come to fetch me from the parlour. We sauntered up the stairs together, Greg stopping every few steps to check my face for signs of smarting or struggle. I said, "I'm fine," so many times that it was no longer worth the effort. He was going to worry no matter what I said or did.

        When we finally reached the bedroom door, he placed his hand at the small of my back to guide me through the door as he opened it. The smell of honey hit my senses first. Then, I noticed the large, roaring fire in the hearth across from the bed. There were lit candles along the entire mantle as well as a cluster of three flames on each bedside table. Near the large French windows across the room was a small iron table and two chairs. There was a colorful floral arrangement in the center, and both places were set with red wine, possibly a sauvignon. The smell of caramelized honey was floating around the glazed carrots that rested on plates at each setting. In the center of each rested a colorful ceramic ramekin topped with mash. The sheer red curtains were tied back, revealing the view of my property. It was dusk, allowing the stars and electric lights to dance together in the darkening sky.

        I wrapped my arm around Greg's shoulder. "Thank you."

        He smiled without a word, trying to hide a tear in his left eye.

        "Why tonight?"

        "You'll see," he assured as he pulled me toward the table. "You've made so much progress lately. And now that you've started making calls and doing work again, I just wanted to make sure you slowed down a little here and there."

        "It's beautiful." I had found that over these last several weeks, appreciative, kind, even caring comments such as that frequently happened with very little thought.

        Greg talked about some dealings he'd had at Scotland Yard that morning as we enjoyed the Cottage Pie he'd made. I did hear what he said but perhaps wasn't listening as intently as I should. I was busy examining the way in which the firelight danced in his corneas. Then, suddenly, I heard a gunshot.

        No.  It was an explosive. As I looked up from my meal, Greg smiled at me, turning his gaze slowly toward the window. Fireworks.

        "It's bonfire night," he explained.

        I had been taking and making calls with the Prime Minister and the Secret Service, but I hadn't yet really looked at my diary. I hadn't even realised it was November. Greg had gone through all this trouble simply so we would be eating together by the windows as fireworks began sprinkling the skies of the city.

        "Come on." He stood up, grabbed my arm, and led me out onto the balcony.

        Not since I was a child had I watched fireworks. From my home, we could see five different displays. Greg wrapped his arm around my hip. I wasn't sure I'd ever seen him quite so happy. The ever-changing colors of the fireworks created hues on his content face. We stood there together as the fireworks lulled into individual shells shot once every few minutes. "There's one more surprise." Greg turned and walked back inside. 

        He motioned for me to sit on the bed. I made my way to the edge and gently lowered myself onto the bedclothes. Greg handed me a sealed envelope. The envelope was heavy linen - from Scotland Yard. It was from a new box. "You're not easy to surprise, ya' know," he commented, watching me make deductions about the envelope he'd handed to me. I slowly opened it and carefully unfolded the page that he'd enclosed. The seal on the page identified a court document. It was the official ruling on his divorce. Greg couldn't wait for me to digest the information or speak. "It's finally over."

        I caught myself in a moment of sentiment. "Are you alright?" I didn't take my eyes from the page.

        "What? Of course. I'm more than alright." He sat down next to me, placing one hand on the mattress behind me. With his chest pressing on my arm, he offered, "I'm finally yours - if you'll have me."

        I was easily capable of displaying brilliance in profound moments and critical conversations. In moments such as this, though, it took me longer to determine precisely what I should say than was often comfortable.

        Greg sensed my uneasiness. "It's okay. You know you don't have to say anything."  In the five weeks that we'd been living together, we had reached an understanding that he was completely comfortable with me showing something when I might not be able to say it.

        I moved my arm and jostled his hand from behind me. He lost his balance, and his upper body fell onto the bed. I leaned over him, my lips anxiously finding their way to his neck. I kissed and nibbled until I felt a tingling warmth running through my arms and lower body. Before I could move to his lips, he pushed me back, sitting upright. "Leaning's not the best thing." He gently wrapped his arms around my waist and guided my body down onto the bed next to him. His knees straddled my hips as he took his shirt off, smiling at me the entire time. My hands quickly found their way to his backside. I dug into him as he leaned down and slowly unfastened my oxford, button by button, using his teeth. He slid it off my shoulders as he very gently flicked my nipples with his tongue. My groin began to ache. He moved to the center of my chest, kissing his way down to the navel. He unzipped my trousers and lowered them until my pelvis was bare.

        "Greg...." I wanted so desperately to tell him how he made me feel. He deserved to know what everything he'd done for me meant. Frustratingly, I was frozen. I was utterly unable to say what I felt.

        "It's okay," he said again. He redirected his kisses to the scar over my pelvic bone - titanium pelvis, rather. "You never have to say it. This says it for you." He kissed the scar as I ran my fingers through his hair. 

        Being so close to him after so long brought a sense of euphoria to wash over me. My eyes drifted shut as he moved from my pelvis to my groin. With his mouth parted just slightly, he released warm air up the underside of my shaft, licking the leaking slit where he stopped.  I may not have looked at my diary, but I knew for certain it had been one year, two months, and eighteen days.

        Still straddling my legs, he raised himself to his feet and discarded his trousers onto the floor. He was a beautiful man. Every part of him was breathtaking. I reached up and pulled his hips toward me. Greg's hands fisted in my hair as he balanced himself on the mattress and shuttered with pleasure as I took him in my mouth. I had all of him but simultaneously felt I couldn't get enough. After more than a year and now having limited physical movement, I was uneasy. I was nervous, but I wanted him. He felt good. He tasted good.

        He pulled himself away, lowering back to his knees. I watched his cock drip with anticipation as he sat gently on my chest. I wanted more of it. "Let me take care of things," he whispered, taking my face in his hands and kissing me so hard my head hit the backboard of the bed.  

        He'd said he was mine if I'd have him. All I could do now was hope he wanted me as feverishly as I wanted him.