Mycroft had suffered from migraines since he was in college. Most of the time, he did the very stupid thing of trying to power through it and continue working. But words on pages would start blurring, the lights over head would become increasingly too bright, and waves of nausea would bash into him unrelenting.
Eventually, after suffering through this for a couple of hours, Mycroft would turn all the lights off in his office and told his assistant, Anthea, he was not to be disturbed.
But, his mutinous assistant, thought it necessary to call his husband. And, a few moments later, there was a knock at the door.
"Come on, My, let's get your coat on. This can all wait until tomorrow. Have you taken anything?"
Mycroft was whisked into his coat, he hadn't even remembered discarding it really. His bag was gathered and slung over the strong shoulder of his husband. Umbrella tight in grip, ready to go.
"Yeah, My, come on. Let's get you home and get you settled in."
The car ride seemed to take forever. The tinted windows helped to keep some of the light out, but not enough. His head felt like exploding. He turned his face into that strong shoulder, eyes tightly closed. Greg whispered comforting words in his ear, rubbing his back.
Inside the house, finally, coat and shoes discarded without a care by the door and kitchen table. Greg helped him into soft, clean pajamas and grabbed Mycroft some water to take some medicine.
"I know you hate taking it," whispered Greg, "but you need it and you know I don't like seeing you in pain, love."
But Mycroft took it without so much as a complaint, desperate for relief. Greg briefly leaves the room, coming back with a warm rice pack for his head.
God bless this man.
"I don't deserve you."
"Shush with that talk. Let me take care of you. You'll feel better in no time."
Sleep finally comes.
When Mycroft wakes up next, the sun is shining in through the curtains, Greg is snoring softly beside him in only pajama pants.
Mycroft grabs his phone and checks the time. 8:23 am! He was supposed to be at work an hour ago!
Message from Anthea: "I've cleared your schedule. Don't come in. I can handle today." And God bless that woman.
Message from Sherlock: "Does John need to come check on you?" His brother must have heard what happened, certainly from Gregory. He smiled knowingly. His relationship with Sherlock had much improved and this was proof. He types a message back.
"Unnecessary, brother mine. I am much improved now."
Another message from Sherlock soon followed.
"Let him take care of you."
"I just might. For today."
Mycroft returns his phone to its previous resting place and rolls over and wraps an arm over Greg. Sleeping again. Even the British Government needs to be fussed over once in a while.