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Greg and Mycroft had been dating for almost three months now, and had somehow managed to keep their hands off of each other.

Well, that 'somehow' was aided by the fact that Mycroft had been away in Brussels for the past two months, completely dissolving a situation that could have meant the end of the world. That 'somehow' was also aided by the fact that Mycroft was always suspiciously sleepy any time Greg let his hands wander while they were in bed. It was always "Gregory, don't… I'm awfully tired and I have to be up at four for a meeting with the Germans…" or "Not tonight, dear, please. I believe there is suitable content on the television and laptop to ease your wanting for one night."

Greg had seen Mycroft naked, though. The man had insisted on changing behind a Victorian dressing screen the first few times he had stayed over, but was slowly coming out of his shell. Mycroft had a nice bum, by Greg's standards. Round, with a pink tinge to it, and absolutely covered in freckles. Greg loved it.

Mycroft, too, had seen Greg naked. He liked to prance about the house in just his underwear most days, anyways. Though, the first time was an accident. He had just returned from a long day at work, and after four hours in a meeting listening to the damn Americans talking about how great they were, how great their trading was, and all about a giant wall that Mexico was going to pay for (Mycroft didn't understand how), Mycroft's brain was completely fried. He had been meaning to go into the bathroom to splash his face with cool water, freshen up, but was met by the sight of his boyfriend- no, he hated that word- partner wanking in the shower, one hand pressed to the tiles, slightly hunched over as the water sprayed down his back.

"Oh, goodness, Gregory!" Mycroft had cried, slapping his hand over his eyes to hide the image from his view. The damage was already done, however, and the image of his lover masturbating while egging himself on was placed away in a far away room of his mind palace. Damn it.

Greg had came running out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist, and apologised profusely before going; "Yeah, but did you secretly like it though?". Mycroft had been too mortified to answer.

After five months of dating, Greg had started to wonder if Mycroft had a Problem that he was too embarrassed to admit. Early fifties, stressful job, lots of caffeine and red wine… Greg wasn't a doctor, but he wondered if Mycroft had a problem downstairs. Maybe he couldn't get it up? Maybe it got up, but didn't stay up for long? Oh, god, what if he had an STD? No, that was stupid. Mycroft was too clean of a man to get an STD. He asked Greg if he had washed his hands after every wank. He refused to hold hands without disinfecting them with a little bottle of hand sanitiser that he carried in his waistcoat pocket wherever he went. Mycroft Holmes was certainly STD free.

Which led Greg to the next dilemma. Was Mycroft a virgin? Was he secretly scared to have sex cause he'd never done it before? He was a good kisser, sure, and fucking brilliant at cuddles. He was so soft and round and plush, Greg just melted into him after a long day at work. He never thought Mycroft would be so good at cuddles. Besides the point… Maybe Mycroft was a virgin. Sherlock seemed like one. Maybe they had parents that warned them that they'd go blind if they ever attempted something like that, and the fear had stuck, even that both brothers probably knew it was completely illogical.

Which was why Greg had had some of Mycroft's fancy whisky before getting into bed that night. Dutch courage and all. Mycroft was sitting up against the headboard, dressed in a pair of emerald green, monogrammed, silk pyjamas. His bedside lamp was on, there were half-moon spectacles perched on his nose, and he was reading through a hard-back cover of The Poverty of Philosophy. In French. Typical Mycroft.

Greg had stripped down to an old, slightly ratty and off colour pair of boxers, and a shirt that had fit him five years ago but was now straining around the middle. Greg blamed it on middle age. He climbed into bed beside Mycroft, cuddling into his shoulder, trying to read the pages that Mycroft had open. "Bonjour, Mycroft. Ca va?"

"Ca va bien, merci. Mais je ne sais pas pourquoi tu as dit "bonjour". Nous sommes ensemble depuis…" Mycroft glanced over at the clock on the bedside table, while simultaneously speaking French like it was his mother tongue. "Cinq heures et vingt minutes. Ou essayiez-vous simplement de m'impressionner avec votre connaissance du GCSE en Français?"

"Uhhh…" Greg swallowed heavily. French definitely wasn't his division, despite his last name. "Oui."

"J'ai pensé ainsi." Mycroft chuckled. His voice and laugh changed a little when he spoke other languages. "Chéri, tu n'as pas besoin d'essayer de m'impressionner. Vous m'impressionnez déjà chaque jour en étant simplement vous-même." Mycroft leaned over and kissed Greg's lips lightly, smiling against them. Greg smiled back, he had said something right in French, then. He could be such a Casanova sometimes, honestly.

"Right, that's as far as my French knowledge goes." Greg said, in English. "Sooo… Want a cuddle?"

"Of course I want held, my darling." Mycroft took off his spectacles and placed them on the bedside table, followed by the thick book. It was so aged that Greg wondered if it was an original copy. Knowing Mycroft, it probably was.

Mycroft shuffled down the bed and rolled onto his side, letting Greg slot in behind him, his forehead pressed between his warm shoulderblades. "Have I ever told you how fit you are, Myc?" Greg asked after a moment of silence.

"I could lose a few pounds, dear. I'm far from fit. As my brother seems to take joy in reminding me." Mycroft tutted, hand resting over Greg's on his middle. Greg's hand slipped under his pyjama shirt, gently rubbing at a tiny roll of pudge over Mycroft's stomach.

"Nah, I don't mean fit like that. I mean fit, like… Meaning attractive, fit." Greg kissed Mycroft's shoulder, then nuzzled into the crook of his neck. Mycroft shuddered away from the touch. He was ticklish, especially around his neck area. "Cause Mycroft Holmes, you are the fittest man in the world to me."

"Ah…" Mycroft smiled slightly, tilting his head down. He was blushing. "Thank you, Gregory… I believe you are quite 'fit' too."

"Glad we're on common grounds, then." Greg's hand slipped further up Mycroft's shirt, caressing around one of his pectorals before pinching a nipple. Mycroft gasped, his whole body shuddering this time.

"Gregory…"

"Yeah? You like that, angel?" Greg lightly bit down on Mycroft's neck, not strong enough to leave a mark. That had been one of the first conditions of their relationship; Mycroft couldn't have any visible lovebites, not with how high up in the government he was. "Want me to keep going?"

"Yes, please, Gregory… I don't have any meetings until… Until eleven o'clock tomorrow… I could have a lie in, post coitus…" Mycroft whispered breathily, but Greg shushed him and placed his finger to Mycroft's lips.

"Ah, ah. No work talk in the bedroom, love. We agreed. No Sherlock and no work." Greg sat up, straddling Mycroft and unbuttoning his pyjama shirt. "Been waiting so long for this, babe… Bet it's gonna be worth the wait, though."

Mycroft chuckled, but his eyes darted around the room for a moment. Greg frowned, stroking his thumb over Mycroft's cheekbone. "You alright?"

"Yes, I… I was just. Thinking." Mycroft swallowed heavily. "About… About things. About things. Interesting things. Are we going to have sexual intercourse?" His voice raised in pitch as he asked the question.

"Yeah, that was the plan. You sound so much like-"

"Don't you dare say my brother's name while we warm up for intercourse." Mycroft growled. "I do not wish to think about him while I am… Making love, so to speak."

Greg sighed. "Can I ask you something, Myc? And answer it truthfully, please. I need to know."

"Am I a virgin?"

"Yeah. How did you-"

"I am not a virgin. Now, please, get on with it before I start thinking about tomorrow's schedule." Mycroft shifted under Greg, an eyebrow raised up at him. "Austrians at eleven, lunch meeting with Lord Biggleswade, oh wonderful, I have the Americans at two o'clock. I am completely looking forward to that." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

Greg sighed heavily. "Right, don't get your knickers in a twist. Want me to top, or…? Cause I can do either, whatever's most comfy for you." He shrugged. "And stop talking about your meetings. No work talk in the bedroom, we've just been over this."

"For one, I do not wear knickers. I wear midway briefs. You know this, Gregory. My underwear was displaced in the drawer the other day." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "What were you hoping to find? And I would quite like you to… Top, as they say. Missionary, please."

"No eye contact? Lay back and think of England kinda sex?" Greg teased. "Socks on?"

"Gregory." Mycroft huffed. "Just fuck me, please."

"Jesus christ…" Greg muttered, like the air had been knocked out of his lungs. Mycroft swearing was hot. Really fucking hot. Filthy words shouldn't come out of those lips. "Right, you bottomed before?"

"Of course. You are walking me through this like I am a novice." Mycroft scoffed. Normally, he was a good liar. "Which I certainly am not. Lubricant, condoms, plenty of preparation. I am clean. Yourself?"

"Of course I am. Wouldn't be shagging you if I wasn't." Mycroft wrinkled his nose at the word 'shagging'. He hated the word. It was an ugly word, in Mycroft's mind. "God, I'm bloody excited for this. Been wanting to get into you for fuckin' ages." Greg planted a soft kiss on Mycroft's Adam's apple, then slowly kissed down the length of Mycroft's chest, chuckling at the way he whimpered. "That's a new noise, huh?"

"I don't know what you are talking about." Mycroft whimpered again as Greg slowly pulled down his pyjama bottoms. It had been a while since his last sexual partner, and he didn't exactly partake in masturbation outside that. He was sensitive to the touch. "Oh, Gregory… Gregory…" Mycroft's eyes slipped shut as his erection sprung up out of his pyjama bottoms. It was lovely and thick, red at the top.

"Fuck, that's beautiful, love… Bloody hell…" Greg kissed just the tip, then slipped it into his mouth. It felt even thicker against his tongue. Slowly, he took Mycroft deeper and deeper into his mouth, till Mycroft pressed against the back of his throat. He held back a gag, but Mycroft felt it.

"Dearest, you do not have to take me that far if you don't want to." Mycroft murmured, caressing Greg's cheek. Greg looked up at him with teary eyes, moaning as Mycroft bucked into his mouth. "Sorry. Sorry. I cannot help- it has simply been a while."

"S'alriiiiaighh…" Greg slurred around him, wiping some spit from his chin before starting to properly suck him off, his head bobbing. Mycroft's leg twitched as he whined more, the back of his arm coming up to cover his eyes. "Oh goodness, oh goodness, oh goodness- Balfour, Campbell, Asquith- oh!- David Lloyd George, goodness gracious!"

"Huh?" Greg pulled off, a frown on his face. "Meant to be callin' my name, luv. Who the fuck's David?"

"I- I was simply distracting myself from premature ejaculation by listing British prime ministers in order, starting in 1902… David Lloyd George…" Mycroft was panting, his chest flushed, his left leg still occasionally twitching. "Lloyd George was… A liberal prime minister… In charge for just under six years… Bonar Law is next, Glasgow MP…"

"Riiiiight. Okay. Don't worry about coming early, babe. It's a complement." Greg winked, but internally cringed at the same time. God, he sounded like some corny early 00s porn. He dipped his head back down, and Mycroft's legs wrapped around his neck, twitching and squeezing every so often. Goodness, Gregory's mouth was talented.

Greg soon had Mycroft teetering on the edge again. Whining, gripping the sheets, his chest rising and falling rapidly, panting out prime ministers ("Chamberlain, Churchill, Atwell, oh, Churchill again!"), when suddenly, Mycroft's whole body started shivering and shaking. Greg took Mycroft entirely into his mouth, waiting for him to finish, but it never came. He frowned, looking up. Mycroft's head was thrown back on the pillow, his eyes rolled back in his head, his entire body still shaking. Had he came? Did he just not have a lot of… Volume to him? Greg pulled off with a pop, but Mycroft kept shaking.

"Love?" He frowned. Mycroft didn't respond. He gurgled, deep in his throat, and Greg realised that something was wrong. Terribly wrong. "Myc, can you hear me? I swear to fuck, if my head's given you a heart attack, you'll never hear the end of it." Greg pressed his fingers to Mycroft's neck. Quick pulse, but not irregular or too fast. Mycroft's entire body suddenly went tense, every single muscle contracting, before his body flopped back on the bed and started shaking violently, his arms hitting off the headboard and his legs kicking out. Fuck. Seizure. Ambulance.

Greg phoned the ambulance service, putting the phone on the bedside table, on speakerphone as he chucked pillows and the duvet onto the floor. He didn't want Mycroft suffocating or anything. He hated how many decorative pillows the man insisted on keeping on the bed. When the operator picked up, Greg realised just how much he was panicking.

"Hey- uh- fuck- right, uh- shit. Mycroft??? Mycroft, love?!"

"Sir? Sir, can you tell me what's going on? Is the patient breathing?" The lady on the phone said.

"Yeah, he's breathing, but he's having a seizure. I-I've never seen him have one before, we're in bed, what do I do?!" Greg begged. Mycroft was still violently flailing, spit trailing down his chin and cheek.

"Alright, sir. What I need you to do is move anything he can hurt himself on. You said you're on a bed?"

"Yeah, yeah. I've taken everything off the bed, duvet and stuff. I-I don't want him suffocating, shitttttt…" Greg bit his lip as Mycroft gurgled again. "He keeps making these noises, I don't think he can breathe! He's gone blue round the lips. Please send an ambulance, please."

"Don't worry, sir. We've got an ambulance coming on blue lights and sirens." The lady cooed. Her voice was far too calm for Greg's liking. "Can you take a pillow and place it under the person's head?"

"Yeah. Right. Yeah." Greg grabbed the first pillow he could find, placing it under Mycroft's head. Mycroft's eyes had rolled back in his skull, only the whites visible. His lips were parted, but blue. Greg could see bile pooling in the back of his mouth. "I think he's being sick, but it isn't coming out. What do I do?"

"Lie him on his side. He'll find it easier to breathe on his side, too. How long has the seizure been going on for now? Could you estimate?"

Greg rolled Mycroft onto his side, grimacing as bile spilled out of his mouth and onto the pillow. "Uhhh… Probably about four minutes. Yeah, four minutes, five minutes."

"Alright, sir. Ambulance is nearly here, keep on the line." The woman soothed.

After another two minutes, Mycroft stopped shaking, but the ambulance still hadn't arrived. He didn't know why Mycroft insisted on living in the countryside when they both worked in the city. "Myc? Myc, love, can you hear me?"

"Mmnnnm…" The man groaned, pressing his face into the pillow. Right into the puddle of bile. "Greg'ry…"

"You still there? He's stopped shaking, but he's all… Weird." Greg pulled Mycroft away from the dirty pillow, placing a clean one under his head. He felt his knees go suddenly wet and warm, making him look down. "Oh. And he's peeing himself. Right over me."

"It's all perfectly normal, don't worry. Reassure him. Tell him what happened before the seizure, where he is right now, what happened."

"Uh… I can't."

"You can't?" Greg could hear the woman frowning from the way she spoke. "Why not?"

"Cause we were… Doing stuff."

"Ahhh. Right. I'll just… Not listen for a moment. Ambulance is two minutes out."

"Myc, can you hear me?" Greg gave Mycroft's shoulder a gentle shake. "Baby? We were… do you remember what happened?"

"Sex… I h've seizure… sex…" Mycroft mumbled into the clean pillow, his voice all muffled. "Call off… Ambo…"

"Myc, I can't call them off. You've just had a grand mal seizure, from the looks of things." Greg gave Mycroft's shoulder a gentle rub. The man didn't seem to notice that he had just wet the bed.

"S'called… T'nic… Cl'nic…" Mycroft's eyes slowly opened as Greg placed a dressing gown over him to save some of his dignity. "Not… Grand mal…"

"Alright, love. You keep lecturing me, even when you're about half dead. Seems about right." Greg pressed a kiss to the top of Mycroft's sweat drenched head. "You hurting?"

"Badly… But… S'normal… After…" Mycroft moaned at the sound of the ambulance sirens getting closer and closer. Greg ran downstairs, letting the crew in before running back upstairs. "Love? Paramedics are here, they're gonna take you into hospital."

"No!" Mycroft suddenly protested, shivering under the gown draped over him like a blanket. "M'fine. It jus' happens… Sometimes…"

"And you didn't think to tell me?" Greg growled, but tried to keep his anger under control. Mycroft was sick, this was no time for being angry at him. "When you're better, we are going to sit down and have words."

"What words…?" Mycroft limply offered his arm to a paramedic so they could check his blood pressure. "I like the word… Doppleganger."

"Definitely take him to hospital. He's trying to be funny. Mycroft doesn't normally try to be funny." Greg tried to laugh it off, but he was still internally panicking and raging.

"Doppleganger… Meldrop… I have a… Meldrop… Right now." Mycroft sniffed loudly. "Tissue, please…"

Greg grabbed the box of tissues by the bed, carefully wiping Mycroft's nose. "Hospital?" he queried the paramedics.

"Was the seizure longer than five minutes? Has he ever had any before?"

"Seven or so minutes, and no."

"Actually…" Mycroft rolled onto his back, but soon nausea overtook him and he rolled back onto his side. "Eight and a half… Started experiencing seizures as a teenager… Brought on by excitement…" Mycroft mumbled. "It is certainly not the worst I have had… I am fine…"

"Jesus, Myc. Definitely having words." Greg crossed the room, hopping into a pair of jeans and trainers. He packed a bag for Mycroft, jammies and toothbrush in case he was in overnight, then helped the ambulance crew lift him onto a stretcher. It was at that point that Mycroft realised that he had wet himself.

"Oh, Gregory, I am so sorry-"

"Nah, it's fine. Don't worry. Don't think you could control it, to be honest."

"I am fifty two, I shouldn't be… Pissing everywhere…" Mycroft groaned in embarrassment, shivering despite a blanket being tucked over him. "My blood sugar is low… Do you have glycogen gel in the ambulance? Silly question, Mycroft, silly… Of course they do…"

"We'll look after you, Mr Holmes, don't you worry about diagnosing yourself." One of the paramedics quietly laughed before the pair carried him downstairs and out to the ambulance. On the trip in, while Mycroft pulled faces at the taste of the glycogen and refused an IV line, Greg texted Sherlock.

Soooo. When were you going to tell me? GL

I've been clean for three years. What are you talking about? SH

Your brother. GL

Oh, him. If you ignore him, he normally goes away. SH

No, Sherlock. He's epileptic. GL

Many happy returns. No, I will not be your best man. SH

Stop being cryptic, Sherlock. GL

He only has seizures when he's excited. You proposed, probably over dinner, and he dropped to the floor and had a fit. Did he pee himself? SH

I didn't propose. And I don't see why that's relevant. GL

He only pisses himself if it's a really bad one. What did you do to my poor old brother? SH

Sarcasm really doesn't work over texts. SH

I'm not telling you what I did. GL

[Long pause]

You disgust me. Bart's? SH

St Mary's. GL

John figured it out. I hate you both. All three of you, actually. Stop having sex. SH

Stop talking about me having sex. GL

Only if you stop having sex with my brother. SH

Sorry, can't stop that. GL

And cause a seizure every single time? You're cruel to him, Lestrade. SH

We'll get him on medication. GL

He's 'on' medication. He just doesn't take it. He says it slows his thinking down. I tried it once and I have to agree. SH

Stop stealing your brother's meditation. GL

Stop having sex with my brother. SH

Nope. GL

Has he gone into hypo yet? If not, give him five jelly babies. He'll have another seizure if you don't. SH

Got some sugar gel thing in the ambo. Is he diabetic? GL

He hates them. Start carrying a bag of jelly babies in your pocket at all times, I do. SH

And no, but his blood sugar always drops straight down after a seizure. I would keep an eye on him for limb numbness, dizziness, and extra seizures over the coming years though. SH

See, you do care about him. GL

Do not. He's just so fat that he's making himself immune to insulin. SH

Course. Are you coming to visit him? He looks very unhappy. GL

He always is, after a seizure. He'll be discharged by morning. SH

Visit your brother, Sherlock. GL

Will do. Shall I bring balloons too? A card? Cuddly toy? SH

Again, sarcasm is not working over texts. SH

Get your arse here, you git. Your brother needs you, even though you pair wouldn't like to admit it. GL