Healing

[foreverumbrella]

Despite Madame Pomfrey's insistence that Mycroft wasn't particularly injured by the violent ordeal with Greg, the hufflepuff had nevertheless managed to convince the nurse that he had a concussion. Placebo effect? Quite possibly, but it worked and Mycroft is now lying in bed, reading a book on the development of mandrakes, lounging under the

Comments

[braveryofheart]

The news of the incident spread like swine flu-- why wouldn't it? A prefect slugging another prefect repeatedly in the face? It's practically the holy grail of school gossip. Greg was surprised to be greeted by a plethora of students clapping him on the shoulder for having 'shown that pampered twat what's what' on his way back from Dumbledore's office after his reprimand, but despite the disturbingly congratulatory reception of his violent outburst, he still felt like shit. He still felt in the wrong. He ought to feel gratified, no? Happy, even, that Mycroft supposedly had it coming; he felt anything but. The brief lapse in judgement hadn't been as cathartic as one might think it, and it did nothing to soothe the dull ache in his chest that throbbed painfully at every thought of Ramona. In fact, the incident only won Greg bruised knuckles and a suspension from Prefectory benefits and duties. Perhaps the responsibility was something he needed a break from

[foreverumbrella]

Mycroft has noticed that someone is in the room with him; he's not stupid. In fact, had he not been so en-wrapped in a theory on the evolution of a mandrake's roots, he probably would have known who was there. Such a light step was far easier for athletes than the average layman and, given that the intruder hadn't seemed keen to announce themselves, it wasn't too much of a leap to assume that Greg was standing awkwardly by his bed, not that Mycroft makes leaps like that, though, of course

[braveryofheart]

In most circumstances, Greg might've found Mycroft's panicked flailing priceless (... okay, it's still quietly amusing but he'll school his expression) though something tells him that laughing at the boy isn't going to set things right. Mycroft's watching him with the sort of caution an acme bomb affords a lit match, as if Lestrade has come for the sole purpose of luring him into a false sense of security with flowers, only to proceed in latching onto his face, pump eggs down his throat, and have offspring burst bloodily from his chest cavity. Which isn't the case, thanks much

[foreverumbrella]

Mycroft looks at the flowers for a second, then at Greg, the expression on the Holmes boy's face clearly depicting the thought which is prominent in his mind: What the fuck? Flowers? Why flowers? Only Anthea had given him flowers. Granted, Mycroft doesn't have hundreds of friends, particularly ones that would care enough to give him things, but he doesn't even count Greg as an amiable acquaintance, let alone someone to present gifts, particularly flowers.

He stares quizzically at Lestrade for a second before sneering slightly.

"Why did you get me these?" he asks. If Greg's going to apologise, Mycroft's not particularly interested. He's done plenty of research on sociopaths, their tumultuous, capricious moods, and their complete lack of guilt, to know that the gryffindor's apology is entirely worthless. Greg might as well cartwheel in circles. It would do the same amount of good.