The Assistant Headmaster (Mystrade Fanfic)

Thirty Three

A/N: OK, I updated it a day late and I'm sorry about that! I'm not as young as I used to be and I - by no means - can stay up as late as I used to, therefore I can't write as much in an evening. I'm thinking its question time: Shoot, shag, marry: Greg, Mike, Anderson. Who do you assign to where? And also, who are you siding with right now: the lovely couple, our children Mystrade, or Mike, the heartbroken teenage boy who thought he'd found love? Eager to hear your thoughts. Love you all!

-CHxxx

Greg

"Jesus," I said as I opened my eyes slowly. My head was pounding and my sight was blurred. There was a distinct silhouette above me, and I frowned hard, trying to distinguish who it was that leaned over me.

"Mr. Lestrade?"

I groggily lifted a hand to my face and wiped at my face. "My head is, like, really, really sore right now."

Mycroft - or rather, Mr. Holmes, as the headmaster was standing beside him - bent down beside me and looked at me with evident concern. "Are you alright? Can you get up?"

"Maybe," I said, my voice still slightly slurred. "I mean, I can try."

I tried to get up but fell back again. "Alright, no, you're going to need to lie down, Mr. Lestrade. You'll not be going to class for the rest of the day, I think."

"Mr. Holmes, will you take him back to his room, please? I have business to attend to before my annual visit to Nepal this Friday, including having to deal with Michael Stamford."

"Of course."

"He might need to be cleaned up too."

"I'll see that it's done."

I watched as Mycroft looked up, muttering under his breath about the pretentious twat that was the headmaster. It was just the two of us, what with it being the middle of class time.

"You look a right mess, Greg," Mycroft said as he gently helped me up. "I'd kill him myself if I could. I'd probably get away with it, too."

"If I was in his position, I would've done the same. It's fine."

"You'll need to explain that one to me. I can't understand why anyone in their right mind would punch their best friend. Though needless to say I've never had one." He slipped his shoulders under my arm and wrapped an arm around my waist. "I think this is about as close as could possibly be allowed."

"What happened to Mike?" I asked, frowning as my eyesight blacked out in spaces.

"He's been sent home for the rest of the week. If he tells anyone what he saw, he'll be kicked out of the school altogether."

"Can't have that anyway. He's my best player. And shit, he punches hard."

"Gregory..." Mycroft said warningly at my profanity.

"Sorry," I sighed. "True though. I can't feel my face."

Mycroft huffed a laugh and continued taking me to my room. Once we got inside, he locked the door and gently guided me to the bed. "Stay here. I've got to get you cleaned up. Your nose is still pouring blood out like a tap. I'm afraid my shirt's stained too."

I grimaced as I looked at Mycroft's shirt which was, indeed, stained. "Sorry."

"Not to worry. It only cost a few hundred quid. I'll just get a new one after work." To my surprise, he wasn't even remotely joking. I rolled my eyes as he wandered off into the bathroom.

I heard him rummaging around in the bathroom and wiped at my nose again, cringing at the blood on my hand. "Blimey."

Mycroft came back through, now shirtless, with some wet loo paper in his hand and an old rag that I didn't know we had hidden in the bathroom cabinet. I raised an eyebrow at him inquiringly.