I hope you like this! It turned out a little bit more angsty than originally planned, but I'm pretty proud of it.
Mycroft Holmes sat up in the double bed, staring blankly at the wall in front of him and listening to the even breathing of the man next to him. This was the third time in the last week Mycroft had woken because of his thoughts, but the Detective Inspector's body next to him usually seemed to calm him.
Mycroft had awoken to a head full of emotions, memories, feelings; things he pushed to the back of his mind during the day, but which flooded back at night. Unlike his brother-Mycroft's breath hitched as he thought of Sherlock-the elder Holmes had never mastered the art of 'deleting' his unwanted thoughts. Thoughts of his childhood with Sherlock. Thoughts of his mother's and Doctor Watson's equally distraught faces at the sparsely attended funeral. Thoughts (and regret, plenty of that too) of all the snide comments he had shared with his sibling. Mostly, though, Mycroft thought of ways he could have stopped Moriarty. Stopped the spider before he had a chance to melt the 'Ice Man' and kill 'The Virgin'. At this idea Mycroft's hand curled unconsciously into a tight fist.
Because Mycroft Holmes was clever. Is clever. He knows, of course he knows, that Sherlock did not commit suicide. Oh no, the dark haired man had been far too arrogant for that. Mycroft felt his lips curl up in a wry smile, which was wiped from his face almost immediately at his next thought.
Sherlock was killed.
His brother, the one he'd protected even when his protection was far from desired, was dead. Mycroft had failed. As it had nearly every night since Sherlock's 'fall', Mycroft's mind began to run through plans, schemes and possibilites. What if he had increased his observation of Sherlock, would that have saved him? What if Sherlock had not jumped? What if Mycroft had not released Moriarty? What if...Mycroft wiped his eyes quickly, hating the tears there. He didn't deserve the sadness, didn't deserve the right to mourn. He shuddered, disgusted at his show of emotion, but thankful it was dark and the greying man next to him was still sleeping.
At that moment, Greg moaned and shifted in his sleep, opening his eyes blearily. Mycroft rolled his eyes. Of course his partner would wake now.
"My? You ok, love?" Greg sat up as he woke, taking Mycroft's hand in his warm one when he saw the other man's expression. Softly, he asked "What's wrong, Mycroft?" Mycroft just shook his head. Perhaps when he was alone he could permit himself a small show of emotion, but in front of Greg? Never. He refused to worry the man with his insignificant problems. Lestrade, however, was smarter than he was given credit for.
"Is it Sherlock?". A simple question, innocently asked, but hearing the name out loud shocked Mycroft and a few cursed, silent tears fell down his cheeks. Greg's breath hitched as he cupped his partner's cheek, wiping the tears away with a gentle thumb. "My, it's ok. We all miss him. Talk to me, love."
And so the pair spoke. Mycroft Holmes opened up, revealed his secret thoughts to the only man he knew could be trusted with them. And in turn, Greg listened, only responding verbally when it was required of him but making sure he was in contact with his partner at all times. Leaning against him, holding his hand, whatever was needed. He knew the man better than anyone else, knew that this had been hurting him ever since Sherlock's death.
When Mycroft's voice cracks under the strain of talking for two hours, Greg just murmurs, "Shh. It's ok. You're ok, My. You can sleep now, I'll look after you. I love you.". He wraps strong arms around the younger man's shaking form. Mycroft is pulled to lie down again, his head resting on Greg's chest and the thick duvet pulled around them. Dropping kisses onto his partner's temple and the top of his head, Greg pulls the other man as close as possible while muttering quiet, comforting words.
And for the first time since Mycroft's world was turned upside down, he drifts towards sleep knowing he will not be disturbed by dark thoughts or bittersweet memories. He would sleep peacefully, thanks to Greg.