"I'm certain that when he asked you to make sure I was well, this is not what he intended." Mycroft's hooded eyes and pallid skin were a map of where he had been, of the hell he had just traversed. He sat stiffly upright against the cushions piled behind his back. Gold-threaded, decorative, and rough to the touch, they formed a barrier two-deep between the room and the down pillows behind them. He took a deep breath, which would have come across as decisive, were it not for the wince of pain he was unable to hide.

"Two days in hospital is nothing to take lightly," Lestrade chided, standing awkwardly by the bedside, hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. "Especially seeing as the doctors wanted to hold you for three."

"Yes, well, thanks to your loyalty to Sherlock and his sudden swelling of brotherly concern, I'm home now." He met Lestrade's eye for a moment, then turned away, lowering his voice. "And I – thank you. For your assistance. It wasn't necessary to see me back."

"Well, no, it wasn't necessary… not even my division, really," Lestrade kicked at the plush carpet. How much money does this bloke have, anyway? His mind flashed to his own modest flat and a pang of embarrassment rang through his chest. He pulled himself back to his full height. It wasn't as though that mattered right now. What were the chances Mycroft Holmes would ever set foot in his flat anyway?

"So, then. Gregory. Will you be going now?"

"Oh. Oh, well, I guess, yeah, if that's – "

"Or…"

"Or?"

"I would hate to put you out of your way, of course. I just thought that since you were already here, perhaps you might," Mycroft shook his head at himself. What on earth am I doing? "Perhaps you might like to stay. For dinner."

"Yeah. Yeah alright." Greg looked over the man in the bed with a professional eye. He may be the British Government, but at the end of the day – "You're just a man, aren't you?"

"Of course I'm a man, what else would you expect me to be?"

Greg chuckled. "Yeah, I'll stay for dinner." He moved quickly toward the bedroom door, throwing the next words over his shoulder before disappearing into the dim hallway. "Don't you move!"

Twenty-eight tedious minutes later, Greg returned bearing a heavy wooden dining tray, complete with carved legs. As he set it down across Mycroft's lap, he swallowed, instantly wondering if he'd overstepped. Two steaming bowls of chicken soup, half a sliced baguette, and two glasses of white wine. I mean, technically it's chicken, right? He'd thought to himself when he finally found the kitchen and was preparing the official meal of recovery.

Mycroft surveyed the spread, parted his lips slightly, then closed them again and reached for a spoon. There was silence until the bowls were half-empty. Greg's refusal to look up even once had allowed him to be studied at close-range: dilated pupils, tense neck and jaw, almost imperceptible flush to his cheeks. Silver hair, carefully kept. Short, clean, even fingernails. Beginnings of stubble, pattern indicative of shaving daily. Red tint to the corner of the eyes showing weariness not belied in his mannerisms. Steady movements despite obvious emotional discomfort. And he made me chicken soup.

At this final thought, Mycroft's spoon slipped from his hand, splashing noisily into his bowl and causing Greg to jerk his head up in alarm.

"You alright, mate? Here, lemme take that," he grabbed the bowl from Mycroft's hand and replaced it on the tray before any protests could be uttered. "You feeling ok? Should I call a doctor?"

"Gregory, I assure you – " he reached out a hand and clutched at the wrist of the man now dialing a mobile phone. As their eyes locked, Mycroft felt something warm and unfamiliar fill his veins. "I assure you," you continued more calmly, "I am entirely devoid of the need for medical intervention. My hand simply slipped."

Greg looked unconvinced, but indicated his acceptance of the other's words with a slight incline of his head.

"Should I then… I should clear this." He paused, staring down at the long fingers still burning into his wrist. Reluctantly, they released their hold. The DI swallowed loudly, then moved to lift the tray from the bed. The hand fell over his once more.

"I should rather… if you happen to be… available, you're welcome to come back again. Tomorrow."

Greg nodded dumbly, gaze fixed on the sight of pale skin against his more tanned tone. An image flashed through his mind – a much larger expanse of that same light cream, draped across his chest, his arms, his legs… He coughed, certain that one more minute of this and the damn deduction machine sitting before him would know exactly what was barreling unbidden through his mind. Plastering a cheery smile to his face, he hoisted the tray with unnecessary force and made eye contact, solely to prove he had nothing to hide.

"Tomorrow, then. I'll show Mystrade, um myself out. G'night." And with that, Greg nearly ran from the room.

Mycroft smirked. Poor detective inspector, thinking he could hide that. Well, no matter. Despite his hasty exit, he will return. He tossed a few of the coarse cushions to the floor – given the events of the past three days, he was entitled to a bit of a mess – then he settled himself comfortably onto goose down and Egyptian cotton. As sleep overtook him, his smirk melted into a smile, and one final thought eased his mind before he went under: tomorrow.