He sat on the table staring at the wall in front of him.
It had been a couple of months now since Sherlock had 'come back from the dead' and things were not looking good at all for Mycroft. You see, when his brother faked his suicide, Mycroft was quite aware that he wasn't actually dead, a fact which did not stop him from worrying sick about him, quite literally. He was used to having Sherlock under constant surveillance -God knew what that boy was capable of getting himself into- and having to get accustomed to not hearing from him in months was quite the stress inducer for Mycroft. His eating habits bordered in the anorexic; he had lost so much weight people actually started to worry about his health, especially Greg. He would constantly nag him on how thin he was and trying to get him to eat something, anything at all.
Well, after Sherlock came back, Greg got his wish granted; Mycroft was finally able to relax and enjoy his meals like he used to, probably even more. Evidently even more. A few months after Sherlock's return Mycroft had already gained back all the weight he had lost and maybe some. He had always enjoyed food a little too much –Sherlock didn't miss a chance to remind him that-, but this time it was simply ridiculous; he would eat constantly, from celeriac and parsnip soup with crisped shallots and parsley to cheeseburgers and chocolate chips pancakes. All food was good enough for him, everywhere and at every hour. He just couldn't control his appetite; as hard as he tried he would always succumb to another slice of cake or one more piece of French toast.

He looked down at his –Christ, huge- empty plate of lasagna rolls and tried not to think of dessert. He knew there was crème brulee and chocolate fudge brownies in the kitchen but he had promised himself he wouldn't tonight. He absently rubbed his stomach and was surprised at how flabby it had gotten in so little time. He was well aware that he was still hungry, but he gathered all his strength and denied himself more food.
At that very same moment Greg walked through the door. He was holding a small box and looked radiant with glee. Mycroft felt his heart sink in his chest.

-I brought tiramisu! I know it's your favorite and it's been ages since I've had some. Shall I bring the plates?

Mycroft was torn. He could either make an excuse and go to bed right then and there or enjoy a piece of creamy, caffeinated goodness with the love of his life.
He smiled

-I'll get them.