A/N – This is (finally) the sequel for 'Could You Imagine', and starts off with Sherlock doing something stupid and poor Mycroft having a breakdown. Obviously NC-17, but not this chapter.

It was either very late at night or very early morning and Sherlock was far away with John probably consummating their relationship. Mycroft and Lestrade, on the other hand, were sitting in the further corner of the dirtiest bar and far too exhausted to be awkward even though the last time they saw each other circumstances had been unusual.

Mycroft was hunched over and his hair wasn't its usual chic sleek. It more looked like he had just woken up from hibernating with restless bears for a few years. Lestrade had his head leaned against the white-painted brick wall and a generic beer in his hand, courtesy of Mycroft.

Because Mycroft was very thankful that the man sitting across from him had managed to reach his brother in time, he really truly was. He'd back off on security and surveillance with Sherlock since the… incident, and that's what had him tied in a knot tonight.

"You can't blame yourself," Lestrade said, voice cracking because he hadn't used it in the past hour and because he was so tired. Mycroft surveyed him through his eyelashes with bloodshot eyes and blinked a few times.

"I don't see why I shouldn't." Mycroft replied, pressing his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. "I got slack with security because of the… thing." Mycroft waved his hands airily in the air and even this movement seemed to tire him.

"Yes, because it's your fault that he can't knock, and that he has addictive tendencies and that he can't hold a solid relationship with the only person who will put up with him. That's all your fault is it?"

Lestrade was going to continue, but the weakness in Mycroft's face stopped him. "When was the last time you ate?" He said seriously, trying to hold Mycroft gaze. Mycroft eyes dropped and Lestrade had to catch him by the shoulders to stop him from dropping face first onto the table. Manoeuvring awkwardly around the table while still holding Mycroft's face, and eventually got his arms around his tiny waist and was able to shuffle him out of the bar and into the limousine..

"The closest McDonalds, please."

"Noo!" Mycroft mumbled. "I'm on a diet!"

"This is me not caring," Lestrade said as he observed Mycroft swaying with the car. Surprisingly, the driver obeyed his commands over Mycroft's complaints, and not ten minutes later Lestrade was scoffing a Big Mac and a large chocolate shakes and Mycroft was thankfully pigging out on two Quarter Pounders and a large Sprite while muttering about how much he wasn't enjoying it.

The drive to Mycroft's house (mansion) was a long one, and the man himself had begun to fall asleep, however while crunching up the drive, Mycroft gasped and sat straight upright, before curling to the side against the door and muttering something.

When the car parked and Lestrade pulled Mycroft out, arms wrapped around his waist and Mycroft whispered in his ear, "It's all my fault. Entirely" before finding solid footing and stumbling up the driveway. Lestrade helped him to his room (why it was up two flights of stairs he will never understand) and Mycroft sat down on his bed, a little more alert now.

"I should get changed." He said in a tired but very Mycroft-y voice. Lestrade made a move to leave, but Mycroft waved that thought away. "Oh it's nothing you haven't seen before. I'll need your help anyway."

And that was how Lestrade ended up helping Mycroft into pyjamas (blue pinstriped) and due to Mycroft's physical insistence (he briefly got his strength back, but Lestrade refused to recognise this as unusual) also ended up spending the night with his arms wrapped around Mycroft's weak, shivering body.