Disclaimer: Sherlock and co. aren't mine. If they were...well...I'd have a Lestrade shaped lump in my bed. Since I don't they must not be mine.

A/N: Just editing some. Main storyline is the same and I might add some chapters because I do like the storytime in this story. (That sounds weird but ah, well.)

Sunday

The night was dark and silent. And so was the building lit faintly by the headlamps of the cruiser sitting in the drive. The man sat seemingly patiently in the cruiser and stared up at the building without moving long after the headlamps had extinguished themselves.

Finally he shook his head and pulled the keys from the ignition. A wistful, longing expression crossed his features as he sat staring at the darkened building for one more moment. Not a single light shone from the windows. He heaved a heavy sigh. Another night alone, then, he thought to himself. How many did this make? Ten, twelve? He'd lost count again. Not that it mattered.

Feeling far older than his forty eight years he opened the door and stepped out on to the concrete of the drive. He stopped again and frowned over at the darkened house. Why was he even here? He could sleep in his office. It wouldn't be the first time and barring that he could commandeer John and Sherlock's sofa. Wouldn't be the first time he'd done that either. Then his shoulders slumped even further. He was too tired to drive to either place tonight. And he was far too tired to deal with Sherlock's inevitable questions and sneering and such. He just wanted…something he couldn't have anymore. Maybe he'd never had it. Maybe he'd been tricking himself all these years.

Rubbing at prickling eyes and groaning tiredly he slammed the cruiser's door shut and made his way heavily up the stairs to the door. He couldn't think things like that. Not and stay anywhere close to sane anyway. He had to believe that at one time his life and his partner had meant something. Otherwise…well…

Pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a deep breath to control the emotions roiling in his gut he reached out with one hand and unlocked the front door or their house. He didn't bother turning on any lights as he shed his clothes on the way to his bedroom, he didn't need the light. It had been years since they'd moved anything and even when they did get new furniture or redecorated Myc had always made sure to keep the same paths clear. Both of them were equally guilty of coming home so dead tired that blocked paths were a danger.

The bedroom door was open. Not unexpected. They only ever closed it when they had company staying over. And that hadn't happened in…a very long time. However he stopped abruptly on the threshold of the bedroom with a sharply indrawn breath and stared in consternation at the figure lying in his bed.

Feeling lighter and just that little bit happier than he had in weeks, he gave a quiet snort and a wry smile. Silently so as not to wake the other man he shed his trousers and carefully crawled into his side of the bed. The smile still stretching his lips and a peace he only realized now that he'd been missing filling him he reached out and started to wrap his arms around his husband. An irritated huff of air from the other man stopped him before his hands had covered even half the distance between them.

"Not tonight, Gregory, I'm tired." Mycroft Holmes told him clearly without even turning his head to his husband. Gregory Lestrade pulled his arms back towards himself, stung. The lightness, happiness and peace he'd just rediscovered crashing to ashes on the foot of sheets stretched between them. He could see his fingers shaking and it felt as though it took an eternity for his arms to retract to his side of the bed. He'd only wanted to hold the other man while they'd slept but apparently even that was too much for Mycroft. Any form of contact seemed to be too much for Mycroft the past few months.

"Right then," he muttered in a tone not meant for anyone but himself to hear and turned over so that his back was to Mycroft. He couldn't even look at the other man. It hurt. And he hated that it hurt. He should have known. Hadn't Donovan warned him?

Irritated with Donovan, with Mycroft, and mostly with himself, Greg glared at the wall and tried not to listen to Mycroft's slow even breaths. The other man was deeply asleep and didn't seem to have the same troubles Greg was having. Greg pulled the blankets up over his shoulder and huddled beneath them, trying to find some vestige of warmth. Mycroft's warm body was less than two feet away but Greg felt as though ice was forming inside his very bones.

Wounded brown eyes stared at the wall as the hours passed. Occasionally they blinked to clear the dryness but they never slipped into the drowsiness of slumber. Greg knew he was exhausted, knew that he needed to close his eyes and rest but he couldn't seem to fall asleep. The oblivion of slumber was just past the reach of his fingertips and he didn't have the energy to stretch any farther. He didn't have the energy for anything anymore.

Even though he racked his mind for clues he still couldn't figure out how this travesty had occurred. Over the past few months Mycroft had slowly but surely drawn away from him. There didn't seem to be any definable reason. Greg hadn't done anything to anger Mycroft and Mycroft hadn't seemed irritated. He was just…absent. Even when he was at home he seemed to be somewhere else. They had been married for a long time and together even longer and for all of that time there had been a…togetherness that only a select few could understand. Now though instead of the one soul in two bodies that John always teased them about they seemed to be two strangers that occasionally shared house space.

And truthfully even the shared house space had dropped off recently. Tonight was the first time in two weeks that Mycroft had been home. He'd been gone for ten days, home for two and then gone again for two weeks. The pattern had emerged slowly with the absences becoming longer a little at a time and the time between trips shorter and shorter. Mycroft had always traveled for work but now Greg spent more time alone in their house than they did together.

Staring at the wall without seeing it Greg searched his memories for the trigger to this behavior. What had he done wrong? Mycroft didn't simply cut people out of his life. Not anymore anyway. But he was cutting Greg out. Why? There was no answer to that pressing question. Nothing that Greg could remember doing or seeing or hearing about would have led to this behavior. Maybe there wasn't anything. Maybe…maybe Myc was just…tired of him, of them.

A faint pink light spread over the wall as Greg blinked his tired eyes and tried not to let that thought overwhelm him. It couldn't be true anyway. Myc would have said something if that was the case…wouldn't he? Instead he wondered how long he had been lying there, unable to sleep with his brain whirling with questions.

He rubbed at dry gritty eyes and blinked back the stinging sensation of tears gathering, then lowered his arm again. A quiet beeping tore his attention from the wall as Mycroft moved in near silence to cut the beeping off.

Greg closed his eyes and went perfectly still; not wanting Mycroft to know that he was awake. He knew it was probably futile. Mycroft was a Holmes. They always knew.

He felt the other man sit up and worked to keep his breathing slow and deep, futilely hoping Mycroft wouldn't notice his wakefulness. He wasn't sure why he didn't want Mycroft to know he was awake but that didn't stop him from trying.

Mycroft was still for a moment longer and then a deep sigh filled the air and Mycroft quietly rose from the bed. Greg slit his eyes open and watched Mycroft's pajama clad form move to the door and head down the hall without once even glancing towards him. Greg closed his eyes again fighting off irrational tears. It looked like he was right. Mycroft was…going to leave him. Mycroft didn't care anymore.

He kept his eyes shut as he listened to the shower turn on and then turn off fifteen minutes later. He used the time to mull things over and start to try to harden his too soft heart. If Mycroft could do it…well, then again he wasn't a Holmes. It was a useless exercise. Mycroft was his heart and there would be no hardening and no forgetting but maybe he could learn to live without it.

He heard Mycroft's soft footsteps come back down the hall and move around their bedroom as he dressed for the day. He didn't dare open his eyes in case Mycroft was watching. He fought back a pathetic snort at that thought. Mycroft wasn't watching him. There had been a time when Mycroft's eyes had followed him everywhere but that time was long over. Obviously.

"Gregory?" Mycroft's voice, barely above a whisper filled the silent room. "Are you awake?" There was a strange almost yearning note to the whisper. Was he hoping Greg was still asleep so that he wouldn't have to acknowledge his husband before he left?

Greg debated answering for a moment before he realized exactly how childish he was being. One way or the other he needed to face up to the truth and deal with it. So he turned over onto his back and propped himself up on an elbow to regard his husband. "Yeah," he said quietly. No more than that. He kept his expression and his voice as bland as he could. Not that it truly mattered as Mycroft wasn't looking at him anyway.

Greg watched as Mycroft's shoulders visibly stiffened before slowly relaxing. "Did I wake you?" Mycroft asked without taking his eyes from the mirror where he watched his own fingers tying his tie.

"No," Greg said and nearly winced at the rustiness of his voice. He cleared his throat and hoped that Mycroft would simply take the rustiness as early morning left over sleep husk. "I was awake."

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at that but let it pass. "Good." His voice was brisk and slightly too loud for someone that had been trying not to wake up their partner. He finished with his tie and swung around making eye contact with Greg for a brief moment before he headed for the chair where his jacket rested. "I've a meeting in Vienna and then another with the American President. I'll be back by Friday at the latest." He sent Greg a distracted smile as he shrugged into his jacket. "Maybe we can have dinner when I return." The offer was thrown out with an air of an afterthought. As though it was what he thought he should do rather than what he wanted to do.

Greg flopped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. He was only an afterthought now, he despaired silently. Did Mycroft even think of him if he wasn't in the same room? "Sure, dinner," he said unable to hide the listless disappointment completely. "It's a date. Soon as you come home."

"Excellent," Mycroft smiled as his mobile beeped again. It was his politician's smile. The one that wasn't real. The one he pulled out to soothe fractious world leaders. Mycroft pulled the mobile from his pocket and read the text as he headed for the door. "I shall see you Friday, Gregory. Have a good week." Again that was said as an afterthought. Not actually paying attention to his words or the person he was addressing.

Suddenly unable to take the not knowing and being an afterthought to his own husband Greg sat up in the bed. "Mycroft!" He called out as the other man was nearly out the bedroom door.

Mycroft half turned to look at him, a frown tugging his lips down. "Gregory? I'm afraid I'm already running late. Was there something you needed?"

"Yes," Greg drew the word out, his courage slowly leaking out of him like a punctured tire. "Mycroft…" suddenly he couldn't find the words and wasn't altogether sure he wanted to. Did he really want to know? Did he want everything to end? Here? Now? Today?

"Gregory, I am late." Mycroft said with controlled irritation as his mobile beeped again. His attention centered on his mobile again. "What do you want?"

"Just…" Greg looked at the other man unable and suddenly completely unwilling to say what he was thinking. "Never mind," he finally said dismissively and cut his eyes towards the wall again. "It'll keep 'til you get back." He lay back down and stared at the ceiling as Mycroft huffed in exasperation.

"Very well, Gregory," Mycroft bit out, irritated and slightly confused by Greg's behavior. "I'll see you Friday then." He offered in a more or less normal tone.

"Yeah, Friday, Mycroft." Greg said dully. Six days to live in a fantasy. He had six more days to believe that he meant as much to Mycroft as Mycroft meant to him. Six days until his world fell irrevocably to pieces.

"We'll talk then," Mycroft said in a slightly bewildered tone. He glanced over his shoulder at the figure in their bed hoping for some clue as to Greg's sudden change of attitude.

Greg lifted his head and gave his husband a wan smile that he hoped looked a lot brighter than he felt. "Friday, Mycroft. We have a date." He tried to infuse his tone with something like anticipation and normality. He was very afraid it didn't work.

Mycroft's eyes flickered for an instant in confusion and then he gave Greg another distracted smile as his mobile beeped and the doorbell rang. "Yes, a date," Mycroft nodded and walked quickly down the hall as his fingers moved rapidly over the keys of his mobile. Whatever was bothering Greg would work itself out before he came back or they'd fix it on Friday.

Greg listened silently, nearly holding his breath, as Mycroft left their home. He heard the car drive away headed to the airport. He closed his eyes against the light of the rising sun and twirled the gold ring on his finger absently. "Happy anniversary, Myc," he whispered to the empty room. The red rays of the sun turned the tears finally allowed to leak from his eyes and onto his cheeks to streams of fire.