Mycroft sighed, halfheartedly examining the newspaper in his hands, 'Suicide of Fake Genius.'

He scoffed, rolling his eyes and shaking his head dismissively.

"Ungrateful imbeciles."

He debated upon following after Gregory, attempting to put things right, but was interrupted by his phone buzzing in his pocket.

Thank heavens.

"Holmes."

The voice that rumbled across the line was tight, strained, but alive.

"Mycroft."

The politician let out a sigh of relief.

"Glad to hear your voice again, for a moment I had actually been worried."

There was a nervous chuckle, something so out of character for the detective that his brother took note.

"It takes more than that to kill me, you should know."

Mycroft smirked.

"When shall I expect you? I'm assuming that you're staying with Miss Hooper for a few days."

There was a shifting followed by a groan.

"Yea. Until I feel well enough to travel. Dying is quite painful."

The politician hummed, swirling the glass in his palm.

"Not just for you. Gregory is wrought with despair at your departure, as is your dear Mrs. Hudson and-"

There was a pained growl.

"Don't say it."

Mycroft stopped, pausing for a moment to collect himself.

"My apologies. You are aware that he's under arrest now."

The clattering if a chair followed by a faint yelp was heard behind Sherlock's surprised exclamation.

"What? Why the hell would they do that? I held him at gun point so they wouldn't -"

"So they wouldn't what, Sherlock?. So they would think that you two were partners in crime? So that he would be acquitted of all charges? No, he's still a high profile suspect. He'll spend the next few days in jail until My assistant posts bail, he'll miss your funeral, that's unavoidable. Then he'll be sent directly to his psychiatrist for evaluation and trauma assistance."

There was a discontented grunt at the mention of therapy.

Sherlock had never approved of that for his doctor.

"He'll visit your grave, say his goodbyes, and move on with his life."

Mycroft could imagine his brothers solemn nod, and resolutely ignored the tear filled waver in his voice.

"While I go after Moriarty's network."

He spat the name, fury rising in his voice.

"You'll get your revenge in due time Sherlock, for now let's focus on getting yourself together again, shall we?"

The line went quiet, and for a moment Mycroft believed that Sherlock had hung up.

"Just promise me that you'll keep him out of trouble, alright?"

Mycroft hummed noncommittally.

"Mycroft-"

A warning.

"Yes, fine. You have a deal."

There was a sigh before the line clicked off, leaving Mycroft exhausted.

No insults.

No obscured thoughts or argumentation.

No witty remarks.

Just amicable conversation and barely suppressed emotions.

He rubbed his face with his hands as if he could wipe away the truth.

Sherlock was broken.

He allowed himself a moment toi breath, letting his eyes drift closed.

When he opened them again, he felt a soft warmth enveloping him, and the sound of snoring coming form actoss the room.

His eyes opened slowly as he absorbed the data of his situation.

Obviously he had fallen asleep, and someone had draped a blanket over him in his chair.

The sorce of the snoring was, infact, Greg Lestade, who had curled up on the settee, his arms wrapped around himself against the chill of the room.

Mycroft smiled softly, standing and streatching softly.

He toed off his shoes and padded over to the detective inspecter, his fingers trailing across his forehead.

"Gregory."

his head turned to the warmth of Mycroft;s hand, a slight man escaping his lips.

The politician took a moment to take in just how tired his detective looked.

How worn.

"Gregory."

A touch louder, the DI's eyes fluttering open at the sound.

He looked up at Mycroft with a tired smile.

"Come on."

Greg sat up slowly, his fingers ruffing his shaggy grey hair.

"Bed?"

A mumble.

Mycroft nodded, his arm wrapping gently around his shoulder.

They shuffled into a guest bedroom, neither man up to climbing the grand staircase to Mycroft's room.

A few moments passed of sluggish clothing removal, fumbling with socks and tripping over pant's legs.

Finally, they collapsed onto their respective sides of the bed, Greg's back to his politician.

"Gregory?"

Lestrade sighed, shifting to lay on his back.

"Myc, I know that you're gonna react different than the rest of us."

His speech was slurred wit h sleep, but the words were clear.

"I shouldn't 've said anything."

He stretched a hand over to pat Mycroft's hip gently.

"You'll deal how you deal."

A sigh.

"And I'm here. We'll get through this Myc."

The politician looked away, refusing to make eye constant with his detective.

"I don't doubt that Gregory."

Conversation slipped away as the DI slipped back into unconsciousness.

Mycroft turned away to face the wall, tears threatening his eyes.

He dabbed at them silently guilt gnawing at his gut.

There was one thing that he absolutely loathed.

Lying.

A part of him want to laugh at his career choice as a politician.

The rest of him screamed with guilt.

Years of his career had steeled him against the emotion, strengthened his resolve.

Numbed him.

But lying to the man he-

To Gregory Lestrade.

Especially when those lies hurt the man so deeply.

That pain was nearly unbearable.

He let a single tear fall as he himself slipped to sleep, hoping the the morning would bring absolution.