He remembered the morning of that awful day. He and Gregory had fought; that's probably what put him on edge more than anything. Not that he was blaming his dear Gregory! No, of course not! He loved Gregory. He'd do anything for him...
"Myc, this is the sixth late night in a row!" Greg groaned.
"Some of us have important jobs, Gregory; I need to resolve an issue -"
"Oh, Mycroft Holmes the British Government; so high and mighty over the lowly DI!" Gregory exclaimed, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"You know I didn't mean it like that!" He was being stretched too much! He felt like an elastic band in the hands of a child (Sherlock, anyway), being pulled and release, pulled and released, stretching and not quite relaxing before being stretched tighter.
"Yes you did! You're just like your junkie brother! You're addicted to your work!"
That was when the glass he had on the table smashed against the door, Mycroft's arm still raised.
Gregory scowled at him. "Fuck you," He spat, grabbing his coat and leaving.
Mycroft was frozen, he had snapped, he'd ruined his chances with Gregory. Bloody temper. He ignored the pricking behind his eyes and the icy glass shards stabbing his heart as he cleaned up the broken glass.
Five hours later, Gregory received a call saying that Mycroft had been taken to hospital following a nervous breakdown.