Greg looked about the apartment. Mycroft hadn't long left with John. The encounter had been less than pleasant, mostly for him. But he didn't let on to anyone that he was hurting by what was happening. How could he? He would sound selfish and inconsiderate, demanding attention like a spoilt teenager. And he still felt on some level that he deserved it for the role he'd played.

Mycroft had come in and asked him a list of questions, all of them regarding John. When had he eaten, how much he slept, if he'd had nightmares, if he'd been drinking, if he'd said anything. Greg answered them simply, and didn't mention the accusations John had thrown at him. He had hoped Mycroft would enquire as to his state of being, even just a little, but there was nothing. It had been rather crushing, and really encouraged his belief that he was worthless.

John hadn't resisted Mycroft in the end. He just didn't seem to have the energy. He had grumbled, raised his voice, shouted out 'backstabber', but just surrendered to Mycroft's will. He allowed himself to be guided out of the door and down the stairs. Greg had wanted to call out for Mycroft to let him know how it went, but didn't. He'd wanted Mycroft to show that he thought of him even a little, enough to at least tell him if he was bringing John back. But the British Government's attention had remained squarely on John.

And so now he was alone. The silence seemed different than before. It was an emptier kind. He felt sick to his stomach, aware that it was probably because he hadn't eaten in two days. But there was no one around to check up on him to see if he was eating, no one who cared if he drank or cried. There was just him.

Greg stood and moved to the fridge. He grabbed out an orange, and cut it up on the bench.

An orange will be enough for now.

He ate it there at the sink, and then went into the bedroom. He wanted to cry, but felt too depressed to. Instead, he sat back in the usual spot, and just stared at the ground.

How can it be ok again?

He knew he sounded dramatic, but he didn't care. Sherlock was gone, his friendship with John was damaged, he was suffering, and his job was an uncertainty. He didn't know what state of affairs he'd left his job in. He knew the Chief Super Intendant was very upset with him, and so losing his job was a possibility. Perhaps he'd already lost it, and Mycroft just decided not to tell him yet.

He felt guilty that he was jealous of John getting a therapy session. He'd seen a psychologist a few times in the past, but not as of late. He did want the opportunity to be able to talk, and to feel like someone cared. To feel he was being helped. He could go out and find one for himself, but it wasn't the same. He sighed. He just wished there was someone out there that cared enough for his wellbeing to organise something for him. Because as it was, if anything was to happen for him - therapy, company, food - he would have to get it himself. But he also felt that sinister voice that told him he deserved nothing more for how he handled Sherlock's public demise.

"I hope it's helping, John." Greg spoke softly to the empty apartment. And he did honestly mean it. He wanted John to be helped as much as he could. It was going to be a very difficult journey ahead for him, and Greg worried that the problems he had had before meeting Sherlock, from Afghanistan, would resurface. He nodded to himself, and then left the bedroom to get himself another drink.

An hour later, Greg's phone chimed. He was back on the couch, and so picked his phone up from the table.

- Session was less than optimal. We are returning now. MH

Greg didn't bother responding, there was nothing of value to say anyway. He was at least glad that Mycroft had bothered texting him. He did start to feel a bit more anxious, however. He wasn't sure John welcomed his presence, and he still wanted to avoid conflict. But, he took a deep breath, and told himself that John was overwhelmed right now, and to try not take it personally. It was very difficult to do. He knew that regardless of what John did or said, he'd still try to care for him. John deserved that much, and if he really was a factor in the detective's suicide, he owed it to him.

Greg was still on the couch when he heard footsteps on the staircase, and keys in his lock. The door opened, and John was chauffeured in. He still looked sullen, and Greg guessed he hadn't talked much. Might have just said what had happened, and that's it. John shuffled into the bedroom, where he undoubtedly just laid down again.

Mycroft stood in front of Greg and looked down on him.

"Gregory, I need to discuss some things with you."

"Alright, grab a chair." Greg said, indicating over to the chair at the dining table.

"I am aware that you don't have the space for two people here." Mycroft stated as he dragged the chair over to sit across from Greg.

"Only needed one." Greg said, the depression clear in his voice.

"What I need to know is if I need to make alternative arrangements for John."

Oh.

Of course, Mycroft was just thinking about John. Greg knew that's what he should do, but couldn't help feel overlooked, and like Mycroft was taking away the only company he had.

"I don't know. I mean, I know I can't sleep on the couch much longer, and I can't share the bed with him. Honestly I don't know if he wants me around at all."

"His opinion about your company might vary, Gregory, however his need for it will not."

Greg had to stop and think about that last comment. He was right, of course, and Greg felt guilty for thinking selfishly.

"Yes, of course. I want to be supportive of him, but I honestly don't know if being here is best for him. Don't get me wrong, I want him around, but if he just hates seeing me, it might be worse off for him."

"He hates seeing me as well, but that won't stop me from giving him what he needs."

"Oh. Why does he hate you? I mean, you lost your brother… you should be the one receiving help, too. He's probably just angry at everyone, then."

"He's right to hate me, Greg." Mycroft spoke softly and low, as if it was deeply painful.

"How so?"
"Because of what I did. I told Moriarty about Sherlock, information he then used to defame my brother."

There was silence. Mycroft Holmes never usually admitted anything, let alone mistakes on his part. And one so secretive. Greg was sure that Mycroft hadn't intended for the information to be used this way, but he could see how John was angry at him. Hell, HE was angry at him. All this time he thought he was one of the biggest factors in Sherlock's suicide, and here was Mycroft confessing that he'd given the information that instigated it. Greg just sat there and blinked, unsure if he should act on his anger. He did decide, however, that John would likely not enjoy being cared for by Mycroft constantly. Even though it likely would not be Mycroft himself, but even his minions would be enough to infuriate John and cause him to reject help.

"Given the circumstances, I think it best if John stay here with me, Mycroft. I can handle a little anger. I will need to have some kind of bed arranged for me though, if you could?" Greg said, trying to keep his voice calm.

Mycroft nodded, instantly aware of the conflict that was occurring beneath the DI's skin.

"I will check in periodically for updates about his condition, and will provide anything you request for his recovery." Mycroft said, standing in his usual stiff posture. He nodded, and then left.

Greg was glad that he was gone. He needed space to sort out his conflicting feelings.