In the late night relative quiet of the hospital, Mycroft was left alone with his own thoughts as companions, not always the best of situations for the government official. Like Sherlock, there were times that his mood plummeted. He just had different coping mechanisms than his brother and he was better able to hide his condition from most. This was one of those times.

It seemed strange to Mycroft that he should be feeling so depressed. He had lost a few memories, what did it matter? He had his whole life to make new ones. He shouldn't succumb to some sentimental mourning about the situation. Besides, there were good things to ponder, his brother for one. He wouldn't have to worry about him so much if what he had been told was true, so why feel sad? He should be feeling joyful. The government official rolled onto his side and punched his pillow. What should it matter that he couldn't remember a relationship with a man he didn't remember? He didn't do relationships. The loss of one he couldn't recall shouldn't matter. Mycroft felt tears coming to his eyes and he wiped them away furiously. He never cried! It didn't help, the tears kept coming.

The door to his room cracked open, causing a thin line of light to fall across the floor and the foot of the bed. Mycroft stayed as still and quiet as he could, hoping the intruder would go away. Instead, someone slipped quietly into the room and sat down in the chair by his bed. In the dim light, he could tell that it was Gregory. The government official swallowed, hoping he would sound normal when he spoke. "Visiting hours are over." He sounded shaky and on edge to his own ears.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." Greg ran his fingers through his silver hair. "I guess Sherlock's bad habits have rubbed off on me." He smiled in the darkness. "I just... I missed you, but I thought you might be tired of having a stranger hanging about. I figured this way I could..." Mycroft sniffled and the DI broke off, sensing something amiss. "Mycroft, what's wrong?" Leaning forward, he instinctively groped for the government official's hand.

Mycroft pulled it away and found the bed controls. He adjusted the bed so he sat upright, hoping he would feel more in control that way. By the time he spoke, he felt he had his mask of normality well in place. "Nothing is wrong, except the doctor's won't consent to release me yet. Being here is tiresome." He paused. "You should know I have enjoyed your visits. They have relieved the tedium. I look forward to them." Now where had that come from?

Greg shook his head. "That's crap, well the first part anyway, I hope you mean the rest, but you forget, Mycroft, I know you better than anyone. Even sitting here in the half dark, I can tell you're not okay. It's one of your moods, isn't it?"

The government official gaped at Greg. The DI's insights were still a surprise and more than a bit disconcerting... and unwelcome. "I don't have 'moods'," he said, almost sulkily.

"Right, and Sherlock isn't a childish brat." Greg got up and turned on the lights, then he came back to resume his seat. "And I suppose you haven't been crying either."

"Get out!" Mycroft barked loud enough to be heard from the corridor.

"Mycroft... Myc, please," Greg tried.

"Get out of my room and don't come back." How dare this man presume to know anything about his dark moods. He would never have shared that with anyone, not for any reason.

The DI was confused and hurt by the sudden change. Things had been going so well. What had he done wrong?

A guard had stepped into Mycroft's room, the same guard that had helped Greg sneak in earlier. "Sir, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave."

"I'm going," the DI replied. He left the room with only a single backward glance. He had no idea what he would do now.