Greg had never wanted a cigarette more in his entire life. His hands were shaking and his nerves were like raw meat, despite the three nicotine patches on his left forearm.
"Why the fuck not?" he asked himself. Lung cancer couldn't be any worse than his current hell.

He grabbed his wallet and made his way out of the flat, onto the cold London street. It was past midnight, but he was able to find a cab relatively quickly.

He mumbled his destination to the driver and sat back, closing his eyes.

Several minutes later, the car stopped and Greg's eyes flew open. He tossed some money at the driver and stepped out.

To his confusion, he was not at a liquor store. He was standing outside Mycroft's apartment building. His mind ran over the cab ride, and he realized that this was the address he had given the cabbie.

He snorted. Freudian slip much?

But instead of turning around and looking for another cab, he found his feet working their way towards the building. Through the doors, up the stairs, down the hall, up to Mycroft's door. His right hand shot out of it's own accord and furiously knocked on the door, while a voice that was not his own yelled "Open up you stupid git!"

The door opened, and there was Mycroft in his blue silk pajamas. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was sticking up in the back and oh God he was so beautiful.

"Gregory, what is it? What's wrong?" his voice was still thick with sleep, but his concern shone through. He moved aside to let Greg into the flat and shut the door behind them.

"What's wrong?" Greg yelled, somewhat hysterically. "What's wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong. You unceremoniously dumped me out of the blue and now I'm going fucking insane!" he bellowed.

"Gregory, I told you. It's for the best that we stay apart," Mycroft said gently, although the words broke his heart.

"What does for the best even mean?" Greg asked hoarsely. "We were good together. I loved-hell, love you, and I thought…" he paused. "I thought you loved me."

Mycroft's eyes grew wide. "Of course I love you!" he cried.

Greg's eyebrows shot up. "Oh. Um. Okay. Well, why did you break up with me?"

Mycroft sighed and sank down into the sofa. "Gregory, if anything ever happened to you because of me or my stupid minor government position," he said, adding air-quotes to the last three words. "I would never be able to forgive myself. Something happened that made me realize what a dangerous position I put you in. I just can't risk your life like that. You deserve someone who can keep you safe, make you happy." He let out a shuddering sigh that sounded like a harbinger for tears.

"Oh My," Greg whispered. He knelt down in front of the other man, taking his hands.

"No one could possibly make me ay happier than you have. And don't talk about this like our relationship is something you forced upon me. I'm a grown man, I knew and know full well what I've gotten myself into." He chuckled. "And I am a DI, it's not as if I was just sitting around baking scones before you came around. Remind me later to tell you about the time I was stabbed by a one-eyed meth addict."

Mycroft tried to laugh but it came out as a violent sob. All the emotions from the past few weeks came pouring out of him at once.

"Hey, hey," Greg soothed, sitting on the sofa beside Mycroft and wrapping his arms around him. Mycroft melted into the embrace, clinging to the front of Greg's jumper as if his life depended on it.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Mycroft repented.

"It's okay," Greg said as he pressed a soft kiss to Mycroft's forehead.

And it was okay. Where Mycroft Holmes was willing to kill for Gregory Lestrade, Gregory Lestrade was willing to die for Mycroft Holmes.