Lestrade always found Mycroft's home stuffy, particularly his office. It was old and filled with scents that reminded him of the dorms of the boarding school he'd been hauled off to when he was a boy. Walking through that corridor was like any of the times he was dragged off to the headmaster after curfew. As a teen, he was a young, frustrated boy that wasn't sure how to handle himself. Unfortunately, he chose to cause trouble. The dimly lit, aged hallway brought him back to those nights when he'd gotten caught running amok on the grounds; smoking cigarettes, building bonfires, finding ways to graffiti far off corners of the vast building and exploring his sexuality in the moonlit valleys and off by the pond on a forgotten edge of the campus.

The listless feeling in his chest didn't release him even as he and John left the hall dimly illuminated by sconces and entered Mycroft's office; aglow by the fireplace and a scarce few lamps on the floor and atop the overwhelming desk. Large and heavy enough to have a sincere presence and personality in the room. Lestrade wasn't sure of its age but he knew it'd been awhile since he had seen a piece of office furniture like it and began distracting himself with thoughts of how one may move such a piece across the room alone, much less how on earth anyone got it into the building in the first place.

By the time Lestrade and John had entered the office, Mary was already there sipping on a mug of tea in the leather wingback farthest from the door and Greg held back to allowed to allow the couple to sit together. He wasn't really focusing at the moment on much of anything, but he did manage to absorb the just of a few whispered words between the Watsons. At least enough to know that their infant daughter was swaddled in a basinet just up stairs.

"Good Evening, Detective Inspector." Mycroft's voice brought him out of his own head and into the moment. As he turned his attention to Holmes, he noticed he was being offered a drink off a small cart. Being honest with himself, he gave a nod and pointed to what was either vodka or gin and a mixer of fizzy water. Whether this conversation lasted five minutes or five months, it was going to be a long conversation that he really didn't want to participate in. "I trust you'd rather be anywhere but here, but… I do believe you remember how valuable your help was to Sherlock."

"I waited for him to ask for help, I didn't force it." Lestrade argued, excepting his drink.

"You did more than that and you know it." His voice was throaty, with a subtle hint of gratitude that Greg almost didn't catch it and was wise enough to not acknowledge. He simply nodded and rose the glass up to his lips as he turned to make his way to the center of the room, closer to the Watsons and the warmth of the fireplace.

"So, now that we're all here…. what are we going to do?" John asked the room. Greg turned with a long, loud exhale to rest his elbow on the mantle shelf and sip as his drink in preparation.

"The question is, is there anything we can do." Added his wife, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs.

"Or should." Perhaps his irritation was far too obvious as he spoke, the words were nearly spat.

"Well, I think it's obvious she should, at the very least, have her security level raised…" Mycroft's back was turned away from them as he prepared his own drink of a deep, red tinted spirit Lestrade assumed was cognac. "That way, if she shows any signs of being a threat to herself or anyone else, we'll be able to provide her with necessary care and attention, rather than waiting for the problem to overwhelm any one person."

"That would be a comfort." The white mug of tea she held seemed to glow in the firelight as she took a drink.

"Well, yeah, but… is that all we should be doing right now?" The frustrated doctor fussed in his chair; uninterested in the offer of drink from their host.

"You can't force help on someone, they have to want it." Again, Lestrade was certain his irritation was obvious and he felt the overwhelming sting in his core he had once felt when he thought of Sherlock. A deep dull aching for him to get help and the waves of quiet anger settling just beneath the surface because Sherlock was either avoiding professional help or wasn't pursuing it seriously. Glancing over at Mary and John, he wondering if they knew Sherlock saw a therapist for years or that, every week when Greg would pick him up, he'd be crying. All Greg could do was give his hand a brief, strong squeeze and see him off with a supportive smile at Mycroft's door. For all the chill and indifference Mycroft put in the room, Lestrade would never let anyone say the elder Holmes was a 'bad' brother. He'd learned quickly in those early days that the Holmes' merely showed their love with stern, quiet support and rigid focus on pure logic. It may be alien to others, but if one observed it long enough, the love was obvious; just lacking in warmth and the fuzziness of cuddles. That was their mother's job as far as they were concerned.

"Yeah, well, maybe not, but why shouldn't we at least try?" Greg wondered if John had the level of experience he had with addicts or if what John had experienced was just the polar opposite of his own. The very concept John was arguing refused to wrap itself around Lestrade's own mind. Unable to summon any more words, he flitted his eyes up to meet Mycroft's as a request for support.

"I still think she just needs time. Give her space and see what happens." Mary intervened. "Mycroft's right; keep an eye on her -"

"So, the answer is to spy on her?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows at the slight raise of voice John directed at his wife.

"No-" Her own glance at him over the rim of her rim of her mug and firm tone informed all involved that the situation was under control. "I am simply saying that, we don't even know if she needs help. Monitoring her is a way of keeping tabs on her and making sure the worst doesn't happen." John inhaled deeply, prepared to further, but more carefully argue his point when Mycroft spoke up.

"So, we're agreed. Do nothing for now. Just assure her safety." Unable or unwilling to argue, the group simply nodded and settled into silence. Mary's full focus seemed to rest on her tea. Given the hour, the moment she finished her drink the couple chose to take their leave. Certain to quell that slight tension that had developed on their ride home.

Greg though, opted to linger, elbow still resting on the mantel shelf as he continued to sip at his drink, which he now knew was gin. He had turned to stare into the fire and watch the flames dance.

"You should know, Greg." The shuffle of Mycroft's feet behind him told Lestrade he was making his way to the arm chairs and only the sigh and crinkle of the fabric was needed to confirm this; he didn't need to turn around. "I wish I was as certain as you that she was lying."

"Not you, too." With a great groan, Greg adjusted to face him.

"There are things in this world beyond even my comprehension." He paused to take a large gulp of his drink, Lestrade could see in his eyes that Mycroft was properly intoxicated at this point. Probably medicating the emotions and confusion that seemed to overwhelm him. "You know, she dragged his body around the city because she was convinced he told her someone had been taking certain liberties with it where it was. I had to store it elsewhere for a long while."

"Where's it now?"

It'd taken a while, but Sherlock had gotten use to the cold by now, mostly. The chill in his core still made him restless; throbbing with a dull twinge of pain he could never quite shake. Perhaps it was loneliness, or the loss of the life and person he was, either way, he'd never felt so broken.

Knees to his chest in the dark corner of the room, he found himself unable to hold back his tears as the full force of his decision settled in his soul, forcing it to churn and exacerbate the ache he was already feeling for them cold. His primal need to call out, he knew, would never be heard, so he allowed himself to mourn his life; crying out like a wounded animal into the ether.