John and Sherlock split up shortly after they left Greg and Mycroft's home. Sherlock was just as serious about not looking for Greg, as John was about finding him. After a short argument about looking out for your friends, which Sherlock barely said anything, other than "My mind is made up Joh, I'm better off at home…. He's your friend not mine." The last bit had stung, of course it had; it was a lie anyway, but Sherlock couldn't admit to that. He needed to get home, to process the day's events, to understand that he really knew very little about his brother and why that was. Who was that stranger? Why did Mycroft have such an outburst? So many questions, he needed to get home, to think. But he couldn't explain that to John, not with his mind so focused on Greg. So fighting was easier.

John had the cab they both got drop Sherlock a few streets away from Baker Street, mumbling something about going to check the office to see if anyone had heard from Greg, after he dropped Mrs. Hudson off at her sister's. Sherlock had sighed, but got out without much of a complaint. And walked the streets to his home automatically, barely noticing the world around him and where he was, as he became more lost in his thoughts.

As he got closer to his home, he noticed a figure seated on the front doorstep. Realizing it was Greg, he wanted to turn the other way and run, to avoid the inevitable confrontation that would ensue. But as he got closer he saw how broken the man looked.

Back at his home he'd put a lot of effort into keeping up appearance, I mean, Sherlock could tell it was a front, but it was a good front. There was no front here. Just a vulnerable man, who even from a distance in the slowly darkening night, Sherlock could tell was focusing on is breathing. As if he was convinced he would stop, should he lose his concentration. His cheeks were flushed with the reminisce of tears, this momentarily frustrated Sherlock as he realized he had no way of knowing if these were tears of pain or anger. And by extension, he was unable to be completely certain of Greg's emotional state.

But as he got to outside his home before Greg stood, shoving his hands into his pockets, as if holding to something to keep himself balanced. Sherlock quickly determined that whatever these mix of emotions were, they presented no direct threat to him.

"I'm sorry to just turn up here Sherlock." His name snapped him out of his thoughts and he realized he'd been staring at Greg. How long had he been staring for? "I just, I wasn't sure where else to go, you see… And I couldn't go home, I hope you don't mind?" Had Greg just asked a question, Sherlock was still in shock. Surely he would know that John would have gone looking for him, so in coming here he knew he'd see Sherlock, which means he came here with that intention. And Sherlock doesn't know what to do about that, but he supposes he should let him in.

It's not that he particular wants to let him in, to have to deal with more emotions he doesn't understand, when he doesn't understand his own. But it is clear that he can't leave him out on the streets, if anything were to happen Sherlock is pretty sure Greg wouldn't fight back. So he lets him in.

"Do come in, Lestrade." Sherlock says, trying to sound as normal as possible. Stepping past Greg, he opens his front.

Greg smiles at this attempt at normality from Sherlock, though it so faked that even Greg can tell but he tried, and for that Greg is grateful.

Following Sherlock inside Greg shuts the door, and tries to avoid thinking about the fact he was just for a single moment a little less upset about everything. He forgot. In all of this, for that moment forgot, it felt normal. And he can't forget, whatever has happened today, he can't forget. And it can never be normal again. But he needs not to think about that now, he'll feel guilty later. He's pretty convinced that any more emotion would probably crush him, and he doesn't really want to test that theory.

So he focuses on following Sherlock, on shutting the door behind them, and walking up the stairs. One foot in front of the other, he can do that.

Sherlock realizes that he should text John, lest he be looking for Greg all night. And does so quickly "He is here. SH.", as he hears Greg's footsteps up the door behind him.

He places his phone on the coffee table, taking off his coat and scarf, putting them in their rightful place; walking quickly in the kitchen.

"Do take a seat Lestrade. Two sugars, is that correct?"

"Yes, thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock winces at the emotions in the forcefulness of Greg replies. His hoarse voice, reflecting how much he as truly been crying. And it's like Sherlock can hear it all, every cry. And so he tries to ignore it.

When he goes back into his living room with two cups of tea, he sees Greg sitting on the sofa, not really looking at anything. He silently hands Greg the drink, who takes it with another attempted smile.

Sherlock sits in his chair, waiting for John. Its an uncomfortable silence for Sherlock, but Greg is pleased by it. He knows Sherlock wouldn't know what to say, and he's glad he isn't trying. Knowing that John will, when he gets here and slightly dreading that.

The way that Greg holds his drink, a little too tightly, and surely with the heat of a freshly boiled cup it must be painful Sherlock surmised. He had to put his on the table, that is the only noise that breaks the silence, while the two of them wait for John to arrive.

The almost scalding pain of that drink is all that's keeping Greg from dissolving into pain. As it cools he finds himself longing for the distraction of the pain, for a brief moment contemplating other ways he can emulate, missing the way it ground him.

The front door opening snaps Greg from his thoughts. Greg stills himself, placing his still full cup on the table, ready for the coming wrath of Dr. John Watson.