Mycroft hadn't been able to get back to sleep since his nightmare. His mind was running in circles, threatening to trip him up. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't block out the emotions radiating from his chest, he couldn't just put it all in the dark recesses of his mind and continue on with his job. His work was everything to him, and now he'd caused a problem that was threatening to interfere with his ability to carry out that work.

Gregory invaded all of his thoughts. He'd been the one to let down his defences, he'd willingly come out of his shell to take a chance at feeling something for once.
Stupid, stupid.

He knew Sherlock was going to come back at some point, he knew that would be difficult for Gregory, and he knew that his deception would be a breaking point for any relationship developed in that time. But did he listen? No. He'd barely registered thinking those thoughts, too preoccupied in warm feelings of love for Gregory. He growled at himself for being so idiotic. And yet … no matter how many times he uttered his mantra 'caring is not an advantage'… he couldn't stop feeling love, and the hurt from Gregory's departure. Emotions seemed a lot easier to handle, shallower, before that man stepped into his life. And he hated that despite the pain he felt, he didn't regret it. In fact, he still yearned for him.

Mycroft dressed himself in one of his usual three piece suits. He'd already called in to take some time off; not uncontactable, but some time away from the office, while he tried to get a grip over himself. He found that he just couldn't seem to gather the strength to maintain his uncaring, unfeeling façade enough to go into work. Not when he was very not 'unfeeling'.

And so Mycroft found himself en route to Baker Street. He knew Sherlock would likely cause a fuss about his visit, and that he'd be able to see through him fairly well, but he just needed the company. He couldn't handle being in his flat, not with Gregory's things everywhere. And he just … didn't want to be alone. He hated himself for it, since he'd been perfectly fine being alone before Gregory. But it seemed to be a 'finally know what you've been missing' situation. He wanted so much to go back to how he was before, but somehow knew that was an impossibility.

He let himself in to the flat, and walked into the living room. Sherlock had been busy collecting photographs and information regarding the terror plot, and as a result, the place looked more chaotic than usual. Sherlock walked past Mycroft standing in the doorway, not even looking at him to acknowledge his presence. Mycroft felt an unwelcome pang of hurt from being ignored.

"Do take a seat, brother." Sherlock rumbled, while looking at the things he'd attached to the wall.
Mycroft walked in and sat in Sherlock's chair, not bothering to straighten himself up afterwards.
"How are you progressing with the plot, brother mine? I see you have let the world know that you are back. Seriously, what part of 'secret' did you not understand?" Mycroft asked.
Sherlock turned to look at him incredulously, as if Mycroft should have deduced exactly how far he'd gotten already.
"I have only just started, and what does it matter if the world knows? I am back. You obviously are aware of my progress, and so what is the real reason for your visit?"

Mycroft swallowed gently. Always direct to the point.
"I wanted to see how you were settling in, little brother. It was quite the shock to suddenly return, after all."
"You can save the air of superiority, Mycroft. You're really not doing it justice today."

So, Sherlock can tell something's up. Great. I don't really want to get into it all right now.

"Is there something you want to talk about, Mycroft?"

Mycroft didn't answer right away. No, there wasn't anything he wanted to talk about. But he did want to talk. He did want to ask about Gregory, as it was obvious Sherlock had spoken with him. He wanted more information, as always, but was afraid to ask. A rarity, in his life.

"Oh, so there is. And what is it that has you speechless, brother?" Sherlock quipped. He decided that it was better to try and get Mycroft to admit about his relationship rather than just talk about it.
"Nothing that concerns you." Mycroft snapped back instinctively.
Sherlock turned to look his brother in the eye, and smiled knowingly.
"Is that so?" He responded in his deep baritone.

Mycroft shifted in the chair.
"The terror strike, Sherlock. Just focus on that."
"This plot seems to be something you're obsessing over, Mycroft. More so than need be. Don't think it's escaped my attention that you're using it to cover up more personal matters for you."
"I am not about to start discussing my personal life with you, dear brother."
"Oh, well, you have one now at least. When was the last time? When you were sixteen?"

Sherlock smirked and returned to pinning information back up on the wall while Mycroft scowled. He was starting to regret is impromptu visit to Baker Street. But he couldn't bring himself to leave - where would he go then? It was still too risky to go into his office this… unstable.

"I'm sorry."
Mycroft frowned. Sherlock… apologising? He must really be showing his emotions for that to happen. He wasn't upset about it, strangely enough. Instead, he was overwhelmed with affection for his brother.

Sherlock turned from the wall and sat down on the couch. They sat in silence for a moment, both understanding the unspoken distress in the room emanating from Mycroft. Sherlock wanted to be supportive, but knew he wasn't the best at doing so. He also didn't want to just bring up Lestrade.

And so, he settled for the distraction Mycroft kept using as a shield. He began to tell him about what it was he was doing, describing the people he used as indicators. Informing his brother about why these people, 'rats' as he would call them, were important to his investigation. Before long, he had a large portion of the wall covered and marked.

Since there was no further information to present, and it was obvious that Mycroft still was unwilling to be alone or go to work, he challenged his brother to a game of chess. Mycroft never could resist a chance to prove how smart he was. It was at least a good opportunity to get him to talk.

Mycroft didn't miss the various hints Sherlock had laid down, but refused to give in. He wasn't sure his brother knew what was bothering him, and so continued focusing on the underground network threat. That was, until, he found himself playing 'operation'.

"Can't handle a broken heart. How very telling." Sherlock quipped, fishing for more information.
"Don't be smart." Mycroft grumbled, not enjoying the fact that Sherlock had known about his failed relationship all along. His stomach dropped and he felt a painful twisting in his chest at the thought of Gregory, and his brother's mention of a 'broken heart'. He couldn't break down in front of his little brother. He had to turn the conversation back onto Sherlock somehow.

"That takes me back. 'Don't be smart, Sherlock, I'm the smart one'." Sherlock said in his teasing voice. He was hoping to get Mycroft angry enough to open up; because, honestly, he wanted to help. Perhaps it was more for Lestrade's sake than his brother's, but he did care.

"I am the smart one." Mycroft growled. He didn't like his little brother prying on his personal life. He enjoyed talking about Sherlock being an idiot, and found a way to turn the conversation in his favour.

"'Friends'. Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now." Mycroft said with a sneer. He knew it wasn't exactly kind, but for some reason, pointing out Sherlock's friendship issues with John made him feel better about his failings with Gregory.
"And you don't? Ever?"
"If you seem slow to me, Sherlock, can you imagine what real people are like? I'm living in a world of goldfish."

Yes, that should suffice to keep him off my case.
Mycroft felt pleased with himself, until Sherlock raised his hands in his usual 'thinking' pose. He suddenly felt like he'd walked right into a trap.
"Yes, but I've been away for two years."
"So?"
"Oh I don't know, I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a goldfish."

No, I can't do it.
"Change the subject. Now." Mycroft said forcefully, all the while knowing that his brother would understand exactly why. He stood up and walked to the mantle, unwilling to look Sherlock in the eye in fear of what he would see.

The pain Mycroft showed in that moment made Sherlock back off. He wasn't all too thrilled to push the issue in the first place, but seeing how it was affecting his usually detached, stoic, uncaring brother made him reconsider his tactics.
Back to the terror plot, then. For now.

Sherlock assured Mycroft that he'd solve the case. Mrs Hudson came in, a welcomed interruption. Interestingly, Mycroft didn't decide to leave at that moment. That gave Sherlock new energy to continue prodding his brother for Greg's (and his own) sake. However this time, he decided to appeal to his brother's desire to be 'the best'.

Mycroft didn't miss the hint at being gay, or the forced isolation he had always put himself in. He tried to remark that he wasn't isolated, just different - much like the owner of the Chullo, but Sherlock didn't seem to be buying it. And then it was suddenly back on him… and Mycroft was stunned. What was he to say? Was it worth continuing his charade?

"I'm not lonely, Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaimed, realising it was much too forced. Sherlock smiled and looked at him sternly.
"How would you know?" Sherlock challenged.

Mycroft felt the panic rising through his chest. He… he couldn't take it anymore. He had to get out. How could he even begin to try making things right? There was no way, not after what he'd done. And it was easier to try distance himself than to continue experiencing the pain of the hole Gregory had left.

He left the flat with a dazed 'good morning', no longer caring what Sherlock thought of him. But he couldn't stop himself from thinking.
Why was he so interested? Had perhaps Gregory said something to him? Maybe Gregory wasn't as done with me as he made out, and Sherlock was trying to get me to try talking to him? Was it possible?

His heart lurched as he thought that perhaps Gregory had asked Sherlock to get him to contact him. It seemed that the hope for what he still wanted, deep down, was a lot stronger than the part of himself trying to just block it all out and move on like nothing happened.