"Do you truly never do your own shopping?" John said, laughing.
Mycroft frowned at a row of pasta boxes.
"I've never had need to. Anthea knows what I enjoy, and until recently I wasn't at home so often," he said.
John wondered if he was a bother. He may not be anything like Sherlock, but he had some skills of deduction and was able to work out that Mycroft's minor government job wasn't quite as "minor" as he claimed. Surely he couldn't work from home on matters of national importance.
"You don't need to come home for dinner, then. It's alright," John said.
Mycroft coughed.
"That sentence does not fit you. I do what I like, the country continues to run in my absence," he said.
John quickly turned to examine the rows of spaghetti sauce.
"I know work can take time… I suppose I haven't a real job anymore. Not that it was quite a real job, as neither of us were legally allowed to do it," John mused.
He grabbed a jar and placed it into the buggy.
"I don't need pity, especially if it hurts your position," he added.
He pushed the cart away. Mycroft followed.
"Your position has been legitimate since the moment you shot a man to save my brother's life after less than 48 hours of acquaintance," Mycroft said.
John looked at him.
"My brother is- was- a tornado and some things are too..precious to allow to blow away, coming back horribly changed in the aftermath," Mycroft said.
John's face flashed with anger. He was angry. But he didn't know how to be angry with a dead man.
"I don't think you saved me from blowing away," John whispered, "I think you were first response after I came back down."
Mycroft cleared his throat and looked away.
"I'm sure I can manage shopping for produce. Shall we split to grab these last few things?" he said.
~Postpone your revival - M
~Done. SH