Mycroft brings Lestrade coffee and muffins after Reichenbach.

…Yeah, I’m not very good at doing exactly what people might expect from a prompt. Yes, I know that’s not your “Surprised” face.

-=-=-

The doorbell rang.

Greg rolled over, grabbing the extra pillow and dragging it over his head. When the bell rang again, he could still hear it, and added a handful of duvet. Eventually, the ringing stopped. He went back to sleep.

He startled awake again, an hour later, when the bell rang again. He’d pulled the pillow and duvet off his head, he realised. “Fuck off,”  he shouted. The bell stopped. Then there was a pounding on his door. “Fuck off!” he shouted again, and this time, he was certain he’d been heard.

Because there was a deliberate pause, and then the doorbell rang. And rang, as the person leaned on the bell.

After thirty seconds, Greg snarled, rolled over, grabbed his robe, and shambled toward his door. He stood in front of it and shouted, again, “FUCK. OFF.” The bell was released, then depressed again, this time in an irritating series of patternless rings. Short, long, very long, several short presses. 

“Oh, you fucking prick!” Greg grabbed at the deadbolt and slapped it open, and yanked the door open.

Mycroft left his finger on the bell just long enough to make it clear to Greg that this was all very deliberate, and would resume if the door shut again. “How long do you intend this to go on?” he asked, finally.

“Just fuck off, can’t you?” Greg moaned, turning his back and walking away.

Mycroft snorted, but followed him in, shutting the door. “I can, but I will not. I can’t leave this flat with you still behaving like this.” He said, setting a paper bag on Greg’s kitchen table.

“You bloody well can.”

“Stop this.”

Greg looked back at him from the doorway of his bedroom. There was surprisingly little mess - one plate on the table next to his bed. A mug on top of it. His clothes from a few days ago - however long it had been - still on the floor. The rest had made it as far as the hamper. But not the ones he’d worn to the funeral. After that, he just hadn’t bothered to get out of bed.

Mycroft seemed to absorb all this without even looking away from Greg’s face. “You must stop this.”

“I don’t even want to see you.”

“Of course not.”

“No, I mean it. I don’t want to look at you, or hear you. Just… go away.” He turned away, heading back to his bed. He didn’t hear Mycroft following, and he didn’t look back.

“You can’t be allowed to continue like this, Gregory. You just can’t.”

Greg flopped down on his bed, keeping his dressing gown on, and pulled the duvet up over his head.

“Do you want to destroy it all, Greg? Do you realise that you could bring the whole thing down?”

“Yes!” Greg shouted from under the duvet. “Yes, I fucking do know! That’s the problem. If I get one word wrong, or use the wrong tense… and I can’t talk to John, and I can’t face Donovan and Anderson without wanting to murder them myself, or wanting to tell them it’s okay, he’s not dead… I have to lie to everyone, now, all the time, about every single goddamned thing, and I can’t fix it. There’s not a thing I can do about it.”

“Neither can anyone else, but Sherlock.”

“Fuck you,” Greg mumbled.

“And this is what I deal with every day, in everything I do,” Mycroft said quietly, his voice coming nearer, until the far side of the bed dipped low as he sat down. “I accept condolences, I accept the uncomfortable looks, I accept the disapproval. The Diogenes is particularly good at flavouring the silence. And, of course, the blame. Because in the end, I was the one who was seen to allow it to happen. At least, by those who know any of it happened at all. I have taken greater risks with the life of my brother than I would ever dare take with my own. Every day, I face people who think that I got him killed, and all the while, I know that it could still happen. He could still be killed. This mock-death has protected him to an extent, but he will always be at risk until this is all over.”

“Not helping,” Greg muttered, rolling over to put his back to Mycroft.

There was a long pause, and Greg nearly started to drift off. Then, “You should,” Mycroft said, very quietly. “I need you to.”

Greg sighed, feeling his heart restarting for the first time in days, with a wave of anger and self-pity. “God damn it.”

He felt a touch on his shoulder; Mycroft’s fingers, just lightly, not quite still, not quite moving, barely stroking him, willing him to roll over, which he did without even knowing. “I can’t do this, Mycroft.”

“Neither can I. If you can think of anything we can do instead, I will absolutely join you.”

“You are a piece of shit.”

Mycroft slid his arm beneath Greg, and gathered him onto his lap, bending to bury his face in Greg’s hair. “I know.”

The numbness in Greg’s arms woke him later, and he groaned, which woke Mycroft. “God, I smell like a rancid dead rat,” he moaned, rolling to pull his arms free from around Mycroft’s waist.

“God, I’ve missed you.”

Greg snorted, right on the edge again, not wanting to laugh or cry in case he fell back into the abyss. “What day is it?”

“Doesn’t matter. What was the last thing you ate?”

“Uh, toast. Tea, I think.”

“Greg.” Mycroft pulled him back into his arms. “If I let you go, will you promise to behave?”

“No. Well, not properly.”

He could actually hear Mycroft smile. “I brought fresh coffee and some breakfast. Shower first or after?”

Greg grabbed Mycroft’s nearest hand and pressed his face into it, smelling the muffins that must have been in the bag in the kitchen. He kissed the palm, then rolled onto his feet. “Both.”