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.

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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.

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