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Mycroft doesn’t need to ask. Nor does he need to voice his deductions.
It’s bad enough that he can read it all for himself.
In the crumpled clothes Gregory clumsily hides under his overcoat and the smell of sweat and cologne that still hangs in the stuffy flat as his brother hasn’t bothered to open the windows.
In the way Sherlock holds himself, smug and confident, pleased that he could take what Mycroft had never even dared touch. Revelling in the knowledge that this would drain whatever humanity his older brother had in him.
In the way Gregory avoids his gaze, his eyes darting as if searching for a deity above or below capable to turn back time. The slight tremble in his frame as he seems to feel the weight of what he has shattered almost traveling through the floor and up Mycroft’s body to his heart.
No.
Mycroft won’t give them the satisfaction to care.
“Mummy is waiting for you, Sherlock, you do know how much she cares for Christmas dinner. Gather your things, I’ll be waiting for you in the car.”
He nods to Gregory “Merry Christmas, Detective Inspector. There’s a car for you as well if you wish. Do carry my greetings to Mrs Lestrade as well.”
Mycroft turns away the moment Gregory opens his mouth.