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It had been one hell of a night for Greg. Frankly, to be honest, it had been one hell of a week. The suicides that weren’t suicides, the texts Sherlock had sent and the ensuing questions and mockery from the press, the fear Sherlock was using again and doing the drugs bust and now the very late night. He supposed he should be happy the case was closed, very closed since the cabby had died. If he was completely honest with himself he had to admit that the death of the killer grated on his nerves. There wouldn’t be a trial, there would be no explanation and there would be no justice.
It was after three when he opened his front door. An ungodly hour to be done with the day. Too late and simultaneously too early to consider doing anything. He discarded his coat and shoes in the vicinity of the door and went further inside. He paused a bit further in the hallway. Go left to his bedroom and potentially wake his partner or go right and make himself a cup of tea to drown in his own thoughts. Because he knew that that was what he would be doing anyway, he chose right so Mycroft could have his sleep. There was no reason to deny the man his much needed rest.
With a heavy sigh he put the kettle on and lowered himself on one of the kitchen chairs. He swore he only closed his eyes for a second, but when he felt a hand on his shoulder he woke with a startle. Upon opening his eyes he was met with the concerned stare of his partner. “Sorry to wake you My. You should go back to bed and sleep.”
“I heard you come in.” Mycroft said while he moved his hand from Gregs shoulder to his hair. Carding his hand through the locks he looked questioningly.
While Mycroft technically didn’t ask a question, it was clear what he meant. Why didn’t Greg come to bed? Why was he falling asleep at the kitchen table? Gregs only response was a quiet hum before closing his eyes again.
He felt Mycroft moving a second before he was engulfed in a hug, his head cradled on Mycroft's shoulder. “Rough night?”
“You could say that.” he whispered against the cotton shirt Mycroft was wearing. He wanted to tell Mycroft everything, he wanted to tell him nothing, he wanted to close his eyes and have everything back to normal when he opened them again.
“I’m willing to wait for it. Just tell me now and be over and done with it.” No longer was he surprised at Mycroft's mind reading abilities. He’d known the man way too long for that, still there was alway a sense of wonder about being understood that deeply.
Safe in the scent of his pajama clad partner, Greg opened his mouth and closed it again. Mycroft knew parts of it already. Mycroft had been at the crime scene and had talked to both Sherlock and John. His partner had already expressed his doubts about John Watson and now Greg was about to add to them. Or not, if Mycroft knew already. But would his partner be sleeping peacefully when he knew? “Were you sleeping?” he asked instead of explaining why Greg himself didn’t come to bed.
He felt Mycroft’s exhale in his hair, the petting of his locks pausing before he heard the response. “I was waiting for you to come home. I have to admit I was lying awake thinking about earlier.”
“Oh.” Thinking about earlier. So most likely thinking about Sherlock and the dead cabby. “We cleared the scene, just the paperwork left.” Now, that wasn’t completely true of course, there was another thing that needed to be done. “And then we have to open the search for the killers killer, I suppose.”
“Is that why you weren’t coming to bed?” Mycroft asked in a soft voice.
“I needed to think My.” Mycroft had resumed the petting of his hair and it felt nice. Nice to be held. Nice to feel at home in the arms of his love. Nice to get the time to think and get his thought in order. “I know who killed the cabby, Lock wasn’t exactly subtle about it.”
“And now you’re wondering what to do about it? Thinking of bringing John in?” Mycroft asked without any judgement in his voice. It was an open question and Greg knew he had the space to answer honestly. Mycroft would accept his answer and find ways to control the damage. He wouldn’t let the situation spread out of his control. Whatever Greg chose, Mycroft would provide the backup.
“I know what I want to do about it.” He wanted to leave it like that. The case would turn cold and nobody would bat an eye. It would give Sherlock a much needed friend, a friend that would hopefully prove a good influence. “But I don’t know if it’s the best idea.” It would clash with his morals to not find justice and he was afraid of the possible consequences for Sherlock of having an adrenaline junkie as best mate.
“Someone told me we wouldn’t be able to change my brothers mind. Even if you would pursue Watson, Sherlock will prevent anything coming from it. You do what you feel would be best.” Mycroft planted a kiss on top of his head and stood back up. He took Greg’s hand. “Now come to bed love. Whatever comes, we’ll face it together.”