[Disclaimer: The Sherlock characters belong to Moffat and Gatiss, the BBC, Arthur Conan Doyle, etc.

A/N: This is set in the same 'verse as my fic "Beyond the Grave" but this fic works fine as a standalone as well.

TW for depression and symptoms thereof. (Feel free to message me if you want a full warning list!)

Thanks to the amazing krisjo for the beta!]

In Silence

.

Prologue

Mycroft watches the retreating form of one DI Gregory Lestrade as Gregory walks back to his tiny kitchen. Mycroft's eyes drop back down to the bowl of soup in his own lap. It's preposterous: soup in bed in a miniscule flat in the heart of London.

He isn't even sick.

The soup is warm, welcoming, and inconceivably kind. That Gregory wants to take care of him…it means more than Mycroft could ever impress on the man. Mycroft hasn't had anyone to take care of him in quite some time.

But Gregory believes Mycroft is in mourning, when that isn't quite true. He shouldn't be here, in his boyfriend's flat, eating homemade soup. Gregory's kindness is…too much. It's certainly more than Mycroft deserves. Not after what he's done.

No, Gregory has gone and ruined everything.

It isn't supposed to be like this.