A/N: I hope you like this one, it was a particularly hard to write and I'm not sure I've quite pulled it off.

For the record, I own nothing and make no profits.

Please review.

He stands and yawns. It is safe at home to finally express to the lonely furniture quite how exhausted he is. He's drawn now, tired and slow and loosing marginal amounts of weight. A hand cups the back of his neck and Gregory sighs, just about managing to keep himself from leaning into it.

"You're tense," Mycroft murmurs.

"I'm tired," Gregory rumbles, rubbing his hands across his face. His eyes feel heavier than they ever have before.

"I know," Mycroft replies, moving away. Gregory briefly mourns the loss of the heat behind him and turns.

"Sorry," he apologises. Mycroft raises an eyebrow, settling himself into the sofa.

"For what?"

"Well I'm not exactly going to be much fun," Gregory sighs, dropping heavily into the seat next to him. Mycroft reaches out and wraps a warm arm across Gregory's shoulder, resting it on Gregory's chest.

"I didn't come to your house for fun, Gregory," Mycroft replies quietly, drawing Gregory backwards gently until Gregory is leant against him.

"Then why?" Gregory asks. Beneath him, Mycroft chuckles lightly, dragging a hand through Gregory's hair.

"I'm here because I want to be," he smiles. Gregory hums lightly in the back of his throat, taking the hand in his hair and holding it within his own, remembering each knuckle in turn as he traces them with his thumb. Mycroft's lips curve downwards. It's a nervous habit of Gregory's, trying to remember every detail of people. He'd only picked it up within the past two weeks.

"Thank you," Gregory murmurs.

"How was work?" Mycroft asks, watching as Gregory's eyes become heavy. Gregory yawns.

"Slow. Even Sherlock is slowing down for me. I'm barely allowed out of my office without someone hanging over my shoulder," Gregory replies grudgingly. He feels like a child now, like he needs this constant supervision because he's useless now, "They don't want me there any more."

"Sherlock's trying," Mycroft says, curling his hand around Gregory's. Gregory frowns and tries to remove his hand, but Mycroft holds fast.

"I should just quit now," Gregory sighs.

"Do you want to?" Mycroft asks quietly, tucking Gregory's head under his chin.

"I don't know," Gregory replies, sounding like the little lost man that he usually does now, "I'm tired."

"I know," Mycroft murmurs. It will not be long now, Mycroft can sense it.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"I'm tired," Gregory yawns.

"I know, Gregory, I now you are," Mycroft replies, the ache in his chest beginning to spread.

"Not Gregory," Gregory frowns, "I'm Greg."

"I'm sorry, Greg," Mycroft murmurs. Gregory's eyes slip closed. Any time now, Mycroft realises. Six or seven minutes if he is lucky.

"What time is it?" Gregory asks.

"Ten past nine," Mycroft replies, "In the evening," he adds.

"I like nine, it's a good time. I met you at nine. Do you remember?" Gregory smiles.

"Of course I do," Mycroft smiles sadly. Gregory is beginning to go slack; the hand within Mycroft's beginning to loose its grip.

"Thank you, Mycroft," Gregory murmurs, still smiling.

"Tell me, what are we going to do tomorrow?" Mycroft requests quietly, pressing his face into Gregory's hair as he feels the pressure building behind his eyes.

"We're going for a walk in the Southbank, right by the river-" Gregory mutters. Mycroft is thankful for his brother then. He is thankful that Sherlock has given Gregory the two pills, but he is mostly thankful to Sherlock for telling Gregory to wait until he is ten minutes from home before taking them. It gives them time to say goodbye.

"You like the Southbank," Mycroft smiles fondly.

"I- Mycroft, I'm tired," Gregory slurs.

"I know," Mycroft coos.

"I love you," Gregory declares suddenly, eyes still closed, but his hand grips Mycroft's tighter.

"Gregory-"

"Goodnight, Mycroft," Gregory mumbles, leaning into Mycroft more and smiling again.

"Bonam noctem, ama," Mycroft sighs, gently pressing a kiss to Gregory's temple.

Mycroft stands alone at the funeral. The family do not know who he is and are too busy grieving the loss of their cancer ridden son, brother and friend to question him. Only now does he allow a tear or two to fall down his cheeks.

Then a hand takes his, long fingers wrapping around his own, and an arm wraps around his shoulder.

On one side stands his brother, on the other stands Doctor John Watson.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmurs.

And they bow their heads for Gregory Lestrade, a good man.