Chapter Text
The early evening dark closed in on the windows of his office at the Diogenes Club. There was a little more daylight every day, the sun stealing back the evening hours in increments of minutes.
Mycroft had retired to the club when his task list had doubled in length at the end of a particularly trying day, which fell at the end of a busier than average week in an interminable month. He longed for a break. He would gladly contract an inconvenient illness if it meant he could justify a week in bed at this stage.
When he arrived, he'd called for the vegetable soup and the bowl sat upon the corner of the desk as empty as his stomach felt. He couldn't explain the hunger that had been plaguing him for the last few weeks. Normally when he was occupied with work, his body's cries for attention went unnoticed – sometimes for days before he deigned to heed them. Yet, recently, its clamourings had been amplified. Every craving for sweet, rich food, every longing for rest or respite, every yearning to fill the nameless unfathomable emptiness in the back of his mind were now so compelling, he could scarcely ignore them.
He'd been working excessively nearly every day in the past month. He had resolved to cut back, swore on his most beloved books that he would increase delegations to Anthea and enlist the assistance of other departments, but the pressures of the role and his long-standing presence in the halls of power made it impossible to escape the eternal parade of requests and questions beginning with "Just one more thing."
At least he had less to concern himself with in regards to Sherlock. His brother had restored his relationship with Doctor Watson and the two were once again cohabiting at Baker Street. Mary's numerous betrayals had continued to reverberate after her death. The child's parentage was questioned and subsequently resolved in favour of her true father and his family in Leeds. Doctor Watson had taken it in his stride and appeared relieved to close that particular chapter. He and Sherlock took on a number of cases that sent them all over the United Kingdom and Europe in the wake of the upheaval. Mycroft rejoiced that Watson's instinct was to turn towards Sherlock in his time of need, but kept those thoughts to himself.
Mycroft steered his attention once more to his ever growing collection of unread emails. He psyched himself up to respond to three of the most pressing and was just firing off the last response when a gentle tapping sounded at the door. He pressed the button to signal the awaiting parties should enter and a young club employee crossed the threshold with DI Greg Lestrade in tow.
Lestrade was visibly agitated, face flushed, shifting uneasily from side to side. Once Mycroft had dismissed the young staffer with a grateful nod, Lestrade let out an audible sigh and let his posture sag.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Oh, so I can speak in here. Thank god." He strode towards the desk, reached into his coat and produced a mostly full bottle of small batch single malt. He placed the bottle on the desk with a pointed thunk and with a steely expression demanded, "Drink with me."