Breaking the ice {Mystrade}

Chapter Nineteen - I'm sorry

From her desk (right next to large, panoramic windows), Anthea watched the sun set over London. Ashy, burnt clouds cloaked the fierce layer of amber dotted with wisps of smoked-purple vapour which painted the evening sky. She always enjoyed watching the sunset - it was one of the relaxing parts of her job which were truthfully few and far between. Tonight, however the colours were garish and somewhat painful to look at. Unless she needed new glasses.
A glance of her watch informed her she could leave - 7:30 in the evening. Always long hours...
After shuffling a couple of files and re-adjusting her plant pot of succulents, she collected her coat and went to leave the building. She had a date to get to, and this time she couldn't be late. Having not been in any kind of relationship for many years, she was only now remembering how difficult it was to balance things when she could never arrive home before eight o'clock.
With one last check of her blackberry, Anthea turned to leave. As she pushed open the door, it suddenly occurred to her that she hadn't seen Mr Holmes leave - he usually came to say good evening before striding out the door and out to whatever life he lived outside of the office.
Something had been noticeably different in her boss recently; he smiled more, used his phone more often (and was often found giggling at it) and had started to work harder than ever during office hours in order to leave by the standard 7:30. Up until a few months ago, it was hardly uncommon to find him still working meticulously at 9 o'clock at night. These days, as soon as 7:30 came around, he was out of the door immediately.
More than a few people had noticed it, but owing to the nature of their occupations, little gossip was discussed. What was clear was Holmes had found himself someone, and nobody had a clue as to who it could be.

Confused as to why he had not left already despite it being 7:39, Anthea put down her bag and wandered over to her boss' office. Gently, she knocked on the door to no reply.
"Mr Holmes? Are you okay?"
She pressed her ear up against the door. A few quiet sobs emanated from the room within, and Anthea took the decision to open the door, not entirely sure if she was in her place to or not.
Inside, she found her boss slumped over his desk, his hands pressed together in front of his face. As she entered, he gulped in air and feebly tried to brush away the tears that were quite obviously running down his face. Anthea had never seen Mycroft in this state - nothing ever phased him.
"I'm p-perfectly fine, Anthea. Th-thank you for your concern." He tried in vain to steady his voice but it was no use. His hands trembled violently, his eyes were red with tears.
"I realise I am not in my place to ask, Mr Holmes, but please tell me you're okay? Is there anything I can do to help?" Mycroft looked up into Anthea's worry-stricken face. It was a shock for both of them to be in a situation as unusual as this one.
"It's... it's nothing, really." He stammered, his voice a little less hoarse. "Just a... lover's tiff." He looked down at his desk. He preferred not to bring his personal life into the workplace.
"Oh... I see... may I ask what happened?" She asked carefully. She wondered how much risk there was of losing her job.
"Do you think you could help?"
"I am your PA, sir."
"On a personal level, I mean. I must ask you not to tell anyone."
"Certainly, sir. Considering the number of government secrets I keep for you already."
"Which you do marvellously."
"Thank you." She made two cups of tea and set them down on the desk. "So, what happened?"

***
Greg stared blankly at the messages in front of him, immovable, set in stone by code. He read each one once, then twice.
"I need you."
A lump rose in his throat as the reality of what had happened started to sink in. The words echoed around his mind, and he knew it was true. Mycroft needed him. He was already so broken: by his lonely childhood, his cold and indifferent parents; John believing he'd sold Sherlock, his own brother,  to Moriarty; Eurus' games and the nightmares they still brought him.
Mycroft needed him.
And he needed Mycroft.
The man who could make him laugh til he cried, who managed to burn box-mix brownies, who sent him a rose at work just to try to brighten up his day...
A part of him inside shattered as he realised how much his actions might have cost him - his colleagues could take a long jump off a short pier for all he cared. His relationship with Mycroft was his alone to keep, and yet he'd been so consumed with anger at the difficulty it brought him, he'd been too blind to see that it didn't matter what others thought.
It was useless, sitting on the sofa eating cookies, Greg reasoned. He needed to make things up somehow - that was imperative - but how?
He rose from the sofa, clicked the television off and ran upstairs to shower, a plan in mind.