Greg wakes up on the fourth morning of Sherlock's stay to the sound of the shower running in the bathroom next door. He wipes his face with his hands, scrubbing at his eyes. Thank God, he thinks, the kid taking a shower is a sign that he's returning to life. Maybe he can even coax some food into him. He's seen him eat, well, he's seen him devour crisps and a couple of sticky pastries when a case went on for too long.

Climbing out of bed, Greg puts on a dressing gown and slippers and makes his way to the kitchen. His cousin (first cousin twice removed or second cousin once removed, Greg's not really sure) had visited from America a few months back. She had taught him to make pancakes. He pulls out the ingredients from the cupboard and the fridge and sets to work.

Sherlock wanders in. He's actually put on the clothes Greg left for him. Sitting at the kitchen table, he offers the older man a weak smile and a soft, "Morning." He thinks maybe he can eat something. He even wants to eat something, almost as much as he had wanted to get clean. It's actually rather surprising. The detective watches Greg cook, not with interest, but as a diversion to thinking. The black mood has shifted to grey, but it's still there. At least he can breathe again, think again. Sherlock shudders. Not being able to properly think was the worst of what he had been experiencing. It had been as if his mind had got caught in an endless loop.

Greg tips the pan and slips the pancakes onto the plates he had put on the side. He sits one in front of Sherlock and puts his own at his place at the table. "I've got coffee, if you'd like." At Sherlock's nod, he pours a cup for the kid. "I take mine black, but..."

"Black's fine," the detective says. Belatedly, he adds, "Thank you."

Greg and Sherlock eat in silence, but it's a different kind of silence than what has filled the air for the last few days. The older man finds himself feeling hopeful that just maybe this fucked up, brilliant kid will make it through. Greg wants to ask if Sherlock is feeling better, but he resists. He doesn't want to push, so he waits for him to make the next move, to say something.

Finally, Sherlock finishes eating and pushes himself back from the table. He doesn't get up though, just tries to remember where he last had his phone. "Lestrade, I seem to have misplaced my mobile."

Greg swallows a sip of coffee. "Actually, you left it by the sofa. My charger fit it, so I plugged it in for you. It should be charged."

With a nod, Sherlock says, "Thank you." He gets up and goes to fetch his phone, then comes back. He's expecting it to have several messages from his brother, but it doesn't. That's unexpected. He plays back the last three days and four nights. Sherlock doesn't recall Greg getting a text message or even a phone call apart from the two calls from his daughter. That's even more unexpected. "Mycroft hasn't been checking up on me."

Greg looks up, surprised by the look on Sherlock's face. "No, Son. I told him you needed a bit a space. Maybe he's taken it to heart."

That's… No. Mycroft doesn't listen to anyone. Especially not some officer from the met. He shakes his head, because apparently he's wrong. Sherlock types out a simple message.

Ready to come home - SH

There. Now his brother knows that he's feeling better. For leaving him here with Lestrade, Sherlock decides he owes him that much, at least.

Sherlock bites his lip. How is he supposed to tell Lestrade thank you? Words are inadequate and, besides, it's not something that he does. He clears his throat. "Ahem, Lestrade…"

Sensing, somehow, what the kid is trying to say, Greg smiles at him. "Don't. You don't have to. I know. Just… Be more spectacular than you already are at my next crime scene, yeah? Maybe don't insult my team more than, say, six times. We'll call it even." He goes back to clearing the breakfast dishes, rinsing them off and putting them in the sink to wash later.

Sherlock's phone pings. He reads Mycroft's message.

I'm glad to know that things have improved. A car is waiting outside to bring you home, if agreeable. – MH

That brings a lump to Sherlock's throat. It's the first time in years that his brother has refrained from simply ordering him about. For that, he will limit his insults to Lestrade's team at the next crime scene to three.

Sherlock tells Greg, "My brother has sent a car for me. He says it's waiting outside."

"Is that okay, Son? Is it what you want?" He hides it well, but the older man's voice is tinged with concern.

"I… Yes. I think I'm ready to go home now. I don't feel so…" Sherlock trails off, not knowing how to explain, but from the look on Greg's face, he understands. He goes and gets his clothes, the ones he's been wearing for nearly the last four days. When he gets back, he has them under his arm. "I'll return these," Sherlock says, plucking at the T-shirt he's wearing.

Greg nods. "There's no rush." He's not surprised when the kid goes straight to the door. Apparently his departure is going to be abrupt.

Sherlock pauses halfway through the door. This time, he manages to get the words out. "Thank you. For everything." He closes the door and he's gone.