A/N: Mycroft has a some debilitating grief here. I'm not sure if that will trigger, but I think the way I've written it makes it similar to a panic attack, so please, if that triggers you, stop reading.

His PA has the day off. That means that Mycroft goes down to the cafe for coffee himself, waits in line like everyone else. It's days like these, oddly enough, that he thinks of Sherlock, remembering the legwork he so loved, the city he adored, could barely stand to leave, even for a military base investigation.

It's been fifteen months since his brother swan-dived off a building, and the pain has lessened somewhat to a dull ache beneath his breastbone, something he can manage and tuck away and hide so that it doesn't prevent him from working. Sometimes, though, it washes over him, until his bones and teeth ache where they sit and it's all he can do not to let it show on his face or shine through in his eyes.

When that happens, if he's at his office, his assistant will mysteriously schedule a small meeting for him to attend, something he doesn't need to pay attention to, so that he can sit in the back and collect himself, instead of being left to let his self-pity slowly overwhelm him. On those days, he manages to push the pain back enough that it returns to the dull ache, a sharp red lining on everything he sees and does instead of a veil that obscures everything and everyone.

But today, his assistant is absent, and as he reaches the counter, he steels himself, trying to locate his voice again so he can place his order. It won't come, it refuses to come, he can't find the words, and he begins to panic. The acne-ridden young man behind the counter, hair shorn in a badly-done mullet, gazes at him blankly, waiting, then picks up a paper-menu and slides it across, presses a pen into Mycroft's hand.

He swallows and takes it, manages to circle what he wants and push it back. The kid takes it, enters his order, takes his card, all the while not making eye contact, for which Mycroft is grateful. As he slowly regains control of himself, he finds a paper mug pressed into his hand and a hand on his arm from behind the counter turning him away, to the left. "The table in the corner is empty."

As Mycroft drifts towards the table in question, sipping at his drink, the line moves forward, and the kid looks away, answers the next customer in a voice that cracks when it gets too high. Mycroft is not looking when the grey eyes linger, when the kid runs his hand through his bleached hair and swallows. Sherlock's not sure his brother would be able to handle that just now.