He had asked earlier this morning:
“I—” Mycroft had started, on the tip of his tongue a litany of reasons as to why he couldn’t, what with his agenda jam-packed with meetings and saving the world and what not. But the look on Greg’s face silenced him instantly. “Very well. I’ll be available at ten.”
Mycroft’s call came at almost eleven. It didn’t matter. Greg had taken the time difference into account. He waited for six seconds becore answering.
“Gregory, I apologise for—”
“Tell me about your day.” Greg switched off the bedside lamp and pulled the duvet up to his chin. “In as excruciating details as you can.”
Mycroft told him about the street musician who played Beethoven, Anthea’s homemade muffin that smelled like heaven, a cup of adequate coffee at the Ambassador’s office, and stone-cold croissant that tasted like bricks. And then he told him some more. And then some more. And then some more. Until he ran out of topics and realised Greg hadn’t said anything in the past ten minutes.
Mycroft drew a breath to ask, but Greg beat him to it. “I would guess,” he murmured, “you’re writing a report right now, yeah?”
“It’s not a report.” A pause."Would you like to take turns? How was your day?”
Greg told him about the packet of donuts that had arrived at the Yard (courtesy of a victim’s relative for landing a certain criminal in jail), Sherlock being rather agreeable for once, Anderson who almost fell into a canal, and a new bakery two blocks away that had recently opened.
He could hear the tap tap tap of Mycroft’s fingers dancing around the keyboard. He focused on the sound until the edges of his vision blurred and his mind ended up somewhere among the realm of unconsciousness.
“Good night, Gregory. Have some rest.”
He heard the smile in Mycroft’s voice, and that was enough.