Chapter Text
It had been yet another horrible day for Greg Lestrade. Double homicide first thing in the morning; a child found wandering the streets, emaciated and covered in cigarette burns just after lunch; and a kid knifed outside St. James’ Park to finish up the day. There was nothing he wanted more than to drink himself into a stupor and collapse into bed.
Sherlock and John had been with Greg for most of the day, and as soon as everyone had agreed that there was nothing more that could be done that night, John and Greg retreated to their local pub. By the time John convinced him to head home, Greg had drunk nearly an entire bottle of scotch.
As usual, the moment the two men exited the pub, a sleek black car pulled up to the kerb and the two of them poured themselves into the back seat. John got out at Baker Street, stumbling up to the door and fumbling with his keys until Mrs Hudson came out in her dressing gown and dragged him inside, muttering about the neighbors.
When Greg got home, no one came out to help him inside. That wasn’t surprising, Mycroft and the kids were all likely asleep by now, he reasoned, and therefore was quite shocked when he entered the sitting room to find his husband sitting in an armchair, waiting for him.
“Do you know what time it is?” Mycroft asked, no anger detectable in his voice, just sadness. “You forgot Agatha’s birthday.” Greg’s face fell as he realized that Mycroft was right, it was their daughter’s eighth birthday.
“I didn’t mean to…I’ll make it up to Aggie, I promise.” Greg tried to show how contrite he was, but he was swaying and slurring considerably. Mycroft closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“She is devastated, Gregory, she isn’t going to let this go. She was crying all night, I just managed to get her to sleep. It took Sherlock calling her and telling her that you definitely didn’t get hurt at work. She couldn’t believe that you would intentionally miss her birthday, she assumed you had died!” Mycroft was visibly upset now, his hands trembling and his eyes red.
“She’s just being dramatic,” Greg muttered, his contrition morphing into anger as the direction of the conversation became clear.
“She’s really not, Gregory.” Mycroft sighed, his face lined with deep sadness. “How much did you drink tonight that you would even say that about her?”
“It’s none of your fucking business how much I drank!” Greg’s voice was getting incrementally louder. “I’m a bloody adult, Mycroft, I can have a drink if I want. I’m sorry I forgot Aggie’s birthday, what do you bloody want from me?”
“I want my husband back,” Mycroft pleaded. “This isn’t the man I married, the man I had kids with. What’s happened to you, Greg? What can I do?”
“I am the man you married,” Greg was properly yelling now, spit flying from his mouth as he was overtaken by an all consuming rage. “It’s not my fault that you don’t like that.”
“Greg, please, you’re going to wake up the kids, let’s just talk about this. Your drinking is getting out of control, you need help.”
“I don’t need anything! I’m fine! I’ve had enough of this!” Greg was snarling now, the force of his anger more than making up for the three inch height advantage Mycroft had.
“Greg, please…” Mycroft’s voice was cut off by a sharp slap across his face. He stared, dumbstruck at his husband, who suddenly seemed to regain control of himself, snapping his hand back to his side, horrified at what he had just done.
“Myc, I’m so…” Greg started but Mycroft cut him off.
“You may sleep in the guestroom tonight. I’m going to bed.” Mycroft’s tone was clipped and left no room for negotiation. He turned and left the room, ushering the kids, who had snuck down from their beds to see what the yelling was about, upstairs.
Greg stood in the middle of the sitting room, his feet planted to the floor, paralyzed and terrified of what he had become.