It's been a terrifying flood lately... a lot of things. Another pile of paperwork at work and another, another fucking high-profile case in London. He could only hope that all these "killers" and other evil spirits would survive in silence for a while while he solved the accumulated problems. Whether they were of a personal nature or a work-related one, it was unpleasant to recognize the significance of the former for Greg's mental state.

But even so, the sediment was mixed with the rest of the feelings. The cold in the always warm house that he shared with his loved one. Usually, Lestrade himself was never angry or upset that Mycroft could come home late. After all, he works in the government and all that.

It's just a bad day.

They usually had dinner together. We discussed how the day went, talked about other things, and then fell asleep while watching a movie. But today it was different, and it was the second hour, as Greg sat alone in the living room, looking at the time with irritation and impatience sometimes.

When the click of the door made itself felt, for some reason he was drunk. Unconsciously, but it was there, and in addition to that, his own hands clenched into fists. Lestrade never took out his stress on others, only in physical exertion, when his walls and knuckles had to suffer. Therefore, his voice was hoarse than usual and tense.

"You know, you could have specified how long you would be staying. I get the feeling that I see corpses more often than I see you."