Mycroft's expression creased into a frown at the thought of Gregory, alone in that ridiculous little flat of his, microwaving a cup of noodles all on his own. Something in his shoulders squared, and he spoke firmly, "Don't be ridiculous. If you need a place to take care of you, then that person is going to be me."

He took out his phone, and started to text his assistant and his household staff. "Do you still like all the same cuisine from the last time you stayed with me, or shall I change up the menu accordingly?"

He could not think of Gregory alone. Better that he be at home, with Mycroft, while he recovered. Any other thoughts beyond that were pushed viciously aside, and with good reason. He was doing this as a ... person concerned, and no more. Or at least, that was what he tried to tell himself.