The touch was nice; in his addled state, Greg didn't think much of it past that - it seemed perfectly natural. There was plenty to sort through just trying to think of the list of objects he used on a daily basis. "I think - toothbrush, you know. The usual rubbish. Few clothes, I guess, for when I can get back into a real shirt." He couldn't say he wasn't pleased to be leaving behind paper gowns and hospital food. "Don't need much."

But he'd have plenty, he knew. The thought of that place was still a little surreal. "You've got a massive bloody house," he pointed out, drawling a little. "Seems like you ought to have plenty of company. Not an entertainer?" It might have been the drugs or the fatigue, but the prospect of Mycroft Holmes throwing a party was inordinately amusing. It shouldn't have been.