It was a bright and sunny day in May when John and Sherlock went to St. James Park. John had decided to wait for Sherlock, parking himself in a sunny spot, while Sherlock went to a vendor nearby to fetch two cups of tea.
Sherlock walked with spring in his steps, like he mostly did when a case was solved. The last one had been tricky but he loved tricky. Everybody could do easy - even Lestrade and his morons - but tricky allowed him to shine. People acknowledged his genius and John said things like 'fantastic' or 'amazing' (eat your heart out, brother mine!) and looked at Sherlock in that unique way only John could look and he would smile at him.
Just a couple of days ago he had overheard John telling Donovan, when she had asked him what he saw in that freak, that he liked bright people.
"And Sherlock is as bright as one gets!" Those had been John's exact words, which had made the world's only Consulting Detective bristle with pride.
Grudgingly the detective had admitted to himself that just solving a case wasn't enough any more. He needed John's approval, his praise, the fond look John gave him and the touch of his hand, with the affectionate squeeze. Sherlock could almost hear Mycroft's sneer how pathetic that was. But what did he care what Mycroft thought as long as John…
Sherlock's steps and thoughts came to a screeching halt. He had just rounded a corner and there they were; John and Mycroft talking to each other. It was not the fact that they talked but how they did it.
It took Sherlock almost a minute to deduce the expression he distorted Mycroft's face. Once his brain provided the result he had the urge to sit down, put his head between his knees and breathe. Slow steady breaths until his head would stop spinning. It was a genuine smile Mycroft had plastered on his face.
Much worse was John though. He had angled his body towards Mycroft and just touched his brother's shoulder. And Mycroft blushed. Why did his brother blush when John touched his shoulder? Sherlock's heart sank.
John had told Donovan he liked bright people. 'I am the smart one!' Mycroft's voice thundered in Sherlock's brain. The doctor would not, could not favour Mycroft over him. Or could he?
Sherlock took a step backwards, hiding in the shadow of a large tree, the paper cups with tea in his hands almost forgotten, to watch John and Mycroft from a safe distance.
John had been quite surprised to see Sherlock's older sibling walking back and forth along the pond in the park, looking at his watch ever so often. For a change he wasn't dressed in his usual three piece suit but in casual wear. Dark trousers, a white-blue-striped shirt and a smart suede-jacket. Even the ubiquitous umbrella was missing.
The night before John had met with Greg in a pub for a couple of beers to watch Arsenal playing Crystal Palace. They hadn't seen each other in quite a while so an update had been overdue.
When Greg had arrived at the pub ten minutes late John had hardly believed is eyes. The Inspector had looked younger, was almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. With ears turned pink but glittering eyes Greg had confessed to the doctor that he and Mycroft were a couple now. John had needed to ask four or five questions to get it into his brain that the man Greg raved about was indeed Sherlock's brother. Funny? Affectionate? Considerate? John wouldn't have guessed that any single one of these adjectives could be found in the politician's repertoire.
However it didn't really matter what he thought about Mycroft because the longer they talked the clearer it became that Greg was a very happy bloke. Several times (during the game!) Greg had texted, twice grinning like an idiot while reading the reply.
Now John was curious to ascertain if Mycroft felt like Greg did.
"Hey, Mycroft," John greeted him.
Mycroft bestowed a smile on him that had the doctor almost knocked off his feet. John fought the urge to call BBC for a camera team, for he hadn't even known the politician's facial muscles could produce an honest to God smile.
They chatted for some time and from what John heard, Mycroft knew how much Greg (he actually called him Gregory!) had told John the other day.
"What about you and Sherlock?" Mycroft eventually asked. John considered the question.
"What about Sherlock and me?"
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Either you are really living in sweet oblivion or you are a much better actor then I would have given you credit for."
John crossed his arms in front of his chest, giving Mycroft his 'I used to be a soldier and you better don't mess with me-glare'.
"I know I'm rubbish when it comes to feelings," Mycroft admitted to him, watching with avid interest some ducks fighting over breadcrumbs instead of looking at John. "But I know that my brother is very fond...", Mycroft reconsidered his choice of words, "that my brother loves you."
Maybe John should really call BBC. First Mycroft was smiling and now he even could enunciate the word love without bursting into flames and turning to ashes or something equally dramatic.
John was just about to start an argument about feelings that were or weren't there when he realized his own face was suddenly sporting a wide and probably very stupid grin. He closed his mouth again and saw amusement dance in Mycroft's eyes. "Oblivion then."
John nodded, dumbfounded. "Are you sure Sherlock..."
"Quite sure," Mycroft replied.
For a moment John just kept on smiling at all the people that passed by, the trees, the ducks and eventually Mycroft.
"Thanks – I guess." He scratched his neck, clearly feeling awkward talking about his feelings. „I hope I can initiate the next step that gets Sherlock and me where you and Greg already are." He squeezed Mycroft's shoulder and found the man was actually blushing.
They exchanged a few more pleasantries, before John began to wonder when Sherlock would decide to come back. His eyes began darting in the general direction his flat-mate had left some time ago.
Mycroft had already discovered Sherlock looming in the shadow, watching like a hawk the events that unfolded in front of his keen eyes. Knowing which button to press to lure out his brother, Mycroft deliberately touched John's neck. "I'm sorry, John, there was a wasp in your hair."
Sherlock was almost in shock. Mycroft couldn't touch John like this. He could not touch John at the neck. And why on earth didn't John kill him for touching him? Of course, Sherlock wasn't jealous. No! Never! That would have been laughable. He would never be jealous. The way Mycroft touched John simply wasn't... acceptable.
Emptying the second cup of tea with a determined gulp, Sherlock strode out of the shadow towards John and his brother he would probably kill for this insolence.
He had just reached the path they were standing on, when Mycroft, who had watched Sherlock approach, directed his focus at something over his younger brother's shoulder.
The detective turned around and saw Gavin... no, Greg!... with a brilliant smile on his face, walking towards them. Sherlock turned back and looking at Mycroft he saw to his utter amazement that his brother was capable of an even more dazzling smile. He was literally glowing and Sherlock was positive that if this had been in one of those films John had forced him to watch, the philharmonics would bring the music at this point to its culmination.
And while Sherlock had more or less Pavarotti in his ear, shouting 'Vincero' from Nessun Dorma, John turned, looked at Sherlock and directed and equally dazzling smile at him. The detective felt his knees go weak when realization not dawned but hit him over the head. Oh God, he was in love with John! He was in love with John. And, oh, he was in love with John. And although he was a bit not good when it came to deducing other people's feelings, even for him it was clear as day that John was in love with him.
Seconds later he stood right in front of the blond doctor, his hands clutching two very empty teacups.
"I had bought you tea but I drank it." He told him.
"Then why don't we get fresh tea," John suggested. He said goodbye to Mycroft, took the empty cups from Sherlock and threw them in a bin that stood next to a bank, before lacing his fingers with the detectives.
Sherlock allowed himself to get dragged towards the vendor. He threw one last look over his shoulder, meeting his brother's eyes. Mycroft returned his brother's gaze with a smile and a wink, before he took Gregory's hand and they walked the other way.