When Mycroft reaches 221B Baker Street (car perfectly parked parallel to the curb, of course) he opens the door without knocking and climbs the stairs, umbrella raised just a centimeter to keep clear of the steps. Mycroft reaches the landing and stands in the doorway to Sherlock's living room. The younger Holmes brother sits in a chair beside the fire grate with his violin in hand yet again; ever the dramatic one. Sherlock does not look up, only plucks out the devil's chord one note at a time. Really, Sherlock does take the practice of sibling rivalry to new heights.

Mycroft slowly removes his coat and drapes it over the arm of the couch. "I received your text about decreased height in tulip growth this year and came right over."

"It wasn't an immediate need."

"Oh, I think it was," Mycroft insists and strides across the room to sit down in the chair across from Sherlock, umbrella still in hand.

Sherlock has yet to look up since Mycroft arrived despite the tension in his neck which implies he wants to. Mycroft stares at Sherlock, waiting patiently as Sherlock inspects the floor, no doubt contemplating dirt levels ingrained in the threads or some other such inconsequential detail of the room around them. Finally, Sherlock sighs and glances up briefly, all Mycroft needs to see.

"Oh dear, you like him." Mycroft leans back, laying his free hand on the arm of the chair. "And he does not like you… at least not how you'd prefer him to."

Sherlock does not respond, staring again at the intricacies of the carpet. Clearly something has happened. Mycroft really needs to reinstall the cameras in Sherlock's flat; Sherlock finds them all too quickly.

Mycroft falls silent again waiting for the explanation. When none comes he clears his throat encouragingly.

"I may have…" Sherlock plucks a slow G major scale.

Mycroft tilts his head. "Yes?"

"Over stepped my bounds."

"Nothing too untoward I'd imagine given your track record or lack there of."

"It was enough." Sherlock plucks a high note.

"Enough?"

Sherlock lays his hand flat against the strings and looks up at Mycroft. "Enough."

"Care to elaborate?"

Sherlock frowns in that way he always used to – petulant child who wants everyone to read his mind and clap at the masterpiece they see. "No play back to view, Mycroft?"

"Perhaps if you left my cameras where you find them."

"And put your lackeys out of a job?"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock sighs. "I… tried to kiss him."

Sherlock's eyes flick briefly to the kitchen behind Mycroft and his fingers slip over the third string making a pained sort of noise.

Mycroft sees the two of them in his head – by the stove or maybe John seated at the table or on the close of the refrigerator door. He doesn't need CCTV to know the expression on Sherlock's face – tension by his eyes and every single possible outcome of his actions spider webbed in his mind as he finally took a step. Perhaps he touched John's hand, tipped John's chin, tried to reference movies such as Casablanca in his head to guide his way – over glittered fantasies of real life as poor substitutes for experience.

Mycroft taps his finger tips on the arm of the chair. "By tried I infer he stopped you?"

Sherlock's face twitches and though most people assume Sherlock has no feelings apart from arrogance – no care, no embarrassment, no shame – most people haven't known Sherlock his whole life. The desire to comfort Sherlock through touch long ago vanished after many a rebuke and furious tantrum, but for a moment Mycroft wishes to rub a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I misjudged the emotions of the situation." Sherlock plucks middle C three times. "John was speaking of Sarah and that failure, going on about nothing in that area working out long and how he needed something else. He…" Sherlock's fingers fumble and the violin squeaks in protest. Sherlock claps his hand against the strings, cutting off the sound. "I thought the way he looked at me meant something else."

"Perhaps it did."

"But it didn't," Sherlock cuts over Mycroft curtly, eyes finally gazing straight into Mycroft's.

Anyone else would think Sherlock was angry, furious at being wrong about something – so often right that this situation insults on principle. That, however, is not the case. Only Mycroft can see how Sherlock feels something which rarely occurs – confusion, unable to interpret the feeling of pain.

"Did he say anything?" Mycroft asks, voice low.

Sherlock presses his lips tightly together, fingers still. "He only said 'no.'" Sherlock looks away and Mycroft watches the scene replay behind Sherlock's eyes. "'No, Sherlock.' Then he left."

"I see." Mycroft notes in his head to assign a car to follow John's movements, two man detail should be sufficient.

Sherlock stares off into the air now, eyes over Mycroft's shoulder and his fingers absently pluck some minor scale up and down, up and down. This, perhaps, may be more difficult than Mycroft first foresaw.

Mycroft switches the crossing of his legs and inclines his chin. "I must say I am surprised you are talking to me about this."

Sherlock's eyes come back to the room and he spares Mycroft a glare. "I didn't ask you to come."

"Oh, but you did."

Sherlock flips his violin around and puts it under his chin. "John is the one I normally talk to and obviously that is not an option. You are all I'm left with."

"Forced to speak to your brother on personal matters." Mycroft turns his umbrella on its point. "Ironic, might even be considered an affectionate moment."

Sherlock bows slowly up and down over quiet, low register notes. "I think not."

Mycroft twirls his umbrella again. Sherlock plays a few lines of Beethoven, silence between them returning. Mycroft taps the end of his umbrella on the floor and breathes deeply. Sherlock's eyes quirk up.

"So, your problem, I take it, is what to do now?"

Sherlock stops bowing and lowers the arm, eyes toward the mantel. "Yes."

"Well, I am afraid, Sherlock, there is not much you can do at the moment." Sherlock makes a face but Mycroft presses on. "You've made the first move and despite his rejection the ball, so to speak, is still in his court."

Sherlock frowns, plucking an A sharp. "I'm powerless?"

"Hmm, well don't worry, Sherlock, he may come around. Don't push it. He's stayed this long. There must be something there."

Sherlock's fingers pause on his violin. "…really?"

"Yes, there is a rare breed which happens to be drawn to your… esoteric charms, Sherlock. Dr. Watson may be among them." Mycroft purses his lips and inspects his nails. "He certainly hasn't run screaming as of yet."

Sherlock shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow and breathes through his nose. "Still, I think…"

Mycroft pauses, wondering how much liberty he will be allowed to take before Sherlock closes down and turns him out as always happens. Sherlock stops moving, head tilted, listening – knowing Mycroft has an opinion.

Mycroft smiles and tries not to be smug at the opportunity. "I think perhaps John Watson is exactly what you need, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes perk up to peer at Mycroft.

"Of the very few times I have seen you interested in a person beyond their connection to some sort of violent crime there has always been an academic interest instead. Dr. Watson is quite different. Perhaps this –"

Mycroft suddenly stops mid sentence as he hears footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock stiffens almost imperceptibly in his chair and then John appears in the doorway. He hangs up his coat then freezes when he notices the two of them seated across the room. Mycroft and Sherlock stare silently at John as he stares back. The phrase 'Mexican standoff' passes through Mycroft's head though the balance is certainly unequal for a perfect fit to such a scenario. John's eyes shift to Sherlock alone but Mycroft does not have to turn to know Sherlock is not quite looking at John any longer. John's eyes tick over to Mycroft instead. Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

John purses his lips, shifts his weight and points between the Holmes's. "Were you two just talking about me?"

"No," Sherlock replies as Mycroft says, "yes."

They turn to each other and Sherlock cocks a disdainful eyebrow; Mycroft only mirrors him with an added quirk of his lip.

"How was Ms. Watson, John?" Mycroft asks, turning back to John. "Pleasant afternoon?"

Mycroft sees John bite the inside of his cheek and he shakes his head. "Have you put bugs in her flat too?"

Mycroft smiles thinly. "Not yet."

"Comforting."

"I'm sure there's a requisition somewhere."

Sherlock makes a derisive noise. Mycroft doesn't bother to glare. Instead he leans his umbrella against the chair and stands up, smoothing wrinkles from his suit jacket. John watches him in that focused way which means he is avoiding looking at something else. Perhaps hope remains.

"Well, I suppose my time is up."

"Unless we have more to discuss?" Sherlock says quietly from behind him.

Mycroft eyes his fingernails and tries very, very hard not to smile. Mycroft can count on one hand the number of times Sherlock has asked him stay. It never stops feeling like a second chance even though he knows the emotion is fleeting. He would love to stay, wants to stay, but in the end Mycroft always tries to do what is best for Sherlock.

"No, I think not." Mycroft looks up at John. "No doubt your sister was quite helpful with your current predicament, John."

John's blinks and his mouth gapes slightly. Mycroft smiles and walks around John to pick up his coat on the couch.

"I'm sure the two of you are going to have quite an awkward and hopefully fruitful conversation which it would be best I was not present for."

"Save your dramatics, Mycroft," Sherlock snaps.

Mycroft stares at John's back – tense shoulders and still hands, head angled slightly down so he hides the answer to Mycroft's accusation in the carpet.

Sherlock notices the details, connects the dots better than anyone but Mycroft reads people. He sees goals in posture, attitudes in address, emotions in tilted heads. John cares about Sherlock – has since the first time Mycroft whisked him away in a company car – and his loyalty almost defies reason. To John, Sherlock represents the real rush of life, the opportunity to feel alive and it will take far more than this to push John away. John has not moved from his spot, has not retreated from the room, has not said anything harsh or angry. Mycroft knows John will stay, will want to talk, will never leave Sherlock. Mycroft knows for certain he is dead on because John came back far sooner than he would have if the answer was really 'no.'

"Dramatics or not," Mycroft says as he walks back toward Sherlock to retrieve his umbrella, "I shall be on my way."

He stops in front of Sherlock, leaning to the left to pick up his umbrella. Sherlock stares up at him, same disdainful expression Mycroft always receives – a hint of something more, a request perhaps, but sometimes one must sacrifice. Mycroft smiles, mouths 'you'll be fine.' Sherlock breathes in through his nose and puts down his violin, the barest of nods in reply.

Mycroft grips his umbrella tightly and turns back. John crosses his arms and looks up at Mycroft.

"Good luck, Dr. Watson." Mycroft motions his head back toward Sherlock. "He does mean well somewhere underneath all that ego." Mycroft pauses. "Probably."

"I know," John says, eyes straight on Mycroft and the soldier look clicks into place - mission to complete.

Mycroft smiles once more and walks past John. "Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

Then he walks through the door and down the double flight of stairs. At the bottom step he pauses, waits to hear something, anything.

"If you are not staying, keep walking!" Sherlock shouts.

Mycroft chuckles and steps forward, door open, then back out onto the sidewalk. The back door of his black town car opens just before he lifts his hand to the handle. He slips inside and pulls the door closed behind him.

"Good conversation, sir?" A–– asks as she hands him his blackberry and a stack of three reports.

"Hopefully a better one to follow." He flips through the folders. "Pakistan?"

"Norman is late again."

Mycroft frowns. "I believe that puts him at two strikes."

"I'll send a warning e-mail and draft his termination letter." A–– types quickly on her blackberry. "Also, the prime minister has requested a meeting. I put him down for Thursday lunch but I can change it to Friday if you would rather cancel your brunch with the Russian ambassador."

"Hmm, he is quite dull."

"Which, sir?"

Mycroft chuckles and glances at A–– beside him. "Depends upon the conversation." Mycroft pulls up his schedule on his phone and purses his lips as he scrolls through. "Also, order a new round of surveillance cameras for Sherlock's flat."

A––'s hands pause. "Again, sir?"

"If at first you don't succeed."

"What shall I requisition them for this time, terrorist cell? Bomb threat? Child pornography ring?"

Mycroft attempts to suppress a grin only partially successfully. "I shall leave that to your creativity, my dear."

Mycroft turns to gaze out of the window and up to the second floor of the building beside them. The angle makes looking into the flat next to impossible and the glare blots out any details but the lace curtains. (Mycroft will continuously be amused by their presence in Sherlock's flat). No doubt Sherlock knows Mycroft waits below and won't give him the satisfaction of coming anywhere near the window to perhaps catch a glimpse. As far as the casual observer could tell no one is home.

"Would you like to realign a camera, sir?" A–– asks.

Mycroft purses his lips, pleased. "Not this time."

He said he would not be present for the conversation so he will stand by that and stay out of it, in all senses. No doubt if things fall over the brink one of the pair shall storm out in a huff – John with frustration or Sherlock in despair. Well, perhaps not. Maybe Mycroft would only relish the opportunity to come to his despondent brother's rescue. Mycroft smiles to himself; an older brother does wish to help his younger brother if he can. Still, only a fantasy.

"News on Korea?"

"In our favor."

"Excellent." Mycroft flips open the folder briefly then hands it back to A––. "No clean up, I trust."

"None for your worry, sir."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow and A–– clicks her tongue, fingers flying over the small keys. Mycroft knows every message, every e-mail, every check she types comes out perfectly – no spelling mistakes, no typos, no errors. He continues to stare at the side of her head. She glances over at him and tilts her chin.

"As I said, none for your worry."

Mycroft 'hmms' and leans back against the seat, sliding his fingers down the handle of his umbrella to brush the tips of the metal prongs. Mycroft opens the second report in his pile – news of the Russians in Georgia, plans for military ties, Putin yet again. Mycroft should probably schedule a trip to check up on the man just in case.

A suddenly movement out of the corner of his eyes makes Mycroft whip his head around. He looks up. The curtain on the right hand window ripples against the glass. Mycroft squints, tries to see more. He stares waiting until the movement slows and slows and stops.

"It was Dr. Watson, sir." A–– says without even glancing in his direction. "I could not see beyond that."

"Checking up on us perhaps?"

"Or he was pressed into the window by Sherlock in some sort of passionate embrace." She giggles very slightly and clicks a punctuation mark with an extra flourish of thumb.

Mycroft clears his throat. "Do remember whose sibling you are referring to."

Her fingers still for two seconds. "Very sorry, sir."

Mycroft smirks and A–– fingers spring to life again. "Mr. Roberts is confirmed sir."

"Very good, make contact and keep our second man on alert."

"Done already."

Mycroft looks over at A–– and she turns to smile back. They look away again, she to her blackberry and Mycroft to the third and largest folder in his pile. It is so good to have efficient subordinates, especially those who seem to read his mind.

Many a page turn later and almost at the same moment as Mycroft finally finishes reading the monstrosity of a report in his hands on Egypt, the front door to 221B Baker Street opens. Mycroft closes the folder then turns to the woman seated beside him. She clicks a button on her blackberry.

"Four hours, sir."

"Exactly?"

She smirks. "Three hours, forty-eight minutes, sir."

"Hmm, longer than expected."

John walks across the sidewalk toward the car and Mycroft lowers the window. John stoops and peers in at Mycroft, slight smile on his face.

"Are you going to ask us to leave, because it would be rather pointless I am sure you are aware?"

John laughs once. "No. Wasn't really paying much attention to you, sorry."

"I will try not to take offense."

"I just wanted to ask you something."

Mycroft cocks an eyebrow. "As someone once said to me, I have a phone. You could have called."

"Yes, well," John glances back up in the direction of his flat then turns back, "Sherlock."

Mycroft nods. "Yes, of course." He raises his eyebrows once. "Well, then?"

"How did you know? You knew as soon as I walked back in; you knew even before I came back to the flat."

"Well, how else could one explain your continued presence in Sherlock's life? It's not as though he's a charm."

John makes a face and puts his hands on his hips.

Mycroft folds his hands in his lap. "He is just what you need and you are just what he needs."

John's eyebrows fly up, surprised. "I don't think that's really an answer."

Mycroft smiles once. "Perhaps not but it was inevitable, Dr. Watson, I knew when I met you." Mycroft leans back in his seat, almost out of John's view. "Now, I would imagine Sherlock has spent enough time peering out of the window trying to deduce what you are speaking to me of. It would be good to ease his nerves."

John turns around to gaze back up at the building and Mycroft pushes the button to raise the window again.

"Welcome to the family, John," Mycroft adds as the window closes and he just catches the sound of John's laugh.

Mycroft straightens his waistcoat and allows himself a smile. Beside him, A––'s fingers still on her blackberry. Mycroft sees the edges of her lips curve upward out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes?"

"You could have told him you guessed, sir."

"I certainly did not guess."

"You did." She turns to him. "You didn't know. You knew Dr. Watson would stay not that he felt the same; you just wanted it to be true to make your brother happy." She pauses then adds. "Sir."

"Well," Mycroft turns his eyes to her, "I do tend to get what I want."

They both smile and look forward again. Mycroft taps the end of his umbrella against the wall separating them from the driver. The brake releases and Mycroft glances up once at 221B Baker Street, door closing behind John and Sherlock smirking ever so slightly in the window, as the car pulls away – everything as it should be.