A/N: Warning: Unedited Crack. Inspired by the fact my RP partner has abandoned me for Benedict tonight!

Once upon a time, Mycroft was sulking in the kitchen because his partner was ignoring him in favour of a massively dreamy prick called Benedict Cumberbatch who had taken over their TV and their sex life.

At first, it had been okay - the prgrammes he appeared in were decent and it finally seemed that they could bond over something that *wasn't* cookery programmes or football. It was an undeniable fact that this Cumberbatch fellow was a pretty fantastic specimen, which cheekbones to die for and the sort of eyes Mycroft would give his right lieg for, so he hadn't been bothered in the beginning by Greg's apparent infatuation.

Then it got silly. Greg started spending his evenings in front of two screens - one on the wall, one on his lap - and when Mycroft would try and include himself, he'd only get muttered, ambiguous responses and annoyed cries of, "Don't look over my shoulder!" On the one hand, he was glad that he no longer had to suffer the sulks that always occurred when Chelsea lost but when they were replaced by incoherent wails of, "I CAN'T I CAN'T!" it seemed like little consolation.

"I don't care about his hair or his face or his neck or his bloody plaid shirts!" Mycroft shouted back in response to a particularly loud verbal and physical keyboard smash. "For fuck sake…" he stirred the pasta sauce savagely, all his jealousy and annoyance mixing into the tomato-y concoction.

"Heathen!" Greg yelled back over the constant tapping of his laptop keys. "And everyone agrees with me, by the way!"

"Everyone?"

"Yup. They think you're a hater and that I should leave you immediately."

The wooden spoon was thrown down. "Excuse me?"

"They totally don't ship us- OMG this gif! Ugh! Mycroft, come see this!"

"I'd rather not," came the brusque response. "Gregory, put the laptop down and come for dinner."

"Nah, it's all good, I'll have it on my lap."

"Gregory-"

"Mycroft! 'Parades End' is about to be livestreamed!"

"What does that even mean?"

"It means that good things are about to happen! You don't understand!" Greg whined, fingers never stopping for a moment. "You could at least tryto understand!"

"I refuse to understand why you insist upon publicly mooning over a man you will never meet and will probably never come within a hundred feet of when you have a husband who actually exists, cooks you food and massages your feet!"

Greg gave no response to this until… "Everyone agrees they'd rather have Benedict."

Now it was Mycroft's turn to verbally keyboard smash.

"Darling, don't be cross," said Greg mildly from the living room. "If you'd just come and see this post…"

Doing his best impression of Sherlock, Mycroft stomped across the hall and bent down to peer, frowning, at Greg's laptop screen.

Greg smirked as he watched his partner's expression change rapidly from annoyance to confusion to reluctant understanding - he was witnessing The Conversion first hand.

"Hmm…" Mycroft cocked his head to one side, still staring intently at the image on the screen, then straightened up with a nod and a, "that is a very good shirt."

"Exactly! What about this one?"

"Aaah…"

"I know right!"

"Ooh, what's that?"

"Fanart."

"But they're…"

"Yup."

"….I can't!"