It was a rainy Sunday, if I recall correctly. Sherlock and I had just returned from a particularly long case in Dublin and already the Yard already had something for us to investigate without giving us a moments peace. I was running on thirty minute naps, coffee, and the occasional fast food item. Sherlock? The insane git was running on five days of pure adrenaline.

The case wasn't anything gripping; nothing at all to write on the blog about, and Sherlock made that extremely clear by complaining for five minutes and then determining who the killer was in two. To be honest, even I was surprised that they couldn't figure it out themselves.

Even after the arrest was made (the bloody murderer was in the room), Sherlock made sure to drive his irritation home by terrorizing everyone working on the case and making them feel like utter shit. Then again, he does that every time. During the prolonged verbal abuse towards innocent people, Greg pulled me into his office locking the door behind him and turning to look at me with uncertainty.

"This thing was a walk in the park, mate," he said, "and it's not the reason why I asked for you two to come." Frantically, he glanced around the room. I didn't have to be a consulting detective to deduce that he had a juicy secret, and who would I be to pass up some good gossip? He plopped down at his desk and gestured for me to sit across from him.

"I have recently taken a lover…" he began hesitantly.

"That's great news!" I exclaimed, grinning. Greg had always had some lady issues, and it was great to see that he had finally hooked the interest of a gal. "Congratulations! Can't believe Sherlock hasn't deduced it yet. Who's the lucky lady?"

"See, that's the issue… the lucky lady isn't exactly a lady…"

"Okay, so you've got a lucky man." I realize a lot of people would be put off by this, but when your sister is an alcoholic lesbian, you learn to deal with sexuality in the worst way possible. "Who's the lucky man?"

"Sherlock's brother."

Suddenly, things got very personal very fast. I blinked at him, unsure if he was being honest or playing a very serious practical joke. "You serious?"

Rubbing a hand over his tired face, he nodded solemnly. "Yes. Sherlock's brother, Mycroft…"

I turned to look behind me, just in case Sherlock was hovering by the door or there was a camera crew from Punk'd ready to pounce, but Sherlock moved his anger onto a poor rookie and there were no cameras in sight.

"You're messing with me. Really?"

"Yes…"

"With Sherlock's brother? Sherlock's brother who plays a minor role in the British government, Sherlock's brother?"

"Yes…"

"No, nah; you… you've gotta be kidding me. Did you go… y'know… all the way?"

"Big time."

I could think of no better way to utter my shock than a graceful "shit," and he shrunk so far into his seat that it was like he was melded to it.

"Oh, my God."

"I know."

"Oh, my God."

"I know."

"Jesus, I… Sherlockdoesn't know, does he?"

"No, and we'd like to keep it that way."

I let out a harsh laugh, slightly manic. "He's going to find out, Greg. He always finds things out. For God's sake, he knew how old my toothbrush was by looking at the curve of my upper lip, you don't think that you and his brother are having sexual relations?"

"Shh!" he hissed, his hands flying forward to try and cover my mouth. "Don't be giving it away!"

"You'll be giving it away yourself by the state of your shoes, or something ridiculous like that!" I argued. "For both of our sakes, Greg, please; never, ever see Mycroft again. You know how Sherlock can get, and frankly, I don't want to deal with it."

"I know, mate; I know! The last thing I want to do is have a brooding teenaged detective working cases, but I… Jesus, John, I'm kind of in love with Mycroft."

"Love," I groaned, rubbing my forehead. There was enough stress on my shoulders by running after lethal criminals, I didn't need Sherlock bitching and moaning about his brother having sex with the detective inspector of the London Police Force.

"Okay, you know what?" Abruptly, I stood, tapping my fingers on the desk in front of me. "I am going to leave, we are going to forget this ever happened and we will desperately hope that Sherlock never finds out about this."

With that, I turned on my heel and left Greg to his Holmes brother crisis. Give me Jim Moriarty, a gigantic hound and my crazy ex girlfriends over an extremely moody Sherlock any day. It was times like this, when I seized him by the arm and forcefully dragged him out of the building, that I thanked my years of military training for making me able to manhandle all six feet of the lanky git. God knows I would need every ounce of it later on.