Sorry, I did ask Sherlock to text you this, but he doesn't seem too intent on it. What I would like to ask you is; would you like to come over for dinner tonight? There's going to be others, it's an evening for my birthday. Again, sorry about Sherlock's lack to invite, he really does want you to come!

Mycroft allowed himself a chuckle as he read John's text; his little attempts at covering up his younger brother, Sherlock's, annoyance at having him come over were amusing. He had been expecting this text from John over the week; fully in the knowledge that today was the man's birthday. Though, he hadn't expected the text to be so last-minute- this was probably due to the fact that he had been the last to be invited, considering the fact that John and Sherlock had probably spent the majority of this leading up week debating on whether they should invite him or not. He should have known. So then, pacing across his spotless, extravagantly furnished master bedroom to his vast walk-in wardrobe, began texting back to John-

Of course I'll come, ah, that brother mine! I'm sure we'll all get along when the time comes

-MH

He then, putting his phone away, satisfied with the minute conversation, proceeded to thumb through the more expensive and designer part of his wardrobe, planning on how he should dress-up for the evening.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH

'Ooh, hello, Mycroft! 'Mrs Hudson pulled open the door for the British Government, and elder Holmes brother. 'Come in, come in, it's freezing out there!' she smiled her warm smile to him as he elegantly stepped in, dressed in his smartest suit and wearing his smartest smile. He then hung his umbrella on the rack to his right; as always, head held high, back straight, looking important.

'Why thank you, Mrs Hudson,' he replied, stepping past her and gesturing for her to proceed up the stairs before him.

He then proceeded up after her, the sound of music slowly getting louder the closer he got to the flat. Then, as Mrs Hudson reached for the door handle, which seemed to have various scarfs, hats and, it seemed, sellotape, randomly thrust onto it, (who knows why) before he knew it he was caught up in a rush of familiar and non-familiar faces; all greeting and welcoming (some drunkenly, some not), and loud music emanating everywhere in the room all around him, as well as the loud chatter exploding from all sorts of conversations around the room. All in all, as you could probably imagine, it was a little overwhelming.

He was greeting in all directions, apologising all over the room as he made his way through the dancing crowd, leaving a trail of disrupted dance-floor behind him; eventually wading into the kitchen, where it was a lot quieter. Also, for once, all of Sherlock's mess had actually been tidied away. Well, THAT was a by whom? Who on earth would want to put their time into tidying up that radio-active mess in the psychopath's (no, sorry, sociopaths) kitchen? Mycroft looked around; by the way things were placed and stored, obviously not a very experienced house-worker, yet somebody that knew the place well…

Very well.

And that leaves only one suspect of the very few he had in mind.

Sherlock.

Well that was obvious.

Well, not really.

Sherlock Holmes had tidied up.

That is news to my ears, (*or mind, considering he's never actually heard the information outside of his deductive brain*), Mycroft thought to himself.

Sherlock was obviously willing to go to great lengths for John Watson, if he'd tidied for him.

Mycroft wondered why.

Ah, that'd probably be connected to one of his more recent deductions about his brother;

Love.

Caring.

Relations.

This is most inconvenient.

This is…

This is human error.

What if Sherlock turned out like the rest of them?

Blundering around, blind, not thinking with mind but heart.

No, what am I thinking; this is Sherlock I'm thinking about.

The great consulting detective.

All lives end, all hearts are broken; caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.

That's what he'd even told him.

But obviously Sherlock hadn't followed this advice.

For his dear brother had let himself do something as foolish as fall in love.

Mycroft didn't understand it.

He'd never chosen to be in love.

Why didn't people just choose not to?

Strange, really, because most of the times it is an inconvenience leading to hate, argument, and even death.

These were his thoughts as he entered the kitchen; mere thoughts that had only lasted a few moments as he crossed through the doorway, and scanned across the unusually tidied room with his deductive eyes.

The room had a few occupants-

Mary, John, Sherlock and someone he'd never really seen before, except at a few crime scenes, usually working with Sherlock- and they didn't seem to get along that well. He was sneering in the younger brother's direction as he carefully conversed with John.

'Ah, dear brother, glad you could make it' Sherlock said, with a hint of sarcasm, as he stepped gladly away from his (obviously dull) conversation, to greet his elder brother.

'Hello, brother mine,' Mycroft replied smoothly with an expensive smile, looking knowledgably into his younger brother's eyes.

'I'm surprised you could make it, Mycroft,' Sherlock began to tease, as he stared back at his distorted reflection, in the British Government's widening pupils. 'It was only the other day that you were telling me how…busy you are…'

'Hmm yes, I did have a lot of important business to finish off,' Mycroft began excusing himself stealthily, 'But I thought I'd better hold it back and just, you know, drop by,' he lied, in the knowledge that Sherlock knew the truth, and that it was a pointless thing to tell his consulting-detective brother, but he thought it would look better to any near-by listeners anyway.

'I see…' Sherlock said, turning away and disappearing through a door leading out of the kitchen; presumably to be alone for a while; Mycroft knew that these 'social gatherings', as he liked to call them, were not his brothers favourite way to spend the evening.

He then turned around from the lost conversation to the rest of the room, moving across to greet the centre of the occasion;

'Many salutations, John,' he said, smiling (probably down upon) the shorter man. Though, Mycroft had to admit, the previous army-doctor was a decent individual, and had certainly, over the tough years, earned a hard thing to get from Mycroft; his (honest) admiration (so, perhaps not down upon). How could you look down upon someone who had endured the amazing Sherlock Holmes for over three years?

'Mycroft?' John said; looking genuinely surprised at the rather late arrival of the elder Holmes brother (as he turned from his conversation with Anderson). He had obviously assumed that Mycroft had gone onto some important matters, as always, and not been able to make it.

'Yes, that I am,' he replied, shaking hands calmly with the (unpredictably) pleasantly surprised John.

'It's good that you could make it,' he said, as they let go hands, and he reached towards the table for his drink.

'Thank you John, I think so too. Also, may I just use this opportunity to say-'

And this was then that he saw it.

In the doorway.

Just a simple, small object.

It was a car-key.

A rather extravagant car-key at that.

Mycroft bent down, out of interest, to pick it up and perhaps find the owner.

But, as he did so, so did somebody else.

Somebody he neither knew nor recognised.

Obviously the owner of this flash car.

Their well-combed skulls collided.

They both looked up.

They both looked into each other's eyes.

And time seemed to freeze.

Everyone else in the room seemed to disappear, as Mycroft looked into the eyes of this man, this man who he'd never even seen before.

And the funny thing was; he just wanted them to stay like that.

The two men slowly unfolded themselves, not breaking the sudden intimate eye-contact, and stood to their full height, just continuing to look into the others eyes wistfully, until-

'I believe this to be yours,' Mycroft said, extending his hand elegantly with a smooth smile towards the other man.

'Yes, er…yes it is, thanks,' the man scratched the side of his face as he took the keys rom Mycroft's hand. He spoke in a strong, smart tone, though he was smiling a little bashfully as he did so. The two were still deep into each other's eyes.

'Mycroft Holmes,' Mycroft addressed himself, extending an open and empty hand.

'Greg Lestrade,' Lestrade replied, extending his own right hand to meet Mycroft's; their fingers interlacing for the first time. It sent Mycroft's heart racing. 'Holmes?' he continued, as the two, still in what seemed unbreakable eye-contact, shook hands enthusiastically.

'Yes, I am Sherlock's brother,' Mycroft said, answering Lestrade's question before he even had a chance to ask it; wearing an unusually warm smile as he did so.

'Ah, I never knew he had one,' and as the D.I said this, the two laughed at Sherlock's obvious reluctance to mention his elder sibling.

'Yes, I don't imagine myself being something he talks widely about,' Mycroft laughed gently, as the two (unwillingly) ended their unusually long handshake, placing their right hands by their sides. 'I've heard about your name before, though. Detective Inspector? Hmm, that must be a lot of work.'

'Yes, well, it can be,' Lestrade began, in his usual strong and careful tone. 'But it's a job I enjoy. How about your work? Worth the pay?'

'Yes, I would say so,' Mycroft could see what the next question was going to include, and so decided to go ahead and answer it anyway. 'I occupy a minor position in the British Government.'

And so the two men continued on talking like this for a while, Mycroft's heart beating faster than ever before as he conversed with the Detective Inspector. He had known the symptoms as soon as they hit him, and was aware of what had happened.

He was in love.

In love with D.I Lestrade.

This could present problems.

He remembered his own quote-

All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.

But…I don't know…I can't…I…

Need this man.

And just as Mycroft was mulling over these new emotions, and simultaneously politely chatting with the D.I (still looking deep into those sweet eyes of his), this was when the song changed.

It changed to…

…ballroom music.

And, all around the two, couples got together, and ensued the waltz position.

Mycroft and Lestrade stopped chatting, as most of the room fell silent to the romantic notes.

There only seemed one thing to do.

'Detective Inspector Lestrade- would you like to dance with me?'

And so, the Government and the Law ended up dancing together, through the forest of similarly waltzing couples, hand upon hand, and, by the end of the evening, lips upon lips.

Perhaps caring wasn't always a disadvantage.

Well, everyone has to have their exceptions.