Mycroft, learnt Greg, was a bloody good kisser. Whether was it a simple peck on the check or the forehead as to bid goodbye, or incredibly hot make out session in their living room by the fireplace, Greg always ended as a writhing ball of desire. Say what you want, but the man knew exactly what to do with his tongue.

Sherlock had the opportunity to saw, or rather hear, the side effects these kisses caused in Greg one Saturday evening, when he stormed to the detective's office without knocking with a cry of "Graham!", where he was welcomed by the sight of Greg sitting on his desk and Mycroft, practically glued to him. Greg was making embarrassing noises, but he will forever deny it. Sherlock, like a real drama queen he was, made a sound of a skinned cat and ran out of the New Scotland Yard, screaming and pleading for a bleach to wash his eyes out.

Mycroft, with his usual blank expression, closed the door back and continued what was so brutally interrupted by Sherlock.