Author's Note: Sorry this is short. Still working, but wanted to give you something. Enjoy! Also, thinking of working in some Johnlock to this story as well.

PUB DATE. DRESS? - MH

WILL HAVE SOMETHING SUITABLE SENT OVER. HAVE FUN. - A.

True to her word, the clothing arrived an hour later by courier and he had to say, he was please with her selection. A pair of black driving loafers, a smart leather belt, a pair of dark-washed denims, a fitted lilac oxford, and a casual wool blazer in a lovely shade of gunmetal all fit like a glove. He took a moment to admire Anthea's handiwork in the mirror, feeling a bit giddy at the outcome. Amazing how the right outfit could take ten years off in a flash. Mycroft's lips curved into a smile. He would have to give her a raise for this.

He checked his watch and then dialed for the car. He still had time to pop over to Sherlock's and see how he and the doctor were getting on. Strange, but since the army doctor had entered Sherlock's life, he found himself relying less on CCTV footage to check on his little brother. Watson seemed to have an unusual ground effect on the genius, making tolerating his company in person much more palatable.

Sherlock was still Sherlock, but there was something about John that made him less…twitchy. A small, but overall pleasing change.

Even so, he wasn't surprised when Sherlock took one look at his casual state of dress and scoffed, muttering something about hair product and manicures. John, however, was much more encouraging.

"Well, you certainly look different, Mycroft," John said with a warm smile. "Casual suits you. What's the occasion?"

"I have a date."

John frowned at Sherlock's subsequent snort of disapproval.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John snapped. "A date, is it?" he asked, turning back to Mycroft. "Brilliant! So, who is she?"

A barked laugh erupted from Sherlock. "Who is she? Quaint."

Mycroft cleared his throat. Time to let the cat out of the bag. "Actually, I have a date with Greg Lestrade."

Sherlock sat up from the sofa with a start. "Lestrade?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You're not serious. Wait—no, no, you're not." His brother curls moved about his face as he shook his head. "Really, Mycroft," he tutted. "You've stepped down to throng among the masses? Isn't that, oh, what do they call that? John, what do they call that?" He snapped his fingers rapidly in succession. Sherlock's face lit up. "Ah, slumming it!" He beamed. "Is that what you're doing, Mycroft? Slumming it with the DI?"

Mycroft bristled and his voice went an octave below deadly. "Sherlock, I suggest you desist with your pitifully narrow view of the world and spare us your posh, elitist claptrap. After all, aren't you the one shacked up with the broken toy soldier?"

Sherlock gasped, while John merely rolled his eyes at Mycroft.

"How dare you—no, never mind, just get out!" Sherlock yelled. "Out, Mycroft! OUT! OUT! OUT!" The dressing gown fluttered as he rushed to push Mycroft toward the door.

"Sherlock, stop!" John called. "He didn't mean it! He's just riding you, for God's sake! Stop this, the two of you!"

"No! Now see here, Mycroft," Sherlock ranted, peering down into Mycroft's face. It was amusing, of course, to see Sherlock get riled about this. "John is not broken. He's fine. He's better than fine. He's a soldier!" Sherlock hissed, face scrunched tightly. "Shot in the shoulder for your precious government. He's a hero. John's a hero. A man of honor." Sherlock's eyes ran cold with his anger, and Mycroft debated how long he would let his little brother go on. "And a doctor!" Sherlock yelled, flinging his hands in the air, as if it had suddenly occurred to him. "How can you say that about a doctor? The man is a healer, for God's sake, he puts his hands on people and—"

"I know Sherlock; he eradicates the flu in pensioners, and saves small children from things like smallpox and the plague. He's single-handedly rescued us all from leprosy at least once, and in his spare time, he saves kittens from trees and walks on water. I know how wonderful you think he is, we've had this discussion," Mycroft droned, rolling his eyes. "Merely trying to demonstrate how hurtful it is when someone disparages a person you….care about." The last words were difficult, strained. "And I think I may be beginning to care very much for Greg."

John came up and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good on you, Mycroft. I think this is marvelous."

Sherlock cast a confused glance between the two of them. "So, you didn't mean that? You were just having me on?"

John answered for Mycroft. "No, he didn't mean it, you idiot."

Sherlock sniffed and flounced over to the sofa, flinging himself with a dramatic swish onto the cushions.

John followed Mycroft to the door. "Just ignore him."

The bottom of Mycroft's mouth turned down a fraction. "I'm afraid doing just that has turned him into what he is. The difficult child has become the difficult man."

John smiled. "He's still a difficult child. And he's your brother. That makes you the war hero."

He chuckled, "Yes, I suppose it does."

"I can hear you, you know," Sherlock called petulantly from the sofa. "Gossiping like little girls." Sherlock's hand waved dismissively in the air. "Go away, Mycroft. I'm trying to think."

He turned to John. "Good night."

"'Night, Mycroft. Have fun. Tell Greg hello for us, will you?"

He nodded and John shut the door behind him.

Sherlock sat up in a whoosh and kicked his legs out to cross them on the coffee table. "Thank God. I thought he was going to spout on all night about Greg and dating. Ghastly stuff." He looked up to find John smirking at him. "What? What? Why are you smiling like that? It's putting me off."

John folded his arms across his chest. "You think I'm wonderful."