A/N: So here's the deal guys. About a year passed for me (as a writer) between chapter 5 and chapter 6. After finally nailing down the reason for my flagging muse, I decided to do something about it. As such, you might notice that chapters 6 and 7 will be in third person narrative instead of first, as it has been. If this is a huge turn off for anyone, I apologize now...but it was either this or abandonment...

Only twice in his past had Mycroft walked into his office to find something sitting innocently, or otherwise, on his desk.

One time had been two years prior when he'd walked in to find an unsigned congratulatory card about reaching his weight loss goals. Power of deduction had led to the conclusion that Anthea had actually looked up from her phone for a split second to notice precisely how much weight he had lost…and then promptly delved back into the piece of technology seemingly attached to her hand. It hadn't worried him, not in the slightest, and it wasn't an experience that had been repeated.

The first time he had walked in to find a card on his desk had been a slightly larger problem. Admittedly, getting threatening letters was a daily happenstance in his general office. All members of his establishment mentioned them at one point or another. That said, they had always hit the mail-room which doubled as a screening office and been stopped. Prior to this instance, Mycroft had never actually held in his hand a threat to his person. He recalls distinct confusion as he held it, allowing no emotion to grace his brow, naturally, but the confusion was there none-the-less…that is, until he opened the letter. His head nodded in acceptance as he called in his personal assistant (This one was only Anthea v2. She had later been upgraded…). He handed the letter to her and sent her on her way, silently recalling the stack of resumes that he had at his beck and call, contemplating the hassle of replacing his assistant who let the threatening letter through. Deciding against it, he sat at his desk and took a minute out of his schedule to determine how he was going to handle this surprising turn of events.

It had been five years since he'd thought of the Humphrey case. A traitor is not something he generally liked to think about on a regular basis, or even a semi-regular basis. In this instance, the traitor had managed to get away and scampered to the USA which, as of 2003, refused to extradite criminals to Britain. As such, diplomacy ruled that particular day and Humphrey had managed to get away. How he had managed to get back into Britain to leave a note on Mycroft's desk was anyone's guess. But the fact was he had and now Mycroft had to figure out how to handle it.

Two days later, a different kind of letter was on Mycroft's desk; one detailing the assassination of one Robert Humphrey who had been hiding out in Oklahoma, of all places. With a succinct nod, Mycroft shredded the document and went on with his day.

The third time Mycroft walked into his office to find a letter on his desk, he cracked a minute smile (which he would later deny whole-heartedly). As he calmly approached his desk, he considered one of his recent meetings with his younger brother.

Mycroft quietly tread the steps to 221B Baker Street. As he opened the door which was, as per usual, unlocked, he skimmed the premises, eyes passing right over Sherlock's head and onto the television in front of him.

Ahh.

Without sound, Mycroft observed one of Sherlock's weekly rituals; watching Doctor Who.

As the episode reached its conclusion, Mycroft quietly cleared his throat. Sherlock whirled around, eyes narrowed.

"12 minutes," Mycroft answered the unasked question.

"Damnit," Sherlock exasperated as he rolled back around to face the telly.

"It's a good episode. I enjoyed it the first time around."

"Yes well, you live alone. If John found out, I'd never hear the end of it."

Mycroft grinned to the back of Sherlock's head. "As always, your secret is safe with me."

Mycroft looked upon the TARDIS blue envelope on his desk, reached down and slowly opened it with his perfectly manicured fingernails.

"Anthea," he quietly called out to his assistant. "Move my appointment with the ambassador to another available time."

Gregory Lestrade liked to think that he'd been around the block more than once. Over the course of his career, he had been a part of covert operations, drugs busts, a subject of legitimate bomb threats, and at one point (for about five hours) he had even been the suspect of a murder investigation; but the weirdest situations always were the ones that stuck out in his memory.

1) How about the time where he ran into Sherlock cross-dressing and doped up on enough cocaine to kill a racehorse. That had ended very interestingly, with Sherlock trying to shove him into a dress to "play along".

2) He'd even been there when Sherlock and John had gone up against an imaginary hound. That had turned into a gaseous mess to report on back home.

3) And he would never forget the instigating moment…the reason he decided to become a police officer. He awoke after a night of drunken debauchery to a complete hangover, no recollection of the previous night, holding a cake cutter, being prodded by an extremely lenient officer of the law. To this day, he still doesn't remember how events came to be the way they were.

That was why when Detective Inspector Lestrade showed up to work one morning to find a blue envelope on his desk signed "anonymous" he wasn't surprised; he simply rolled with the punches.

The letter had been delivered to his work address, meaning whoever had delivered it had gotten through security without a problem. It hadn't been sent to his home address, which was generally indicative of a stalker making his move. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he walked up to his desk and carefully picked up the letter from the corner. Ripping a small tear into the corner of the envelope and not experiencing any explosions bolstered his confidence. He opened the rest of the envelope and pulled out a letter from within. Unsigned, naturally, but still.

Now this is interesting…

Five days later, Gregory Lestrade strode up Kensington High Street with a blue envelope in his fist. He was met by Mycroft Holmes, whom he knew but not intimately.

"Do you have any idea what this is about?"

"I have, as I'm sure you have, a pretty solid idea of who sent the letter, but as to the cause of our gathering, I have no clue."

Lestrade nodded. "Right, it really isn't like him to send a letter instead of just texting."

Mycroft smirked, "Well, it just might be a special occasion."

With a slight raise of his brow, both Greg and Mycroft turned to look upon the cab that was pulling up to their corner. As the door opened, out stepped a rather confused but resigned looking John Watson and a semi-oblivious to the confusion Martha Hudson.

John paid the cabbie and walked up to Greg to shake hands. "Any clue what's going on?"

At the all-around negative response, John stepped aside and let Mrs. Hudson say hello to the other two gentlemen. The conversation continued on slowly but comfortably as they awaited the only missing factor to their group of misfits.

They weren't kept waiting long.

Sherlock stormed up the street and came to a sudden halt before the group. "John, I need to speak to you."

"Okay…" John trailed off as Sherlock grabbed his wrist and began dragging him back down the street. "Sherlock, where are you taking me? If you tell me, I'll follow and you won't have to drag me."

Shaking his head as if to dislodge a certain thought, Sherlock abruptly let go of John's wrist. They continued down the street until they were a block away. Sherlock led John into an alley between two buildings. John's confusion grew as Sherlock reached up and grabbed a fire escape ladder to pull down. With a wave of his wrist, he gestured that John should precede him.

Don't you think for a moment, Mycroft Holmes, that your smug smirk is escaping my notice just because I'm holding a conversation with Mrs. Hudson. I know you know what's going on…

About 15 minutes later, Sherlock returned dragging a grinning John. As the conversation trailed off Sherlock announced, "If you'll follow me across the street," and turned to walk away.

Lestrade rolled his eyes at the impolitely phrased request but followed the directions anyway. The entire group was herded into a registrar office where Sherlock and the register superintendent were waiting for them. Sherlock motioned John to his side and turned to the superintendent. "This is John Watson," is all he said.

Awareness crept into Mrs. Hudson's eyes, the last to catch onto the current proceedings.

Mycroft, Martha, and Greg all watched as John and Sherlock filled out the paperwork to complete their civil partnership. Greg and Mycroft were asked to sign as witnesses and then it was over. Simple as that.

After the shortened ceremony, Sherlock turned and offered a small grin at Lestrade, holding out his hand to shake. Greg grabbed it and pulled Sherlock in for a hug against his will.

"You right prig. Why didn't you tell anyone what was going on?"

"Didn't want to announce anything unless it was an absolute certainty," Sherlock explained as he disentangled himself from Lestrades limbs. "It all rode on John's answer." He smiled.

"Yeah well, we already thought he was mildly insane for agreeing to the flatshare with you. This was the only logical next step for a pair as ridiculous as you two."

"Oy! I resemble that remark," John stated from across the room where he was being accosted by a tearful Mrs. Hudson.

Sharing a chuckle, the group made its way outside to find one of Mycroft's army of cars waiting for the newlywed couple.

"Thanks for sparing us the taxi, Mycroft."

"It's no problem what-so-ever, John."

Greg watched as Mycroft pulled John to the side and observed Mrs. Hudson still sniffling obliviously, content in her happiness, so he gripped Sherlock's sleeve and slowly led him back to the building overhang.

Sherlock cocked his eyebrow at Greg, face still sporting a grin that Greg doubted would disappear for at least 24 hours.

He launched into his spur-of-the-moment speech, knowing that if he waited any longer Sherlock wouldn't take it as it was meant.

"I just wanted you to know, for what it's worth, that I'm proud of you. I'm extremely happy for you that you found your other half, the one who can tolerate you on even your worst days. I couldn't be prouder of you than I am today and I wish you the very best in your future." Greg sported a smile but his eyes looked sad.

Sherlock swallowed slowly but nodded stutteringly, seemingly nodding simply to keep from choking up. The two of them stood there awkwardly, neither making a move, until Greg took pity on Sherlock and gathered him up for another round of hugs and pats on the back.

Sherlock composed himself and stepped back. He nodded (noticeably smoother this time) and turned abruptly to rejoin the rest of the group.

Gregory followed slowly behind him, hands in his pockets, a content look on his face.

Sherlock and John rode off in one of Mycroft's "chariots," heading for 221B Baker Street. The group split and went their separate ways but wouldn't be parted for long. Oh no, they wouldn't be parted for long. After all, the criminals of London don't take a break simply because the sky split in two, the sun beginning to shine on a newly bonded couple after a monumental occasion never thought possible.

Greg turned and meandered down Kensington High Street. I'll give the lovebirds…three days. Three days, the Yard can manage on its own.

A/N 2: Hope it wasn't horrid. Won't take nearly as long to post chapter 7. I promise.

~Moldy