{I think this is just a way of doubly irritating Martha, but I like the concept... ;) }

Sherlock's phone announced a text to the room, unnecessarily noisily, he reflected.

He almost buried his face in his hands. Unfortunately, Irene had not just changed her ringtone. Oh, no. She had also adjusted Moriarty's. Every time Sherlock received a text from the criminal, a loud crack sounded; the sound of a riding crop on flesh.

Face flushing slightly, he scrambled for the device, before snatching it out of the perplexed hands of Gavin, no, Graham, Lestrade. Mycroft sat opposite his younger brother, smirking away. Although his posture was, as always, ramrod straight, Sherlock immediately picked up on the tension - anxiety? - in his arms and unconsciously tapping fingers. Directed towards him? No. Not him. Lestrade...?

Sherlock followed the elder Holmes's gaze to the detective inspector who was staring nonchalantly at the long cold tea in his cup. Was that a trace of a smile on his face? Surely not. Sherlock decided to ignore the telltale signs; relaxed breathing, crinkles by his eyes and the twitch of his lips.

*Thwack!* Sherlock grimaced. "I just have to... Collect something." He rushed off in the direction of his bedroom. Left alone, finally, Lestrade raised his eyes from the teacup to offer Mycroft a coy smile. "Hello, handsome..."

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Sherlock slammed the door behind him. Breathing out in relief, he allowed his heart rate to return to normal. He immediately jumped again as a pair of expensively clad arms snaked around his waist, pulling him into a slim, smaller body.

"Darling..." The Irish lilt was crisp with irritation. "You didn't reply to my text..." Sherlock turned to face the criminal mastermind. His scowl softened as he took in his nemesis' slight pout.

"Mycroft's in there..." He hissed. Jim grinned. "Well, that's half the fun..." Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow. Unfortunately, before he could voice his enquiry, he was shoved back onto the bed, arms windmilling, legs flailing. "Jim!" He yelped. "Shh, honey, remember Iceman's in the other room..." Moriarty purred, leaning down to place a kiss to his lips. Sherlock immediately forgot about Mycroft. He was lost...

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Lestrade didn't care that Sherlock would be back any minute. He had crawled into Mycroft's lap, fingers toying with the silk tie around the elder Holmes's throat. Mycroft swallowed hard. Lestrade grinned. They heard Sherlock make a peculiar squeaking noise from his room.

"Adler?" Mycroft enquired. The detective inspector shrugged. "Do you think I care?" Mycroft's eyebrows jumped about a foot. "Oh. Oh!" He realised. He gazed warily up at the silver haired officer. Lestrade threw him a wicked smile. "Ah, uh, Gavin?" "It's Greg!" Lestrade insisted, frowning. "Yes, well, I don't think that this is a good- mmph!"

Lestrade wound the other man's arms around his waist none too gently, crushing their lips together."But my brother's next door..." Mycroft protested weakly. "Shut up," he whispered, smiling into the kiss.

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Moriarty suddenly found himself sprawled on his back, with an extremely eager consulting detective straddling him. He raised his eyebrows. "You've got brave, Virgin..." He commented breathlessly.

Pupils dilating; flooding his eyes with onyx, Sherlock smirked, violinist's fingers fumbling with the buttons of his Westwood suit. "Ah, we both know that's not quite true..." The detective replied, slyly. Moriarty grinned. "Sherley! You naughty thing!" Sherlock yanked the criminal's arms out of his sleeves, tugging the tucked shirt out of his trousers. "Sherlock!" Jim cried, alarmed. "Yes, James?" Sherlock was too busy attacking the buttons of his shirt. "But your brother's next door!"

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Suddenly, Mycroft found himself in a very awkward situation indeed... {Sorry, couldn't resist the cliché...} He detached his lips from Lestrade's neck, looking up to see a very started looking John Watson. John was frozen in the doorway, shopping bags dropped, contents spilling over the floor. Behind him was Mrs Hudson. The landlady was clapping her hands together in glee, giggling like a schoolgirl.

Mycroft slowly released Lestrade, adjusting his tie and smoothing his hair. The detective inspector reluctantly got off the elder Holmes's lap, retreating to the sofa. It looked like Mrs Hudson was about to burst. John's mouth hung slack and his eyes bulged slightly. The two men pointedly refused to look at each other, Mycroft glaring at Sherlock's closed bedroom door, Lestrade at the spilled groceries. It took about a minute before John was able to talk. "I-I-I'm sorry, but WHAT?!" His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

Sherlock took that as a perfect opportunity to shove Moriarty up against the door, causing him to fall backwards through it and into the room. "Hey, mind Aeryn-Finn, Sherley!" The criminal genius protested, clasping his belly. If John had been upset before, now he was livid. "SHERLOCK, YOU IDIOT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THAT PSYCHOPATH? AND IS HE... Oh, God... Sherlock..." John's eyes were dinner plates as he stared in horror and wonder at the miracle of "science" (technically leprechaun magic) before him.

James Moriarty, spread eagled on the floor, arms around the evidence of his pregnancy. Sherlock Holmes shuffling off him awkwardly, as if trying not to draw anymore attention. It wasn't working well. Mrs Hudson ran in, barely able to contain herself. "Oh, Sherlock!" She trilled. "How lovely for you; he's a keeper! But what about John?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John is heterosexual. He repeatedly reminds you of this aspect of his life whenever you tease him about it." The landlady pouted."Ohhh, Sherlock... Give him time. He's probably just nervous." John ran out, terrified. Pause. "See?" Mrs Hudson giggled uneasily. "He's juuuust anxious... He'll come round, I'm sure..."

{Heh heh, that was fun to write... Review, my potatoes...}