Greg quietly closed the bedroom door behind him and turned to Mycroft, an inquisitive look on his face.

"What the bloody hell was that about?"

Mycroft chuckled. "It's obvious, isn't it? They've finally 'gotten it on', as several of their followers put it."

Greg grinned. "Means I've won a fair amount in a betting pool at the Yard," he said jokingly.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "I didn't realize you were a betting man, Gregory," he said teasingly.

Greg's face heated up. "Well…" he broke off abruptly. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

Mycroft suddenly looked uncomfortably. He subconsciously began twisting his hands together in front of him. "It's a rather awkward topic, you see, and I wanted to make sure we had somewhere quiet to talk about it…"

Just then the bedroom door burst open and in tumbled a very drunk Anderson clutching a giggling Sally. They sprawled on the carpet together, heavily snogging.

Mycroft sighed and turned to Greg. "Anywhere else?" he asked acidly.

Greg nodded and pointed towards the linen closet in the hallway. "That's probably the best bet for now."

Mycroft nodded tersely and headed out of the room, stepping over the two police officers writhing on the floor.

Greg looked down in disgust at his employees as he followed Mycroft out. He was going to say something along the lines of 'get a room', but realized that was pointless when they were, technically, in a room already. He shoved Anderson's foot out of the way and shut the door, none too gently.

For maybe the third time, Greg wondered why Mycroft had brought him up here to talk to him. It was a party, so it certainly couldn't be work-related. It probably wasn't anything to do with Sherlock. For a wild moment Greg thought maybe Mycroft liked him. Greg himself had liked the man ever since he had stepped into his office that one day for a chat about his little brother…but the detective inspector knew that there was no way Mycroft could return his feelings. 'The iceman', that was the street nickname for Mycroft; Mycroft wasn't 'in love' with anyone, that was common knowledge.

Mycroft had stopped right outside the small door Greg had gestured to, waiting for direction. He pointed to the linen closet. "Is this the only available space?"

Greg shrugged. "It's the only place we won't be interrupted."

Mycroft sighed. "Well, if we must," he said with the air of a man who has been made to suffer.

He stood outside the closet, umbrella in hand, not moving. Greg hovered nearby for a moment, wondering why the man wasn't going in. And then he realized, and, grumbling under his breath about 'lazy British Governments' and 'lowly inspector servants', he stepped in front of Mycroft and opened the door for him.

Mycroft nodded sweetly. "Thank you, Gregory." He stepped inside, Greg following closely behind.

It was a tight fit in the tiny closet. Every time Greg tried to turn around, he felt Mycroft's umbrella poking into his back, and Mycroft was doing his best to avoid Greg's elbows. Finally, by some miracle, they got the door shut and were completely alone.

With some difficulty, Greg turned around to face the other man. "So…what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. "Well…as Sherlock has probably told you, I am not much of a…socially involved…person. At parties, I am often…awkward. In fact, sometimes I just go hide somewhere until they're over!" he laughed, insinuating that it was a joke.

Greg kept his fact passive, trying to mask his confusion. "Uh…ok-aaaay…"

Mycroft sighed and mentally hit himself. Stupid, stupid Mycroft…rambling is never a good thing, said the little voice in his head. "What I'm saying is, social gatherings are usually a pain for me. However, I have concocted a solution in my head that I propose to try. I would like to-no, I would be deeply honored if you would…"

Just then the door to the linen closet opened and Molly's head peeked in.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Mycroft exclaimed, now becoming very frustrated.

Molly's face cringed apologetically. "Sorry, Mr. Holmes. I was just wondering where Greg-er, Inspector Lestrade was."

Greg tried to keep his face controlled. Molly was looking for him? He sighed. He knew the girl had a crush on him, ever since she had heard how he had saved Sherlock's life on a case. However, the only person Greg really wanted an actual relationship with was the one person (man, his brain said, you're gay now, remember?) he couldn't have.

Then again, he told himself, he wasn't going to turn up a good chance to get laid.

Greg smiled cheerily at Molly. "No, no, it's no problem, Molls. We were just finishing up anyways!"

"What?" Mycroft thought. He hadn't even said it yet! This was not going according to plan.

Molly blushed. "Oh, good! So I'm not…interrupting…anything?"

Greg laughed. "Oh, no, you're fine. I know what Mycroft wants, it's okay."

Mycroft's breath caught in his throat. "You…you do?" he said hoarsely.

Well, obviously, Greg thought to himself. He was no Holmes, but it was pretty apparent that Mycroft Holmes was just feeling lonely. The man definitely didn't want Greg, but maybe…

Greg nodded. "Yeah. You want me to find you someone to dance with, right?" He grinned. "You're in luck. My cousin Bertha showed up just minutes before you dragged me up here. She'll dance with anyone!"

Mycroft winced. That one hurt.

Greg didn't notice, instead plowing through to talk to Molly. Good chance to get laid, his brain repeated over and over. "Well, Molly; while Mycroft's dancing with Bertha, would you do me the honor of a dance?" he asked, trying to sound as suave as possible.

Molly giggled. "All right, Greg. Sounds…amazing." She sighed. Mycroft snorted. It was obvious that she had a pathetic little office crush on the man.

Greg looked at him, concerned. "You all right, mate? You're sounding a bit stuffy; There's some cold medicine in the bathroom cupboard if you need it; that is, if the crime couple have moved out." he said jokingly. Molly giggled for the umpteenth time.

And with that Greg led a giggling Molly down the stairs towards the pounding music coming from his living room. "See you soon, Mycroft. I'll let Bertha know you're coming, shall I?" he called over his shoulder as the two of them meandered away from the bottom stairs.

Mycroft watched as they disappeared from view. He cursed to himself and turned, walking back towards the bathroom.

He gently knocked on the door, but no one answered. Good. A hideout.

Mycroft opened the door, and, slipping in quietly, locked the door behind him. He braced himself against the wall opposite the toilet and slid down to sit on the floor.

Placing his head in his hands, Mycroft did something he hadn't done for a very long time.

Mycroft Holmes cried.