"You sure you're okay?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John. I'm fine. Really, I just need to use the toilet. I'll be back in less than five minutes." He raised his eyebrows seductively. "I think you can keep yourself busy until then, don't you?"

John ran a hand through his hair. "Jesus, Sherlock. Don't do that."

Sherlock let out a low, rumbling laugh. "What? You mean…this?" he raised his brows in the same way. "Why not? Does it make you feel…weird?" he said, his silky baritone caressing John's ears.

"Yes." John whispered, leaning in close to Sherlock. "Very."

Sherlock pulled back and laughed evilly. "Too bad. I have to go."

And Sherlock turned and ran up the stairs, leaving John in the middle of the living room, still slightly shell-shocked.

John sighed, bemused. Sherlock would be back in a few minutes, no doubt, with some crazy idea or plan to blow up Greg's flat and embarrass Anderson and Sally.

Laughing quietly to himself, Sherlock turned the knob on the bathroom door…

And found himself face to face with his older brother.

Crying.

This was not a situation Sherlock was familiar with, not at all. Crying people? He dealt with them every time there was a murder.

Crying Mycroft?

It just didn't happen.

Mycroft did not cry. He didn't. In Sherlock's whole childhood, he couldn't remember a single time Mycroft had even shed a tear.

It was unbelievable. In fact, if Sherlock hadn't seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed it.

Mycroft was not so happy either.

He hadn't cried for ages. Not since he was three years old, at least. But somehow, his face was damp, and there were hot tears falling from his eyes.

Unbelievable.

Sherlock was not quite sure what to do, and so he hesitated there in the doorway of the bathroom, waiting for some kind of sign or signal as to what he was supposed to be doing.

Sherlock hesitated for a reason. They had never been like other siblings. Their relationship was not one of hugs and happiness and cookies like most children. No, they had grown up together with science and logic and caring-is-not-an-advantageness.

However, if Mycroft was crying, something was really, really wrong.

Sherlock shut the door behind him with a snap and sat down cross-legged in front of his brother.

"Anderson and Sally are certainly enthusiastic tonight," he remarked.

Mycroft laughed drily. "I know. We…ran into them upstairs. Literally."

Sherlock smirked. "How literally?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Really, Sherlock. I think you're capable of making jokes better than that."

Sherlock frowned. Mycroft rolling his eyes? Something was definitely wrong. And Sherlock planned on finding out what it was.

"Okay," he said, leaning in towards his brother, "Tell me, Mycroft. Tell me."

Mycroft's gaze wandered up and suddenly became fascinated with the shower curtain. "Tell you what?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Oh, never mind. I'll just read it."

A few minutes of silence passed, in which Mycroft stared hard at the wall and Sherlock's penetrating gaze traveled over and over his brother's still figure.

Suddenly, Sherlock made a little 'oh' of recognition. Mycroft looked up sharply. "What?" he snapped.

Sherlock looked slightly confused. "But…why would you…oh. Sentiment. I see."

Mycroft sighed and went back to studying the wall.

Finally, a few minutes later, Sherlock spoke. "Ah-ha!" he said.

"Ah-ha what?" Mycroft asked, doing his best to sound bored.

"Lestrade…really, Mycroft? Better than Anderson, I suppose. But why…oh, of course. Molly. She has a pathetic little crush on anyone with a…"

"Shut up." Mycroft said tersely.

"Sorry?" Sherlock said, broken away from his reverie.

"I said, shut up, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at his brother, very concerned now. Mycroft didn't often say shut up, and only when he was very, very annoyed did he then use it. "Myc, please. I'm sorry."

He saw Mycroft's face soften at the use of Sherlock's childhood nickname for his older brother. "Me too, little brother. Me too." He looked down at the floor. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

Sherlock looked confused for a moment, then understanding dawned on his face. "No. Don't do that."

Mycroft looked up, confused. "Do what?"

"Tell yourself that it's not okay to be human."

"Sherlock…"

"No. It's not true. John's shown me things, Mycroft. Things about myself that I had no idea of before I met him." Sherlock paused. "And I'm not talking about sex, so don't even try to make a joke."

Mycroft cracked a pathetic little smile. "I'm…"

"…just like me. I know, brother, I know."

Sherlock pulled Mycroft into a hug.

Mycroft stiffened for a moment, then relaxed into his brother's warm arms. His arms traveled up and clung around his brother for dear life.

They sat there for several moments, intertwined on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, warmth and brotherly love spread like a blanket around them.

Mycroft smiled at the irony of the situation.

"You do realize that this is the first time we have voluntarily hugged since you were two years old."

Sherlock let out a quiet huff of laughter. "Yes, I'm well aware."

They both quieted.

"Myc?"

The man raised his head. "What, Sherlock?"

"Do you…" he hesitated. "Do you want me to talk to Lestrade?"

Mycroft's eyes widened. "Sherlock…" he said warningly.

Sherlock looked into his brother's wide eyes. He could read everything there.

This is not even remotely a good idea.

Don't be stupid, Mycroft. I'll be casual, don't worry.

Since when have you done casual, Sherlock?

Since now.

"I'll be back in a few minutes. Hopefully with Greg Lestrade in tow."