A/N; And another unexpected ending! I'm slowly becoming addicted to these ;)

Also, I need to apologize to everyone. I haven't updated in weeks; life suddenly decided to get busy :/ I am still working hard on Healing And Crying and Teaspoons Of Sherlock; never fear, they will be updated quite soon!

Thank you, once again, to everyone who favorited, followed, read, and especially reviewed this story! It means so much to me...you guys keep me going :)

As always, reviews are to me what serial suicides are to Sherlock; Christmas :D

Ta,

Anonymoustache

Mycroft stared.

This couldn't be happening. It had to be a dream.

Gregory Lestrade, the detective inspector that Mycroft had liked for the longest time, was in love with him.

"Mycroft?"

Mycroft looked up to see Greg staring at him, eyes unsure. He coughed. "Okay. Well…Um…"

The one time I really need my speech skills, and they desert me completely.

They were still slow dancing together. Mycroft could feel the weight of Greg's hands on his waist. He tried to think of something to say.

All of his words suddenly seemed insignificant as Greg's lips met his own.

It was heaven.

Mycroft was no stranger to human affection. Like Sherlock, he had often employed his human manipulation skills, and that sometimes involved physical contact. But this…this was very different. There was a spark between them; it was real.

After several minutes of pure bliss, Mycroft broke away, out of breath, eyes wide. "That was…" he trailed off, at a loss for words for the second time that evening.

Greg grinned. "Brilliant?"

"Humble as ever, Gregory," Mycroft said dryly. He leaned in close and laid his head on Greg's shoulder. Greg wrapped his arms around him.

They rocked back and forth to the music for several minutes. It was the best thing Mycroft had ever done.

He could feel Greg's lips on his neck. "God, you're beautiful," the inspector muttered.

Mycroft tensed up but said nothing. He'd figured out by now that Greg wasn't going to like hearing his self-opinion.

Greg suddenly pulled away to look at the man's face, noting the sudden tension in Mycroft's shoulders. He frowned at the look on Mycroft's face. "I mean it, Mickey. You're absolutely gorgeous."

Mickey? Mycroft thought for a moment. I think I might actually like that. Nevertheless…

Mycroft shook his head incredulously. "If you say so, Gregory."

Greg stared at him intensely. "I do say so. So why don't you believe it?"

Mycroft looked down, trying desperately to avoid eye contact. "I've been informed to the contrary," he whispered quietly.

Greg held him close again and practically growled. "I'd like to find whoever told you that and tell them a thing or two."

Mycroft smiled hollowly into the inspector's shoulder.

You have no idea, Gregory.

"I don't understand it," Greg whispered in his ear. "You can't figure out how beautiful you are. Why don't you believe me?"

Mycroft sighed and spoke his next words quietly. "Because I'm not."

There were several moments of silence after Mycroft's words. The atmosphere seemed to become dense.

Then, Greg was whispering quietly in Mycroft's ear, eyelashes tickling his cheek.

"I know there's something bad that must have happened to you in the past to make you think you're not beautiful, and I know that you're probably not ready to tell me about it yet. All I can do for now is try my hardest to convince you how amazing you are and make you feel special. Just remember; later, when you're ready, I'm here to listen, okay?"

Greg gently kissed Mycroft's cheek. "I love you, Mickey. That's never going to change."

"John?"

John kissed Sherlock's curls gently from his position on the bathroom floor. "Yes, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's voice was small, almost as if he felt guilty. "I don't really want to go back to the party."

John took Sherlock's hand in his. "Sherlock, you have every right not to want to go back to the party," he said firmly. He hesitated slightly, thinking. "Do you want to go home?" What if it was too much for Sherlock to go through the flat to the front door? Maybe the window, John thought.

Sherlock nodded carefully. "If…if that's okay with you," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. I know that you like these…social gatherings."

"Of course it is, 'Lock. You have nothing to be sorry for." John pulled himself up with the help of the toilet lid and offered his hand to the detective. Sherlock took it, wrapping his long, tapering fingers carefully around John's in a tender gesture of love, and stood up in one fluid motion.

They stayed there, standing together, just for a moment; hands together, each observing the other. Their eyes were locked, as though having some sort of mental conversation.

Then, Sherlock gestured to the window. "Here," he said quietly, eyes glittering. "After all, why would we want to walk past Anderson and Donovan groping each other on the couch when we can get out another way?"

John nodded, too shocked to speak.

Scary, when Sherlock Holmes could read your mind.

He climbed out onto the fire escape ladder, Sherlock right behind. The night was cold and clear now, all traces of storms gone from the sky. The stars were shining brightly above, small pinpoints of light drawing John's eyes upward. The moon was full, gleaming on the rain-sprinkled metal of the small fire escape balcony.

John felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder. He turned around to find Sherlock staring at him with an intensity that seemed to burn straight through to his soul.

"You didn't leave." Sherlock looked at him strangely, almost questioningly. "You learned about my scars and my past, and yet…here you are."

"Of course!" John said. "Sherlock, I love you more than anything. Do you really think a few scars and a bastard of an uncle would scare me away?"

Sherlock said nothing, but his eyes shined. He leaned in close, lips meeting John's in a passionate kiss.

Finally, after several minutes, he broke away, gasping for breath. "I love you, John. Thank you," he whispered in John's ear, kissing his neck gently. "Just…thank you."

"I love you too, git," John whispered back. He held Sherlock tightly and watched the stars as they winked down at them from the black velvet sky above. They stayed like that for some time, wrapped around each other, in their small cocoon of love.

Finally, after several minutes, Sherlock spoke.

"John?"

"Yes, love?"

"…We should probably get off Lestrade's fire escape now."

"Oh. Right. Yeah, probably."

"…And I'm a bit cold, too."

"You're cold? Where's your bat-cape?"

"John! It's not a bat-cape!"

"Oh, well excuse me."

"You're excused."

Silence.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"…I love you."

A pause.

"I love you too, Batman."

"JOHN!"

The End