AN: I've gotten to the chapters that aren't finished and need a lot of work, so updates are going to be much less frequent now, as I'm sure you noticed.

There might be some other stories posted, though. For example, I have a new(ish) one-shot about the third Holmes brother, titled What Happened to the Other One, for anyone who's interested.

I don't own them, but I certainly wish I lived their lives sometimes.

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Thinking about his own proposition, Mycroft was inclined to agree, and that worried him a little. Was sentiment getting involved?

As a quick test, he imagined Mae Ollivier dead. It wasn't a pleasant concept, but then no death was a pleasant concept, and so he drew up the idea of Sherlock's death for comparison. The absolute chasm between the two emotions convinced him fully that no, there was no caring involved in his relationship with Miss Ollivier. That calmed him down considerably, and he was able to return to pondering the matter with a cold head.

The advantages were very relevant, and the only real disadvantage was the partial loss of privacy that would come with someone he couldn't trust being in his flat. But then, Mycroft wasn't sentimental and it wasn't like he had his bedroom filled with personal tokens that would give Miss Ollivier relevant clues about him. Besides, she already knew the most important thing there was to know, so this was mainly about work secrets, and these would be easy to keep from her eyes, even in his flat.

Mycroft smirked a little as he remembered that it had been remarked upon many times by his colleagues that the only status symbol he was missing was a beautiful girlfriend dressed to display his wealth. He wondered how Mae Ollivier would like that role in particular – but then again, he would be her status symbol too, he supposed. That was a strange thought.

He had effectively made a decision already when a message from Miss Ollivier arrived. It was a photo of a desk, apparently her work desk, covered by files, and with a document open on the computer screen. Only it was so blurred nothing could be seen of it. The accompanying message read: "I decided I'm all for it, so here's a little incentive to convince you so that I get my way. Look at my beautiful flat, who wouldn't want to see that!"

Mycroft actually laughed aloud, a little startled. It was ingenious. If someone intercepted the message (unlikely, but always possible), they'd assume she meant the beautiful view of the Thames from her window, an advantage he didn't have in Mayfair. After all, that was what the focus of the photo was on. Mycroft knew better, however.

Ironically enough, it really was this text that cemented his decision. If one could mix work and entertainment in such a perfect way, one really shouldn't resist. And you didn't come across a sense of humour like that every day.

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Their first official date took place in Dinner, one of Mycroft's favourite restaurants in town. Miss Ollivier – or Mae, as he was now obliged to call her – seemed appreciative, though he didn't doubt she'd been there many times already. He was appreciative too. The change in her clothes was more marked this time, though it was still as perfect as usual. But it was evening, after all, and so her suit was replaced by a little black number that hugged her figure very tightly (though the skirt still ended just bellow the knees – it wouldn't do to be improper), and the usual pearls were replaced by the more shiny diamonds. Her hair, too, was done more intricately than usual, though he lacked the knowledge to name the chingon properly, and she was wearing evening make-up. All in all, Mycroft, ever the lover of aesthetics, was already seeing one more upside to this arrangement. They really should go to the opera some time, just to see what she'd wear.

"Should we tell our families about this?" He asked her, leaving all the pro and con arguments unsaid. She could fill them in herself, and they were in a public place.

"My sister is going to find out one way or another," she commented.

"Is she having you watched?" Mycroft asked, pretending to mean it as a joke.

"Well, she doesn't follow me with surveillance cameras," she answered, clearly mentally adding 'unlike someone else I know who does this to his sibling,' "but she does keep tabs. It would be easy enough to avoid, but not in a way we'd like."

"Oh?"

"It would be enough to go into low-price establishments."

Oh. Not in a way they'd like indeed.

"So, your sister. Will she want to meet me, officially?"

"Undoubtedly. And more importantly, she will want to meet your brother again some day, arguing that we're family. He caught her eye, you know."

Mycroft remembered Miss Adler's words: 'if you're unusual enough...' The countess wasn't really that unusual, certainly no measure for Irene Adler herself, but apparently, enough was the key word here.

"So that means telling my brother."

"Yes. And not only that, but I'll have to meet him at least once before – Rozzen isn't stupid in this kind of thing, she could tell if we saw each other for the first time."

Mycroft sighed very, very deeply. "Well," he said, "at least if we break up, everyone will understand why."

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Later that night, as they shared a glass of 1977 vintage port in his flat, he commented: "It's good to see that you have at least something in common with your sister."

"Oh? And what is that?"

"Why, your tendency to manipulate people into serious relationships, of course."

She burst out laughing, quite gratifyingly, and couldn't stop for some time. When she finally did, she said: "Rozzen would be quite offended, you know, at you comparing her to me in this respect. I assure you that her methods are markedly more subtle. She is a professional if I ever saw one."

"Yes, she'd have to be."

Mae tilted her head to the side. "I remember that ball where she met Earl of Arundel. It was her masterpiece, of course, but I still cannot help to feel a bit sorry for her being out of the game, so to speak. I was really watching a master at work that day, and it seems too sad that she'll never get to exercise these skills again."

"Are you certain that she won't?" Mycroft probed, curious, both personally and professionally.

Mae shrugged. "I know she is firmly determined not to. I admit there is a slight possibility that she could one day, precisely because she'd miss it so much, but on balance, I think not. It was a game to her, yes, but one played with a serious purpose, and she wouldn't jeopardise everything she's ever worked for. She's too pragmatic for that."

Mycroft thought of Irene Adler again.

"Why did she chose Earl of Arundel of all people? It's not like you don't have enough prominent people in France."

"Yes, but no actual nobility any more, not effectively."

"Your ambassador's family would not thank you for that."

She smiled. "You know what I meant. Though I certainly do consider Madame's ancestry a key benefit of my job."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. Obviously it was partly a joke, but still. "Are you and your sister really that romantic?" He could understand the appreciation for rank, partly, but not enough to really influence his decisions.

Mae shook her head. "It's not just about that. Our family, we used to be nobility, before the Galloued took it away from us during their revolutions, along with our autonomy."

"Ha," Mycroft interrupted her, unable to resist the jibe, "you can hardly blame the French for what the Club Breton did, can you?"

She just waved her hand. "Our poor boys were overpowered soon enough. You can't blame them for founding what was a sensible club at the time. Anyway, as I was saying, we used to be nobility, and it's always jarred Rozzen more than it irritated me. I think she sees her marriage as taking back what is hers in a way."

He smirked. "It is a great relief to know that the future premier duke did not marry a plebeian after all."

Mae laughed. "Well, we were extremely insignificant nobility, so really, I'm not certain it counts. And you know, we're still...French. I'm sure that overshadows everything else."

"You admitting to being French? This is really a memorable day."

"Well, I do live in Britain, after all."

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The countess did indeed find out about them, within a week, and insisted on a visit soon. "Allons donc, cherie," she'd reportedly said, "tu n'es pas plus une adolescente, pour avoir peur d'amener votre petit ami à la maison. D'ailleurs, je l'ai déjà rencontré. "

Mycroft was a little surprised they didn't speak Breton to each other. But then again, it might have all been part of a false image of her sister Mae was trying to plant, so what did he know, really.

Also, the idea of him being called someone's petit ami was unspeakably offensive. He was sure the Bretons had a better word for it – really, anything was better.

That in turn required a visit to Sherlock, because they knew the countess would want to know what the detective thought about their relationship, and Mycroft, as much as it irritated him, frankly just couldn't predict that part.

So he stopped by at 221B to arrange things.

The first thing he saw after he came in was a half-naked Irene Adler. It was a good things he was having regular sex now, really, he thought. That allowed him to remain perfectly unperturbed.

"Good afternoon," he said, "is my brother in?"

"Oh yes," she said lazily. "I think he's in bed. Sherlock?" She called, and a sleepy "yes?" came back.

"Your brother's here."

"What does he want?"

"I don't know, do I? Ask him."

"But you're already there."

"Yes, but speaking is work too," and she stretched on the sofa.

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock," Mycroft joined in, slightly disbelieving – his brother was never without energy, "come out or I'll come in to your bedroom."

"Charming as always, aren't you?" Sherlock grumbled, but Mycroft could hear him getting up.

"I need to talk to you."

"What is it, a case?" Sherlock asked, exiting his bedroom, quite unselfconsciously naked. Mycroft sighed internally.

"No. I need you to spare one evening for me, for a...social occasion."

"Boring."

"Perhaps, but necessary."

"Mycroft, not even you do social occasions, so what the hell possessed you to not only want to participate in one, but bring me with you."

Mycroft took a deep breath, and then said: "I want you to meet my girlfriend."

The shock on his brother's face, he thought, was really quite worth all that trouble of a public relationship.

"So..." Sherlock said after a while, "I see you've found yourself a goldfish?"

Mycroft's face suddenly split into a wide grin. It obviously unnerved Sherlock, which put his brother in an even better mood.

"I'm almost tempted," he said, "to let you go in that meeting with that assumption. However, matters of national security are at stake, so unfortunately, it cannot be allowed." He paused. "The young lady in question in your friend the countess's sister. Her much, much cleverer sister."

"Ah, so that's why you were interested in the countess. I have wondered."

"Yes."

"The countess was French, so her sister is French too, so that's why national security could be at stake...a clever French national...and Mycroft dating her...oh, brother mine, and I'd almost began to hope that you had a real girlfriend."

"I seem to remember reading something in the papers recently about a detective seducing a poor girl to get to her boss, even proposing to her for that purpose," Irene Adler's voice drifted to them, slightly mocking.

"Not fair!" Cried Sherlock. "You're supposed to be on my side."

"Says who?"

"Oh, yes," Mycroft remembered. "As much as I regret it, Miss Adler, I'm afraid you can't quite accompany my brother. I'm not sure how much the lady in question knows about you, but I'm unwilling to risk it."

"Perfectly understandable," the lazy voice noted, completely calm.

"Really, Mycroft," Sherlock went on, "I thought you were the one with manners. Don't you feel ashamed, using a lady like that?"

This time, Mycroft's and Irene Adler's laugher sounded simultaneously, which again seemed to unnerve Sherlock.

"You really do think you're the only intelligent person alive, don't you?" Mycroft observed. "Much cleverer than the countess, I said."

"Oh. She knows you're using her."

"Obviously."

"And she's using you in turn."

"Yes."

Sherlock smirked. "I think I'll go after all. This sounds like fun."

Cold dread started to spread over Mycroft.

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AN: I really, really wanted someone to call Mycroft someone's petit-ami. The idea just boggles the mind.