A/N This is probably a good time to mention that I don't consider all of these drabbles to exist in the same universe, so to speak. Many of them follow different little timelines, so I suppose each could be considered a separate story. That's all~

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

VIII. Innocence

"And, of course, it's crossed my mind several times that you might end up wishing to be… involved with my brother."

The constant twirl of Mycroft's umbrella has always been somewhat hypnotic, but it's fascinating just how much more so it has suddenly become, as though its owner's words have laced the misty air outside Baker Street with some sort of dizzying drug. John finds himself transfixed as the accessory's tip cuts patterns in the nothingness, until it's brought up to Mycroft's side with a sharp snap and held there.

"John." His voice is vaguely disapproving, the tone probably caused by the flush that feels as though it's rapidly singeing away John's skin. "You of all people, as a relatively close acquaintance of mine, are perfectly aware by now that few things escape my notice. And you are a rather obvious man—indeed, if Sherlock wasn't so naïve about issues this delicate in nature, I'm sure he would have realized it himself."

John sucks in a deep breath and forces his head to tilt back, so that he can properly look Mycroft in the eyes. "What are you getting at?"

He leans forward slightly, and his next words are clearly enunciated, slicing though John's eardrums quickly and cleanly. "Are you sexually interested in Sherlock Holmes?"

Sounds come from John's mouth before he has time to think them through. "And why is that any of your business?"

"He's my brother," Mycroft responds delicately. "Obviously, it's a concern of mine."

"Did you ever consider that perhaps it's none of your business?"

A humorless smile pulls at Mycroft's thin lips. "You've played that card before with me, Dr. Watson. It should be evident by now that it has no effect."

"It's the only answer that you're going to get."

"So it's a yes, then."

"I never said that."

"But you stopped denying it."

John hesitates, his gaze briefly flickering to the brass-numbered door of the flat that contains Sherlock, and expels a lungful of air, watching as it floats away as chilled vapor. "…I'm in love with him, Mycroft," he says, quietly, simply. "He doesn't know, and I've got no idea how he'll react once he does. But, honestly, nothing that you have to say on the matter will change whatever I might intend to do in the future."

Mycroft nods once, his expression impassive, then runs his tongue along his bottom lip with the attitude of one choosing his next words with the utmost care. "Well, as reluctant as I am to say this, I suppose that we've ventured into waters where my advice is neither appreciated nor effective. So there's truly only one thing I have to say."

John jerks his head slightly, an indication to go on.

"…Be careful with him, John." There's an odd look in his eyes, almost foggy—as close to emotional as John ever could have expected to see Mycroft Holmes. "He's never been involved in anything like this before, and, to put it bluntly, he has no idea what he's doing."

"…And that's all?" John shifts self-consciously, his hands balled into fists in his jacket pockets, clenching and unclenching.

"That's all."

"Okay, well… thanks, I guess. But, er—he's actually expecting me now, and I should probably get this in the refrigerator…" He holds up his arm, which is laden down with a plastic shopping bag containing two cartons of milk. "So… afternoon."

"Good day, Dr. Watson." Mycroft waits until the door to 221b has swung completely shut, then pulls out his mobile phone just as it resonates with the beep of a text alert.

So?

He confessed fully. You're in luck.

There's an unnecessarily long pause before another message arrive.

Thank you.

Sherlock, are you being gracious? I should save this text and put it on display in a museum.

This time, there's no response at all. Mycroft glances up towards the window to Sherlock and John's living room, only to see that the curtains have been shut.

"The virgin," he murmurs to himself. Then, with a slight chuckle, he ducks into the dark car waiting on the curb, just as the first raindrops begin to fall.