Mycroft sat by the fire. The gentle flickering setting one half of his face in shadow and the other in glowing relief. He was wearing a black jumper and jeans. Greg's jumper and jeans. It didn't matter. The jumper was comfortingly soft against his skin. It smelled of Greg.

The fire was just for comfort. The heat made no difference. But the light was reassuring. Something to focus on in the darkness. So was the glass of brandy. He could taste it of course. But he couldn't quite feel it.

He ignored the aching in his groin. Somewhere upstairs, Greg was asleep, aroused and giving off the warm sweet smell of freshly baked pastries. Mycroft could smell it. But that could wait. He had a more immediate problem. The problem he had always had. The reason he had never... Well the reason he'd never considered a relationship as a viable option.

Sherlock.

Sherlock always turned up needing his help. And he had never found any one who understood what that meant. Two sides of the same coin. The only person in the world who was like him. In many ways he was Mycroft's reflection. Mycroft had never quite worked out which one of them was the portrait in the attic. Unless they both were. Which was a distinct possibility.

But it was more than that. Sherlock was his responsibility. And by extension, so was John Watson.

John Watson. How did he fit into all of this? As Sherlock's friend? As his not quite lover? As his walking tuck-box?

"Mycroft?" John Watson stood in the doorway. He was wearing one of Mycroft's fluffy towelling dressing gowns, too big and too long for him. The effect would have been quite comical, but that nothing was particularly amusing anymore.

"Hello John." Mycroft sighed. "Do you want a brandy? No, sorry, it's Scotch isn't it?" Mycroft corrected himself and poured the whisky.

"Mycroft." John repeated as he sat in the chair opposite him. Sad. Eyes questioning. "I know, before, I said I wasn't frightened of you. Well. I'm proper scared now. Really."

"I know. If it helps, so am I."

"Not really." There was a moment of silence. "I got you all wrong. I thought you were selfish. That you interfered because you were jealous of Sherlock. Now I realise you do actually love him. In a weird, rather disturbing way. But you do love him. A lot."

"He's my little brother. Of course I do. I've known him for his whole life. He really does hate me. He always has done. Ours was not an easy childhood, as you can imagine. It rather seems nothing is supposed to be easy for us."

"I don't suppose this recent stuff has helped."

"If it wasn't this, it would be something else. I tried to talk to him earlier."

"And?"

"Talking isn't something that my brother and I do well. At least not with each other."

"Yeah. I had noticed. So. What? Did you decide what you're going to do with me? Because I really don't like being kept prisoner here."

"Prisoner?"

"Call it whatever you want. But I'm not free to go, am I? Now I'm sure you're going to say something about it being all for my own safety. And you're probably right. But I don't like it. I don't like hanging around here waiting. I don't like walking in to a room and finding you screwing Greg on every available surface. I know it's your house, but still, a bit of control wouldn't hurt. And I can't stand what it's doing to Sherlock. So. What are the options?"

"Sherlock has to die. I have to kill my brother. Or he spends the whole of eternity unhappy. Or..."

"Or what?"

"I think you know what."

"Yeah. I let one of you lovely boys bite me, make me like you, then...what? Sherlock and me live happily ever after. I would say we ride off into the sunset but I'm still not entirely sure how the daylight thing works with you lot. And then what? We become like you and Greg? I turn gay and it's all fine."

"Both Gregory and I were gay to begin with." Mycroft said it somewhat defensively.

"Okay. I will accept there are vampires. I will accept that Sherlock is one now. So are you. So's Greg. I will accept that there is a whole lot of underworld- otherworld stuff going on that is fairly extreme. But there is no way Greg was gay before you got hold of him."

"Oh for God's sake." Mycroft swallowed his brandy down and refilled his glass. And then the ridiculousness of it all hit him. He started to laugh. John had never heard never heard Mycroft laugh before and was struck by how much like Sherlock he sounded. And then John started to laugh as well.

He slid into the seat nearest to Mycroft.

"So, are you going to then?" John continued to laugh as Mycroft turned to look at him.

"Going to what?" John had leaned in very close.

"I think you know what, big fella." John was standing in front of him now. He pushed Mycroft back into the chair by his shoulders and took a deep breath. This was John taking a gamble. Spinning the gun barrel and pressing it to his temple. He'd guessed Mycroft wasn't on his A game. Even Mycroft Holmes couldn't concentrate properly with a stonking great erection like the one John had observed when he'd walked in to the room. Even through jeans it looked painful.

John straddled Mycroft's legs so he was standing right in front of him. He let the dressing gown fall open, revealing his bare torso and ran his hands from Mycroft's shoulders down the front of his chest. All the time those dangerous blue eyes watched him. Not blinking. At any moment Mycroft could snap his neck. John could feel the strength bubbling in the hard muscles under his palms. He leaned in further, bending his knees a little to sit on Mycroft's lap. Mycroft grunted as John's weight pushed down on his bulging groin.

John grabbed two fistfuls of the tight, soft jumper and pulled Mycroft close. So close he could have kissed him if he had so desired.

"John." Mycroft's voice was strained. "Get away from me. You don't know what you are doing."

"Yes I do." He hoped he did. Really. John took a deep breath and ran one hand down the front to Mycroft's crotch. He could feel the hard outline of his cock.

"John?" The eyes were dark now. No longer blue. Whatever it was inside, had almost reached the surface. Mycroft Holmes was no longer in control.

"Come on big boy! You know you want to. Ever since we met in that warehouse and you held my hand. Come on. Bite me!"