(if it ain't your ship: sorry to offend)

It had to happen eventually.

Mycroft tries to lay down the law, but his real objective is something simpler.

Angst, then sweetness and tea.

Mycroft Finds Out

Poisonous. The air is poisonous. Can't breathe. Can't find air. Dying. Dying soon, if I can't get out of this car with Mycroft. Friday afternoon Molly's shift is done earlier than usual. John and Molly. Molly and John. John is going to be done early today too get away from Mycroft as soon as possible 221B is just a cab ride away now.

Sherlock was having one of his meetings with his brother about various family concerns in which he had to participate sporadically upon pain of death, or so Mycroft would have it. It was just Sherlock and Mycroft, the Holmes brothers in one of Mycroft's cars. Sherlock felt trapped as always in the car. He wasn't even able to roll down a window. He was getting hot. Please, please set me free.

"Right here, is fine, Mycroft." Sherlock sensed that the meat of the discussion had been attended to.

"Not at all, I'll drop you at your door," said Mycroft.

"I'd really rather you didn't. Here is fine." The car didn't stop. "Or here." Sherlock sighed. "Or here."

"There is one last small matter, brother." Mycroft had been thinking of how to introduce the next topic of conversation.

"Mycroft, oh fine. What?"

The elder Holmes wrinkled his nose at the distaste he had for the topic, but couldn't supress a personal notes of glee, either. Glee of many different stripes.

"It's come to our attention that you're, ah, having an affair with John's wife." Mycroft let the bomb fall and do its damage. He waited for the air to clear, the dust to settle and watched his brother for any signs that would give any shred of further information. He would give it all up eventually, he know. Candy from a baby. He spoke again.

"Except for the fact that it's not a very auspicious beginning, might I offer my – congratulations?"

Sherlock froze. How much did Mycroft actually know? Was this his way of telling him he knew about the three of them?

Congratulations? Does the moron actually think I've been a virgin this whole time? does he really think that - England must be in terrible trouble how stupid and uninformed can he be or is he just having the old go or is he trying to get information or is he just the same old idiot.

Or did he really only know that he was sleeping with Molly, and if he knew that, how did he not know he was also sleeping with John? The hospital. He'd been seen with her at Bart's. Start innocently. Reveal nothing.

"Oh? Where on earth do you get that sort of information?" Sherlock looked out the window.

Mycroft pulled out a parcel of photos from the inner pocket of his coat and offered them to Sherlock, who opened them. They were stills of security video from St. Bart's in Molly's office area. Oh, for god's sake, poor Molly, to be so exposed. Mercifully there seemed to be no pictures of the morgue or John.

"Is that all?" Sherlock set the pictures in their packet on the seat between himself and his brother.

"Oh there's more, is there? Wonderful, Sherlock, well done. We'll find it, if there is, I assure you. What on earth are you doing? Does John know?"

"That's none of your business." Sherlock spat out and immediately regretted it. Too much, you expose too much with him, all the time. Reveal nothing.

"Oh, I see. John knows. How interesting. He knows about this, this - So it's amicable? Mutually – ah -?." Mycroft tried to imagine the arrangement.

"Look, brother dear, this doesn't concern you at all, does it? This doesn't affect any secrets of state or the crown jewels, does it?"

"I'm only concerned for your well being, Sherlock. John has been the closest thing to a friend I think I've ever seen you have, and I'd prefer to keep him in place where -."

"John is not a pawn in your game to keep current information on me or -."

"Sherlock, please forgive my poor choice of words. I know he's not a pawn." Mycroft paused. "I actually want you to have a friend if you can imagine such a thing. That's all I mean."

"Your concern is heartbreaking."

"But you won't have any - John or anyone if you keep-."

"Mycroft, let it penetrate, please? None of your business. You don't know anything about John and Molly and –." Too much. You've said too much, you idiot.

"Oh." Said Mycroft. "Good lord! Are you saying – Wait a moment,do you mean to tell me - Both. Of. Them?" Mycroft pressed his finger tips to his temples, pressing hard.

"Both of them? You're sleeping with both of them? Is – is John sleeping with you? Are you sleeping with John?"

Sherlock looked out the window while Mycroft's head exploded between his hands. "Is there nothing you will not do to cause a scene? To provoke me?"

"This may be difficult for you to believe, but you did not come into any discussion of the matter at any time."

"And when did this -? How long have you been sleeping with John's wife, and John?"

"Once again, Mycroft, and I regret being so repetitive and such a bore, but it's none of your business."

Mycroft closed his eyes and shook his head. John, he knew, was a good man, somewhat scruffy and scrappy, but certainly intelligent enough with a strong moral code as well as an unshakable though, unfathomable loyalty to Sherlock. Well, now, perhaps not so unfathomable. John would have married a reasonable woman, he supposed of Molly, though he knew nothing of her, really, but for a chance meeting or two at Bart's. Ah, yes, she had had a rather particular interest in Sherlock that Christmas at the morgue. But there were serious matters to consider besides just Sherlock's immediate happiness. There was Sherlock's estate, and potential heirs to consider and this kind of arrangement would complicate matters, potentially horrifically.

"This kind of bohemian arrangement, however it's constructed, whatever agreements have been made –"

"Oh, god, Mycroft!"

"You should end it with both of them, of course. At once. For the sake of all involved. Please don't force me to take certain steps that will -," Mycroft chanced to look up and see the look in Sherlock's eyes. He hadn't seen it since his brother's earliest childhood. Unmasked fear and pain. It stopped Mycroft from continuing and there was a silence in the car for a moment. Mycroft could see that his brother was trying to compose himself.

"If you knew how that would end the lives of three people, you wouldn't suggest it. If you knew, Mycroft how it would affect me, I think, if you had any idea -." Sherlock said quietly without rancour. Mycroft was taken completely off guard by Sherlock's seeming candour and brimming emotionalism.

"Oh." The elder brother held back his planned threats and other venomous barbs. Only one slipped out.

"Really, Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage," Mycroft said. The adage fell flat, however. They both knew it pointed to a deep sense of failure that each of them held close to the vest regarding their miserable personal involvements. Mycroft's had been no more successful than Sherlock's, but they had each hidden behind intellectual superiority and an adopted aloofness to ride out the loneliness.

But now, Sherlock had found people, Mycroft saw. His tribe, however small. The mantra that they had managed to share was rendered useless. A twinge of jealousy made itself known, but Mycroft cast it aside immediately. Or, perhaps it made him do something he didn't think he'd ever do again. Something he hadn't done in years. He once again donned the mantel of the elder sibling. The responsible one. The caring one. He knew, however, that he would probably pay for it in the end, he would regret his forbearance, now. Sherlock's quaking, vulnerable expression was beginning to change back to a mask, as Mycroft formed his response to his brother's upset.

"Well. Quite, ah, involved, is it? Well, for heaven's sake, it would be, wouldn't it? I see." He's in love. Which one?! Or is it even more complicated...?

"Sherlock, good lord. All right. Good lord. Which one are you, ah, particularly involved with?"

"Please let me out here, Mycroft, please." Sherlock begged, his face turning pink, but then said nothing further. Too much, too much again.

"Both of them? You're in love with both of them?" Mycroft's head spun as imagined the rest of it.

Sherlock's head hung, his pale hands gripping his knees, a tremor still visible in them.

"Oh," Mycroft continued to deduce. "Then you are - you're sleeping with both of them and at the same time. Aren't you?" Mycroft mercifully stopped talking and there was a long silence in the car as each brother, shaken to the core, tried to regain some kind of composure.

It was strange, Sherlock thought, to see how the relationships that brought him such happiness would be viewed by the outside world: dirty, incomprehensible, unacceptable, to be ended at once. For the first time in his life he had love, and emotional safety from people who loved and trusted him, a family, a real family. But their arrangement couldn't be called a relationship or a marriage or a union. And while he didn't begrudge John and Molly belonging to one another legally, he sometimes couldn't get over how left out he was in the arrangement, if only on a societal level, a legal level. While on the other hand his connection to goddamned Mycroft was ever to be accepted, revered.

The brothers sat silently, and Mycroft considered. He knew that his brother had had a difficult time trusting anyone either as a child, a youth or an adult. All those various and sundry diagnoses from different doctors hadn't helped him to understand who was on his side, either. And through it all he had never really had any kind of a friend. Mycroft had tried to be friendly and helpful, but he'd long ago given up, having been rejected at every turn. But in the end, if Sherlock had actually found people who offered – but what, what do they offer in such an arrangement? Mycroft wondered. But if they did offer affection, kindness, safety, love? and a brand that Sherlock were somehow able to accept and even return? That would be a neat trick. And I would be grateful, thought Mycroft, so grateful - And if Sherlock had indeed found these things, who was Mycroft to proscribe such an alliance, however unconventional it might seem to him? But for the love of god! No it won't do to lose my temper.

"All right. All right." Mycroft spoke carefully. "I see that this - association– makes you – happy – for the moment?"

Mycroft looked to his brother, and saw a particular version of his mask of control with which he was fairly familiar.

"Really, Sherlock, this arrangement is highly - ."

"Obviously." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Damn it, Sherlock!" There was quiet in the car again before Mycroft continued.

"I'll tell you this. I will investigate this further and be, ah, vigilant." Sherlock said nothing, and they rode in silence for some moments before Mycroft spoke again.

"I realize the world – changes - as we breathe. But there are certain matters that still must be attended to."

"My private life -,"

"Private life? To have a private life you have to have discretion, for god's sake, discretion -," Mycroft added, picking up the packet of photographs, snapping them once or twice in the air.

"These are not any kind of indication that you understand the word. You're not a child anymore! Do you actually care for these people to put the girl in such a position? Oh my god, absolutely no pun intended. You surely knew there would be security cameras in a public place like a hospital." Mycroft flipped the photographs to his brother's lap in disgust. Sherlock picked them up from the seat, where some of them had spilled, and from his lap, arranging them carefully, regretting deeply that he had been the author of their existence. He put the pictures in his breast pocket.

"Is – Will her superiors – that is -? Will her job be in any jeopardy? "

"A little late for that line of thinking, don't you agree?" Mycroft paused for affect but added. "No, no, we've had everyone killed." Mycroft made a hand gesture with a flourish, and Sherlock knew that while no one had actually died, more than one or two might have been sacked, or repurposed, the photographs were in safe keeping, and no one further would find out about them. But Mycroft's response had been one of the brothers' half-joking code phrases from an earlier time. An easier time when things were still slightly less than hostile between them. Sherlock looked up, but quickly looked away, still ashamed of his behavior.

How had his brother come to this? the elder brother wondered. Before he'd gone on his mission he had been - of course, the time away, something had gotten to him, broken him down. His connection to John had been hard for him to sever for such a long time. This emotionalism claimed him somehow when Moriarity's network had been incapacitated.

"In any case." Mycroft took a deep breath. Only one thing to do in this case. Only one thing to do. Try to help him. Try to make him happy.

"In any case. I- I promise you that I will – keep an open mind," Mycroft sighed. After a moment, Sherlock spoke.

"I - appreciate that," Sherlock barely spoke above a whisper, and Mycroft nearly fell onto the floor at hearing his younger brother proffer the closest thing to a 'thank you,' he had ever heard from him. The car stopped in front of 221B and Sherlock lunged out the door.

Still such a child, thought the elder brother as the car pulled away. Just remain vigilant and – do what I can to help him. That is, if he'll ever let me.

Molly and John knew perfectly well the kind of state that Sherlock was likely to come home in after his meeting with Mycroft. In the past, whenever Sherlock had to deal in person and alone with his brother, John and Molly tried to talk to him, get information out of him about what the trouble was exactly, to no avail. Sherlock would be wholly mute no matter what question was put to him having to do either with the meeting he'd just endured, or his childhood, or even Mycroft specifically, and so the pair gave it all up and took a different route. They made sure to be home together on the days that Sherlock would be coming back from the meetings. Molly would make tea, and John would investigate the scotch supply and put out glasses in case something stronger were required, and they would chat together while Sherlock decompressed, usually silent and in a foetal position on the sofa. Finally, Molly would gently approach the sofa and speak his name. She'd sit down next to him, stroking his hip or leg, and he'd finally sit up and take her in his arms, and just hold her. John would sit close by and sip his tea and chatter about something trivial and the moment would pass.

Today John and Molly had tea set out with sandwiches and some cookies Molly had just finished, so the place smelled of baking. She had also brought flowers into the place, and opened the curtains to let in the afternoon's light. When Sherlock stepped into the flat, he was immediately calmed, though the bright light wasn't exactly fitted to his current mood, as he wanted to burrow and die. He looked at his friends who were seated, John in his chair and Molly in Sherlock's, but they didn't move, so he approached them, a hand in his hair. The pair seated knew this was a very bad beginning.

"Ah, not good. Very much not good. I'm sorry, I- I don't know how to -."

Sherlock paused, his lank frame a straight line, his fingers steepled under his chin, his face gazing heavenward. He might have been a model for any number of sculptures of the saints, Molly thought.

"What is it, love?" Molly asked.

"Um. Well. Mycroft knows. About us. About the three of us."

John and Molly looked to one another.

"How? How-, how did he find out?" Molly asked.

"Um. Well, that's just it, Molly, um. Oh, Molly, I'm sorry, so sorry. Some rather incriminating security pictures."

"What? He found the morgue pictures? Good lord."

"No, uh – Molly and me, but, oh, god, mostly Molly." Sherlock reached for the packet of pictures and handed them to John, who happened to be closer. He flipped through them.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Molly. Oh, god, Molly. Ahaha. Darling, you should -."

Molly hopped up to John's chair, looking down at the pictures. She turned a bit red, then giggled.

"Oh, god," she said. "Um, who has access to these? That is, my boss? Any of my co-workers?"

"No, no, love, nothing like that at all. All evidence of these will have been wiped out from the hospital, but these physical pictures, and I must assume another set of copies are in Mycroft's personal keeping. He also assured me that you have nothing to fear with regard to your job. At Bart's, that is."

"So, we're – we're safe, really, aren't we? Other than the fact that Mycroft has now seen me inflagrante. Interesting. Well, all in the family."

"Ahaha." said John. He licked his lips, rubbed an ear with one finger, and craned his neck forward, then pursed his lips mightily. Molly wondered if he would continue to tick like a madman, or just get a hold of himself.

"How did he find out - about me?" John asked.

"Well, that's - um, he guessed."

"He what? He guessed?"

Sherlock was loath to use the word, but felt he had to in this case.

"He deduced."

"From you? And what you said?"

"Yes. You've seen him. And, yes, we are brothers, he - he knows me. He had many years of observing me as I - grew up. It is one of the most intolerable - ." Sherlock stopped himself going on.

"I see. Well, what, um – what does he say about – the matter? Sherlock?" John managed.

John hoped that Sherlock wouldn't have a fit of mute brooding now, when the three of them really needed to discuss this further.

He continued to stand, almost at attention, almost as if to submit himself to a formal dressing down. He clenched one hand in his hair, sometimes two, and fairly spat his words out of tensely gripped jaws. He didn't seem to realize his manner was in stark contrast to the audience before whom he appeared – loving caring friends who would accept him no matter what pile of crap he handed them.

"He – at first he wanted me to - well, to end it - immediately."

The three were quiet, the suggestion of a break up alive in the air around them.

"But, he finished the conversation with quite, quite a-." Sherlock was battling with himself emotionally, his friends saw, and they waited for him. "He must have seen my – my hmm, extreme disinclination to – ah to do any such thing."

John imagined Mycroft taking in an emotionally full Sherlock and chuckled inaudibly.

"In the end," Sherlock continued, "he said he promised to keep an open mind. Those were his words. 'An open mind.'"

After a moment, John and Molly breathed a deep breath.

"Ah." John said. "Well, Mycroft has been a man of his word, at some point, in his life - I imagine."

John was clearly bristling at the role Mycroft had played in delivering his brother into Moriarity's sick game which had resulted in Sherlock faking his death. Sherlock and Molly knew that he'd prefer to keep the man far from their lives.

"We'll have to be vigilant. And be a little more discrete, hmm? Ahaha."

"That's precisely what Mycroft said." Sherlock smiled.

"Well, no permanent damage done. None, that I can see," Molly said. "At least as it seems to me." Molly put a hand on Sherlock's arm to assure him she wasn't in any kind of difficulty over the existence of the pictures or that Mycroft had seen them.

"I also think, Sherlock," John began, "we have to accept that this kind of exposure was bound to happen eventually. Hmm. Wrong choice of words? Ahaha." He took the pictures of Molly and Sherlock, and held them, taking custody. He shuffled through them again.

"These pictures, though, you really can't tell who you are at all, Sherlock, and Molly's face is just a blur. The eye goes to the – well the various interesting things that one looks for when one is – Ah, you have lovely breasts, Molly, love. I'll stop talking now. Ahaha."

Despite trying to keep things light, John could see that Sherlock was still struggling. It was clear that it was a matter that had only a little to do with the pictures, and the exposure of their secret relationship, and much more to do with a lifetime of animosity and distrust between the Holmes brothers.

"I have no privacy from the man," Sherlock's teeth were gritted, and his hand swiped his hair out of his face for the umpteenth time. "I never, ever have." Sherlock began to pace.

"Are there cameras or bugs in the flat, Sherlock?" John asked.

"He wouldn't dare. No, I would know. I check constantly."

"What about our flat, love?." Molly asked.

"Interesting. I'll have a look. I've been meaning to look into your security in general since I broke in that morning."

"Well, we're hardly ever there." Molly shrugged and smiled.

"Sherlock," said John, and Sherlock looked up, his tone was so definitive.

"Hmm?"

"I don't care," John looked up at his friend, and reached out and took him by the wrist. "Let them take their pictures."

"Don't leave me out, I want to be in the picture!" Molly added.

"Molly, greedy! You're already in the pictures about as much as you can be!" John kissed his wife.

Sherlock chuckled, and let John hold his hand for another moment, and then allowed Molly to put her arms around him but then he had to step away.

"I—ah, appreciate that you're not bothered, I really am. I'm terribly sorry about this – breach –I'm sorry, Molly, it's completely my fault. But, as you might surmise, – ah – I just need a few moments. If you don't mind." He turned and walked out of the room to his bedroom and closed the door.

John and Molly looked at one another.

"I don't know," said John.

"If it were me?" asked Molly.

"I'd follow you, I wouldn't leave you alone with it," said John. "If it were me?"

"I don't know, I might leave you for a while to sort yourself out. Then check on you in an hour or so."

"Split the difference? Half hour, then," John sat in his chair, and Molly nodded and then reclined on the sofa.

Flowers she's put flowers in here how potentially nauseating and she's pulled the curtains I need it dark damn it these sheets are clean the air is fresh she's done all this or he has they love me I love them why can't Mycroft go die somewhere under some rock somewhere so I don't have to know about it no no no I know he means well oh Christ who's taught me to think in such sickening platitudes Molly no doubt or John the two the pair my lovely couple but it's not private any more a matter of public fucking record if Mycroft knows about it has pictures of it public fucking record it was supposed to be our sweet secret no John is right take the picture take the fucking picture who cares in the end it doesn't matter to the world only to us only to us only let us be let us live let me live my life why can't they leave me alone why can't Mycroft leave me alone?

Sherlock chuckled. He was being childish and selfish again, he knew. This silly pouting in private. When he could be with them, they were right here, in the flat, waiting for him to get over his mood. The matter was only about himself and Mycroft, in the end. He would have to learn to get past Mycroft's meddling, it would always be present as long as he lived. And it was a kind of attention, after all, Sherlock chuckled again in self recognition.

So nothing's really changed, despite the humiliation, the sense of being caught out at Mycroft's guessing at the arrangement of the three. In fact, Sherlock mused, it's not so bad. Mycroft would protect John and Molly more assiduously than before, Sherlock knew, despite his moral misgivings about their association. The trouble only lay in himself, the detective had to admit. 'Get over your childhood nonsense and grow up,' he heard himself say aloud, though only in a whisper. He breathed a deep breath.

There was a knock at the door. Sherlock smiled.

"Come," he called, and Molly and John popped their heads in, grinning.

"Are you finished pouting?" John asked.

"Come here," Sherlock's hands were clasped behind his head in the pillow, and he closed his eyes as Molly and John clamoured onto the bed and put their arms around him. Molly pulled up his shirt and blew a raspberry on him, and Sherlock chuckled.

"You're like a bad kid, aren't you?" John tutted.

"No, he isn't, he's like everyone else. When you go home there's no escape from the childhood labels. Go out in the world, work a job in your field, win the Nobel prize, become a doctor, marry a doctor -."

"Ahaha."

"No matter what, same thing over and over again within the family," Molly finished.

"Hmm, interesting, Molly, but I do object to your phrase, 'he's like everyone else.'"

Molly beamed. Whenever Sherlock told her he found an opinion of hers to be interesting, she knew he meant it and she took it as a compliment.

"But seriously," John continued, "When one is of certain years, surely-."

"No, not really, John," said Molly, "Not within the immediately family. I can't believe I have to tell you this. What am I thinking. Haven't you always, always taken care of Harry? In a manner of speaking?"

"Hmm. Yes, I suppose you're right. Yes, it's true, in a way."

"Well, " Molly said at length, addressing Sherlock, "What can we do, love? Hmm? Let us help."

"You're doing it." Sherlock smiled as John sat at his side, and Molly molded herself to his torso, her arms around him. She ran a hand under his shirt, just petting him, and kissed his neck. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of her, kissing her hair. He felt John stretch out in the bed next to him, now and with his eyes still closed, Sherlock felt fingers run through is hair, and lips, John's lips, kissing him ever so lightly. John kissing him was still so new and wonderful, it took Sherlock's breath away again, and he gasped a little as he opened his eyes.

"Yeah, we're still here," said John as Sherlock looked into his friend's open smiling face. "Well, love, do you need more time by yourself, or would you like your tea, now?"

"Hmm. Tea, thanks. Yes, tea."

Would love some feedback, if you're liking it!

It's not everyone's ship, I realize, so I'll try to stop being so needy :-D

(even tho' I sooooo still am! pleeeese review me!)