Sherlock burst into Moriarty's apartment in Prague. He turned around in a frantic circle with his hand to his mouth. John and Moriarty were gone. A few seconds later, Mycroft burst into the room followed by Mary.

"Damn it, Sherlock, wait for backup before you go into a situation like this," Mycroft shouted half annoyed and half fearful for his little brother's safety. In order to cover the emotions that flitted across his face, Mycroft lashed out. "Never mind, brother mine, you have unfortunately let your heart rule your head in all matters regarding John Watson."

Sherlock wanted to scream, he felt so frustrated. He settled for pacing the floor instead. Sherlock paced a few moments and then he noticed the old spiral notebook in the corner. Hastily, Sherlock picked up the notebook, for he knew there was something important about its dog eared pages. The note book turned out to be Moriarty's journal from childhood. As Sherlock read each entry was more heart breaking than the first, so that by the time he was finished reading it Sherlock was sick at his stomach from revulsion and something that he would never admit to anyone, perhaps not even to John, Sherlock felt-pity. He felt pity for the damaged child that grew up to be the heartless man-Moriarty. Sherlock looked around as Interpol officers poured over the scene, making sure no one was watching, Sherlock stuck Moriarty's journal in his inside pocket. He failed to notice Mary watching him from behind him, as he patted his jacket where the journal was safely stored for future perusal.

Back at the safe house Mary and Mycroft listened as Sherlock played one heartbreaking Bach Partita after another. Finally, Mycroft could stand no more. "For God's sake Sherlock, quit playing those melancholy funeral like dirges." Mycroft shouted tensely as he always did when he couldn't reach Sherlock. Was Sherlock's world-his mind palace, a place of safety or torment? Ignoring Mycroft's request Sherlock played louder until Mycroft got up and left the room with Mary on his heels.

Mary looked troubled. "I never realized that Sherlock was such a passionate player. I somehow thought his playing would be well, cold and mechanical." Mary mused aloud.

Mycroft nodded. "Sherlock's spirit is a restless one. I only hope that it will not be his undoing," Mycroft said softly.

Mary looked over a Mycroft and was surprised that he actually cared about Sherlock, perhaps even loved him.

Mycroft was clearly uncomfortable and was relieved when Mary suggested they have a tall Gin and Tonic. Mary made the drinks and few moments later Mycroft was coughing furiously. "Good God, Mary, did you put in any tonic water at all?" Mycroft said as he coughed again.

Mary shrugged. "I thought we could benefit more from the effects of the gin more than the quinine in the tonic water. After all I don't have night leg cramps, do you?" Mary asked as her blue eyes bored into Mycroft's.

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. Something about talking about potential physical issues with Mary, made Mycroft feel nervous." Mary downed her drink in a couple of swallows, promptly sat down in a chair and began to cry.

Mycroft panicked. Good Lord, he could handle anything but tears. Mary sobbed for a few moments and then Mycroft crossed the room to where Mary sat and awkwardly patted her on the back. "There, there," Mycroft said quietly. Mary turned her tear stained face up to Mycroft and took his hand. Mycroft gasped for he was totally unprepared for the effect of another person's touch, especially that of a woman as beautiful as Mary. His reaction was not lost on Mary, for she stood up and kissed Mycroft hard. "Mycroft, take me to bed," Mary whispered huskily.

Mycroft backed up as if he had been stung, "What the hell is wrong with you?" Mycroft asked in panic.

Mary ignored him and kissed Mycroft harder this time. As his lips parted slightly Mary slipped her tongue inside Mycroft's mouth. Mycroft hesitantly slipped his tongue in Mary's mouth and then after a few moments pulled away.

Mary put her arms around Mycroft's waist. "Please, don't turn away. Oh God, you're not gay, are you?"

Mycroft shook his head no and cleared his throat. "Mary, I just feel that I would be taking advantage of you."

Mary laughed bitterly was she took Mycroft's hand and rubbed it against her bare breast. "Mycroft, we all take advantage of each other every second of every day. We might as well get some pleasure from it," Mary whispered as she began to unbutton Mycroft's shirt. Mycroft let Mary take off his shirt, but tensed up when she began to unbuckle his pants. Mary looked up, "What's wrong? Oh Jesus, you're not a virgin are you?"

"No, it's just been a long time since…," Mycroft's voice trailed off as Mary slipped his pants down. Mary looked at Mycroft as he stood before her in his underwear, he looked terrified. Mycroft knew that if he were to remove his underwear, he would lose his balance and fall. Mary gently led him to a chair and then she slowly peeled off his underwear and socks. She then sat on Mycroft's lap facing him as she began to kiss his neck. Mary put her hand between Mycroft's legs for a little foreplay. Mycroft gasped and slid out of the chair to the floor. As Mary helped him up Mycroft's hands began to shake. He tentatively unbuttoned her blouse and began to massage her breast. When her nipples hardened under his touch Mycroft desperately pulled Mary to the bed. She couldn't get clothes off fast enough, as he frantically began to take her blouse and bra off. Mycroft stared at her breasts in fascination. "God, she was beautiful," Mycroft thought as Mary guided his hand into her underwear. He let his fingers explore where she had led them and then they both desperately divested her of the rest of the clothing. Mycroft groaned as she explored his body with her tongue. He felt so light headed that Mary had to lead the proceedings for a few moments, and then as if by magic Mycroft was inside her, thrusting, pulsing, moving together as one force. Sherlock's violin playing drifted through the room as if from a tunnel. Mycroft had never thought Bach was sexy, but that night he understood why Bach had fathered so many children, God the passion of that music matched his penetration of Mary's soft, warm, moist woman hood, so that Mycroft thought he had surely died and gone to heaven or maybe hell, he thought as Mary thrust her hips upward into him. Afterwards Mary lay in his arms, as she rubbed his chest. "Mycroft, why do you waste yourself?" Mary asked as she played with his nipples.

Mycroft chuckled. "Whatever do you mean, Mary?"

Mary rolled over on top of him. "You know what I mean. I never see you with anyone. Jesus, you are so talented in the sack, "Mary breathed as she sucked on Mycroft's neck.

"Umm I think you are the inspiration of our physical union, Mary, that and my damn little brother's violin playing. Jesus, I always thought Back to be a fat stogy old man, but his music is perfectly synchronized. Like…I can't think of the word." Mycroft said in slight confusion.

"Like, this," Mary said as she dove under the covers and began to work her way orally to the middle of Mycroft's legs.

Once her tongue reached its intended target Mycroft had to stick a corner of the sheet in his mouth to keep from screaming out. When he finally got his breath back Mycroft breathlessly panted, "Jesus, Mary I swear you are the devil himself…," His voice trailed off in grunt as Mary worked her way up to his neck. Then, Mycroft sighed in absolute relief when she positioned herself on top of him so that he could penetrate her deeply.

The next morning Sherlock watched Mycroft and Mary through shrewdly squinted eyes. Something was different. Mycroft looked happy. Mary looked happy. They both looked happy as they looked at each other across the table. "Oh, good, God, you two had sex last night," Sherlock blurted out.

Mary's face turned red and Mycroft sighed in exasperation. "Sherlock, you have the unerring habit of stating the obvious. Mary and I are both single adults and that's what single adults do."

Sherlock didn't reply as he looked at Mycroft. By God, Mycroft looked at least ten years younger as he sat drinking his tea. He wasn't wearing a jacket, his shirt was buttoned crooked, and his hair was ruffled in messy tuffs around his face. Sherlock felt uncomfortable and confused. Mary had been with John, now she was with Mycroft, John had been with Mary and now he was with Sherlock. The sex drive apparently was much stronger than he anticipated. "Holidays were going to be more awkward than usual with this set up. All they needed was for Moriarty to get together with someone in the household and it would be a truly Kinky Christmas." Sherlock thought in amusement. Then another thought penetrated his mind like a grain of sand in an oyster shell, John had been missing a little over a month now. He must be scared and lonely. Could he be lonely enough to turn to Moriarty? No, Moriarty was inhuman and that would repulse John. Then Sherlock thought of Moriarty's sad journal that was something that John would respond to. John was a knight, a hero-a rescuer. Sherlock watched Mary and Mycroft with a feeling of dread. Loneliness could drive an individual into another individual's arms just as easily as it could separate an individual away from the arms of another.