A/N: Just a note; Mycroft mentions 'brown office' in here. I like to think his offices each have a color scheme (the black one in The Empty Hearse? Right?!); this one is the one we saw John visit in The Great Game.

Also, this isn't as racy as the past two; I needed my own personal break from smut but don't worry if you were looking forward to it, it'll be back soon enough ;)

Sorry if the beginnings a bit rocky, had a bit of trouble with it… hope you enjoy either way! As always, please review if you feel the inkling to, and thanks for reading!

Winning

"Really, we aren't doing visits at my work now, are we? Surely they haven't passed a new law without my being aware of it, have they?"

Not looking up from the important files which lay before him – of national importance, thank you very much – Mycroft knew well enough who would dare disturb him without so much of a blink at the danger of doing so.

Only after hearing the scoff did he look up. The green eyes regarded the tall figure as he sauntered into the office, much like a hungry mongrel may sniff about for scrapes or an annoying child might bother an older relative simply to remind them they're alive.

As his little brother sat down loudly onto the brown leather chair, Mycroft was inclined to believe the second was the more accurate.

"Don't be ridiculous Mycroft. Even if they had I'd ignore it, obviously. I'm here for a…" Sherlock sighed heavily, looked away quickly before rushing out, "…a favor."

With one manicured eyebrow raised, Mycroft asked the question silently.

In response, the man across the desk gave an exaggerated rolling of his silvery green eyes and again let out a ragged sigh. "John Watson needs his security precautions raised."

An hour ago, when he had received the text, 'Where? – SH' Mycroft had simply replied 'Brown office. Not now – MH'.

He had expected Sherlock to realize that meant he was busy.

He should have known; Sherlock would ignore him.

Each brother took their turn deducing the other, as was their nature. Woke early, didn't sleep, ate cake, ate a biscuit, crises in Korea, unsolved case, late night at the office, late night- Oh. The realization dawned on Mycroft after mere seconds, and immediately he went through a discomforting mix of emotions. Worry, fear, apprehension, surprise and concern all flickered swiftly before being doused out by the frost of indifference took hold.

"Well, it really was inevitable wasn't it? Shall we be getting that overdue happy announcement by the end of the week, then?" He smiled venomously and Sherlock narrowed his eyes threateningly.

Grating out the words he tried to mask what he knew Mycroft had already glimpsed at, "he is imperative to the work therefore if he comes to any harm-"

With a scoff, Mycroft weaved his fingers together and leaned forward. Sherlock knew what that meant, it was predictable: he was going to receive a lecture.

"Now, Sherlock, I am certain I don't have to remind you but none the less we both know that sentiment-"

Sherlock stopped listening, tuning Mycroft out easily as he had done many times before. Instead he turned his thoughts to the events of last night which had prompted this ever-so-nearly regrettable visit.

He remembered the taste of rainwater on his lips, on the lips he had kissed, lips which had kissed him. He tasted it on the skin he bit and sucked, on the collar-bone he had run his tongue over. Trying to catch all the tiny droplets like they were some kind of taste he was starved of, powerless to resist; as if they were some kind of holy water he needed to worship. It should have been uncomfortable, the wet clothes plastered to their disproportionate bodies. Instead it was incredibly endearing, irresistibly outlining every nook and cranny of their parallel physicality's. It made Sherlock want to scale those shoulders like an elusive mountain, explore the muscled chest like a newly discovered temple and run his fingers down each rolling hill created by rib-bones.

He remembered the touch of light fingers weaving into his black-licorice hair, tangling themselves in like he was searching for buried treasure; they dug up moans and gasps. Sherlock distantly thought that these hands – hands he had seen save lives, kill criminals or hold hands – were the ones he had always wanted on him. They seemed to sap the strength to stand from his body, they called to every goose-bump to rise, they screamed to every nerve to sing and his body was helplessly lost among the noise. When they ran down his bare back, they traced the pale white spin like it was a rare coral reef, where things of beauty and mystery live; some kind of remarkable piece of art never before created; something truly novel. Sherlock felt they moved as slow as the sun yet as fast as lightening all at the same time; either way he was burning in the brightness they left branded on his skin.

He remembered feeling loved.

It hadn't felt wrong, though at times he did in fact feel uncharacteristically vulnerable. John Watson had quickly wiped that feeling away with his words of praise, spoken from lips Sherlock never knew to tell a lie, not to him. Never to him.

No, it hadn't felt wrong at all. It had felt more right than any drug, any high, any pastime had ever felt before. It felt ingrained deeper than veins, like John had scrawled his name into Sherlock's bone-marrow, forever there to rest inside him. Forever in his body.

So when he finally paid attention to Mycroft, he had decided to tell John just that.

But first, he needed his unfathomably annoying brother to shut up.

"-is a chemical defect found on the losing side, brother dear."

Sherlock smiled slowly, almost gleefully, "really, Mycroft? Because to me, it felt like winning."