A/N: Very slightly cracky - not really supposed to be taken seriously :) Also, spoilers for Reichenbach Fall.

As a rule, Mycroft Holmes did not dance.

He did not shout or giggle or flirt or cry or panic or relax or curse. He did not annoy people, and he did not get drunk or high or run around London just like his brother did. He did not do any of those ridiculously human things like care or have emotions.

And he especially did not dance.

Ever.

Mycroft was exhausted. He had barely slept for days. Not since Sherlock… not since his little brother had faked his death to save all of their lives.

He had been in on the plan. The Lazarus code, Molly Hooper's and the homeless network's involvement; all his ideas. But he could never have guessed at what Sherlock was truly planning. How could he have foreseen this; that after Plan A had failed, Plan B would be fifty times more drastic? It was not often that Mycroft underestimated his enemies, but he had underestimated Moriarty and the lengths that Sherlock's arch-nemesis would go to.

He knew Sherlock was alive and well, and in a different country by now. Yet the dangers he had willingly put himself in were stratospheric. If anything went wrong, the consequences would be enormous; not just for Sherlock and Mycroft.

His phone buzzed, and he almost knocked over a pile of carefully sorted papers in his effort to get to them.

Reminder: Meeting with the Prime Minister at 17:05 today.

Mycroft scowled. He had let himself hope that it would be Sherlock, though he knew his brother would not text him until he was safely out of the way, until he had found an untraceable phone. What are you doing now, Sherlock? What dangers have you put yourself in?

Suddenly he stood up, with a new resolve. 'Anthea,' he called, 'I'm going for a walk. Please notify me immediately if anyone texts or calls.'

'Okay,' she replied. He wondered how much of the desperation had shown in his voice, on his face, and whether she had understood that by if anyone he meant Sherlock.

Mycroft walked. He let the chill air cool his face and soothe his mind. Without awareness of where he was going, he let his rhythmic footsteps lull him into a sense of almost peacefulness. Still hardly aware of what he was doing, ignoring the voices and noises around him of everyday London, he stopped in the middle of the cemetery, in front of a familiar black stone. Sherlock Holmes.

A flood of memories overwhelmed him, so intense that he briefly closed his eyes. Not allowing himself to stay in front of the gravestone any longer, for fear of losing his composure, he walked further on.

Then he saw it. A mound of earth, an unmarked gravestone; he recognised it instantly.

Moriarty.

The man who had taken apart their lives. Who had shot to kill, who was sadistic and psychopathic and murderous and insane.

Who was dead. Who could not torment them anymore.

Too little, too late. But Moriarty was dead, and that was enough for now.

Mycroft furtively looked around. The sky was clouding over, and the cemetery was empty, with no sign of anyone approaching.

He took a step towards the grave. And another, and another, faster and faster, and then he was dancing; not running, but dancing around the grave of the man who had tried to take their lives apart, and failed. Dancing and jumping and grinning, Mycroft was happier than he had been in a very, very long time.

Jim Moriarty was dead, and Sherlock was alive.

With a rush of peace and happiness, Mycroft stopped to catch his breath. Looking around again, he hoped no one had seen him; he would never live it down if they had.

Turning around, Mycroft began the long walk back to his office.

What of Moriarty? -SH

Sherlock thumbed in the text wearily, carefully shielding his new phone. Though he was sure no one was watching, he could never be too careful. Not after what had happened. Not after Moriarty had taken down everything.

He didn't have to wait very long for a reply. He was still walking purposefully, picturing a warm bed and eight hours of sleep, when his phone vibrated. Instantly fishing his phone out of his pocket, he read the reply.

I have had the pleasure of dancing on his unmarked grave. -MH

And in a busy town in mid-Russia, many miles away, for the first time in days, Sherlock smiled.

A/N: Hello again! I am so sorry for not updating; the muse keeled over sideways, and I've had a hell of a lot going on recently. I'll try and update more often, especially as I've got more active on the kink meme where there are lots of prompts as starting points. (If you haven't been there before, check it out - it's amazing) This was a fill to a prompt on the kink meme;

I was reading a fanfic when this line was said:

What of Moriarty? -SH

I had the pleasure of dancing on his unmarked grave. -MH

Could I please have Mycroft out in the middle of a field somewhere dancing over Moriarty's grave? Make the dance as silly and stupid as possible. Cosplay, art, fic, I don't care, someone just do this!

and decided to fill it. I thought it'd be good posted on here. What do you guys think? Reviews would be welcome :)