Welcome to another story in my Patriotverse. As has become tradition, I have written this for my dear friend TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot, who shares her birthday with that very British of celebrations, St George's Day. Happy birthday my dear, I hope you - and everyone else - enjoys this little one-shot.

John's lips twitched as he held back a smile. From the corner of his eye he could see Greg frowning at him, his eyes momentarily flicking back towards Sherlock before returning to frown at the blond doctor.

"What's up?" Eventually John knew he'd burst if he didn't say something, although he was sure he already knew what the answer would be.

The detective flinched, as if caught out in some misdemeanour, then smiled ruefully.

"What's with him?" he nodded towards Sherlock who was crouched by the body, motionless apart from the breeze blowing through his curls. "First he says it's a two and barely worth getting off the couch for, then he texts me and demands to know the address, and now…" he shook his head, puzzled. "…now he's been crouched like a crow over carrion for the best part of fifteen minutes without saying a word! What have we missed?"

"The date." John replied succinctly, not bothering to fight the grin spreading across his face.

"The date?" Coming up behind them, Anderson had overheard most of the conversation. "What's so special about the twenty third of April?"

"Saint George's Day." Sherlock rose and walked away from the victim, treating Anderson to a condescending glare. "Even I didn't delete that particular piece of patriotic information."

"Delete?" The forensic lead looked more confused than ever.

Greg stepped in before a full scale war broke out.

"Can we let forensics in now?"

Sherlock nodded and sneered as Anderson walked past.

"They won't find anything." He said. "Suicide, quite plain and simple, he was a trader on the Stock Exchange, I imagine not a very successful one, and his income didn't match his expected lifestyle."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Look around you John, the area he lives in, the upmarket accommodation – then look at the repairs to his shoes, and the slightly threadbare look to his suit."

John gazed at his flatmate – he loved it when Sherlock rattled off his deductions like that. Greg just rolled his eyes at the pair of them and turned to give instructions to his team.

"Come on then genius." John nodded towards the door. "You and I have a dinner date to get ready for." And ignoring the gasps of surprise from police officers around them he walked out, leaving Sherlock to follow sulkily behind.

xXx

Mycroft stared in dismay at the missive from his mother, delivered to his Whitehall office to ensure that he received it.

He wasn't entirely sure at first why she had seen fit to remind him that he was expected to attend her Saint George's dinner that evening, after all, it was Sherlock and John that were always looking for excuses not to be there, but then he saw it.

At first the blood drained from his face, then came rushing back, burning its way up his cheeks and across to the tips of his ears.

"Oh Mummy, no!" he said under his breath.

xXx

"I don't know why you're grinning like an idiot!" Sherlock snapped crossly as the two men made their way out of the house. "You dislike these dinners as much as I – you know Mummy will make a fuss, and talk to us like we're a pair of two years olds…."

"Well one of us is."

"John." The younger man all but stamped his foot. "Can't we…?"

"No Sherlock, we can't." John used his most soothing and persuasive tone as he urged the other man to hail a passing cab. "And anyway, I don't think you want to miss this year's entertainment."

Sherlock paused midway through the taxi door and glanced back over his shoulder.

"Entertainment?"

Giving Sherlock's shapely bottom a gentle shove John waited until they were both seated.

"I'm surprised you didn't notice that your mum sent the invitation addressed to me."

"I did," Sherlock was still sulking. "I assumed she sent it to you in the hopes that I wouldn't burn it."

"Well it's just as well you didn't." John smirked. "There was another note inside the envelope that was for me alone, because she knew you wouldn't be able to resist teasing, so if you want to know about the evening's entertainment you will have to hand over your phone."

"What?"

"You heard - hand it over, or I won't tell you."

It was amazing how blank faced John could be when he wanted to, maybe years of living with Sherlock had taught him more than just the basics of deduction, and now the younger man could see that if he wanted to know what was going on he would have to comply.

John grinned as the iPhone was slapped a little harder than was necessary into his palm. Pocketing it, he reached into another pocket and withdrawing the note from Mummy, he handed it over.

xXx

It was clear that they were not the first arrivals, and Sherlock and John eagerly shed their coats into the manservant's waiting hands and made haste to join the party.

As they entered the room their eyes were drawn to the wall opposite the huge fireplace. In pride of place above the antique sideboard hung the painting of Mycroft, tastefully framed to draw the eye. It was obvious that Sherlock had had a hand in choosing it.

Trying not to stare too hard, John looked around, intrigued. Having only met Harry Dunstan once before – and not under the most auspicious of circumstances – he really wasn't sure what to make of the fact that this man had not only persuaded Mycroft to put down the umbrella that at any other time he seemed welded to, but he had also persuaded him out of his three piece suit and into a risqué pose….and John was sure it wasn't art for art's sake!

They crossed the room and joined Sherlock's parent and their guest, both declined a drink, and the conversation went round and around on trivialities and social niceties.

Sherlock positioned himself so that he could not only hear his brother arrive, but he would be able to see both his and Harry's faces as Mycroft entered the room. John had been adamant that with his skill at handling diplomats, Sherlock's older sibling wouldn't be thrown by coming face to face either with the picture or the artist. His partner just grinned and said nothing.

xXx

Mycroft sat in his car outside his parents' house. Glancing at his watch he realised that if he sat there much longer he would be unforgivably late, and Mummy would be upset. There was nothing he could do about it, he would just have to go in and face his parents. Hopefully his brother and John would have found an excuse not to be here. Silently he cursed the fact that he hadn't had the forethought to 'arrange' for that detective friend of Sherlock's – Lestrade – to drag him off on a case of some sort.

Catching his driver's eye in the rear view mirror he sighed. The only answer was to just get on with it, so he nodded to the uniformed man who quickly got out of the car and walked around to open the rear passenger door, standing back as Mycroft stood, then discretely disappearing as the Government man climbed the steps to the front door.

It was all Mycroft could do to hold back a cringe as he walked into the room. His brother was smiling smugly at him, watching both his and Harry's reactions.

For a man in such an exalted position as Harry held, he was far too open in showing his pleasure at his friend's arrival. Mycroft would have preferred their burgeoning relationship to remain private for a while longer, but he knew from bitter experience that nothing escaped his eagle eyed brother, and John could be amazingly observant at the most inconvenient moments.

With deference to his parents, he approached his mother first.

"Mummy, you look as lovely as ever." He kissed both her blushing cheeks and turned to shake his father's hand.

Next, ignoring the smirks of his brother and John he turned to his friend.

"Harry, how good of you to join us. I hope Sherlock hasn't been too rude – he usually is you know." It was childish and Mycroft knew it, but he also knew neither of his parents would say anything, and Sherlock risked sounding like a petulant five year old if he complained. It warmed his heart to see John stamp on Sherlock's foot to prevent him from doing just that. With a smile he turned to listen to Harry.

Keeping up a steady stream of polite nicities, Mummy Holmes led the conversation until dinner was announced. Moving to the dining room, the conversation flowed, covering all aspects of life from John's work at the clinic to Sherlock's cases, from Mycroft's latest series of meetings with world leaders to Harry's busy schedule at the Palace.

Sherlock more than once caught John's eye and smirked, drawing his attention to the hopeful expressions on his parents' faces, and Mycroft had to rein in his urge to pull at his shirt collar as if to prevent it choking him.

Glancing around the table, Mycroft decided enough was enough. Harry was more than a little fond of him- that feeling was reciprocated totally – and he knew if he asked a favour from him Harry would be only too pleased to help, so as the last of the plates were cleared away, he suggested they take after dinner drinks back in the room where they had started.

With the ease of a practiced diplomat, Mycroft ensured that Sherlock and John were drawn into conversation with Mummy and Father, giving him the opportunity to take Harry to one side and have a quiet conversation. It pleased him to see how happily Harry took up the baton of retribution on his behalf – maybe this really could lead to something more permanent – and so with their plan hastily agreed, they moved to join the others.

The first inkling John had of trouble was when he noticed Harry looking him up and down with the practiced eye of an artist. He licked his lips, wanting to say something, but not really knowing what.

Sherlock looked across at him, a puzzled expression in his eyes. He too had felt something was amiss.

"Mrs Holmes…." Harry started, only to be waved to silence.

"Oh please, call me Mummy – all the boys do."

With a smile Harry cleared his throat.

"Mummy," he said a little self-consciously. "I've had the time to study the wall where you've very kindly hung my artwork, and I feel there is something missing."

"Oh?" Mummy looked torn between puzzlement and concern that her taste was being questioned.

"Yes, but please," with his most winning smile Harry moved to put her mind at ease. "Don't for one moment consider that it's something you have done – indeed, it's something I have not done, but can be easily rectified."

Now he had Mycroft's parents' undivided attention.

"I believe you actually need something…" he pretended to think hard for a moment. "Yes! That's it! You need two smaller paintings, a bit like the creatures reaching towards God in Michaelangelo's Sistine chapel artworks. I wonder who…."

Mycroft smiled as he saw the thought he had hoped would enter Mummy brain take shape. She clapped her hands delightedly.

"You must paint Sherlock and John!" she said, her eyes alight with joy. "Then I shall have my three boys together on the wall…" She didn't add and they will have been painted by the fourth, but the implication was clear in every look and gesture.

"Well," Harry glance at the two men in question. "If you think they would…"

"Of course they will!" Mummy turned to Sherlock with a smile. "Remember when you sent that lovely painting to me last year, how you said you would have had portraits done of you and John if only you could find an artist talented enough? Well Harry here is certainly talented, I think it's a splendid idea!"

Sherlock's famously quick wits now failed him, and John just stood with his mouth hanging open.

Taking a sip from his glass of port Mycroft smiled a beatific smile.

"Happy St George's Day Mummy!"