A/N: Last part. Thank you for reading/favouriting/commenting.

I.

"London's bloody miserable this time of year." A small cluster of police officers of New Scotland Yard grumble on the outskirts of a taped off crime scene. Mycroft watches them for a moment from his half open car window as some suck greedily on low tar cigarettes and others cling to their steaming takeaway coffees like their lives depend on it. He thinks, if they run into Sherlock, furious at the sleet destroying precious evidence, that might just be the case.

Mycroft rolls his window back up and waits for his brother to emerge from the bushes in a flurry of deduction with his coat flapping about to increase the dramatics of it all. And there will be Detective Inspector Lestrade, annoyed at his own slow-firing synapses (even if they're bright for the average Joe), shouting 'hang on' every two seconds to wrap his mind around Sherlock's verbal diarrhea.

When they'd been little, Mycroft had been frustrated with Sherlock refusing to use his words and then regretted that deeply once Sherlock had learned how to and refused to shut up. These days of course Sherlock went for cutting quality over quantity.

Just like Mycroft expects him to, Sherlock comes charging out of the bushes, one hand gesturing wildly, the other texting, and Mycroft knows his window of opportunity is miniscule. He gets out of the car in a single elegant leap, umbrella opening as he goes and Mycroft inhales the scent of London and it's crime prime fully alive. Sherlock spots him when he slams the door and his brother's usual look of mild annoyance increases in tenfolds.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock snaps, once he's thrown enough verbal instructions at Lestrade to set the appropriate case-solving protocols in motion. They each stand on one side of the police tape, Sherlock within and Mycroft on the outside, their faces turning blue from the flashing lights in turns.

Mycroft lights a cigarette and says, "Cheer up, I haven't come to exile you. This time." He blows impeccable smoke rings at Sherlock, and his brother glowers at him. "Our parents are coming to London in a month and it is your turn to suffer through their insistent fix of cultural events. Ballet, I believe. Mummy's asked me to sort out the tickets."

"I assume your over competent PA has been tasked with it instead."

"Of course. I do have world politics to manipulate."

"Surely, you haven't come to tell me this." It's not a question, and if this weren't Mycroft, Sherlock would've already redirected most of his attention to texting his various helping hands for little crumbs of information that might help crack the case open like his first pet skull. Mycroft still remembers the way it split with a terrible crack during one of their fights and they'd both stared at it in silence. Sherlock and his cocaine blown pupils were drawn into Mycroft's mind for all eternity.

"Mummy insists on family dinner, obviously at my place," Mycroft sneers, "We wouldn't want to die of anthrax or worse. I don't trust you to behave, but I'll warn you about the consequences beforehand regardless."

Sherlock doesn't give away his curiosity, but Mycroft spots it anyway. Sherlock might have a flare for the grand, but they've waged their battles with microscopic gestures as weapons of intelligence.

"I'll make sure you can't get patches for a full month."

"Oh, please-"

"You know I have my methods, Sherlock."

"Couldn't keep me off cocaine, could you?"

"That's because you made it yourself."

"I didn't get a degree for nothing."

"And they didn't give you the degree for that. Or any relevant studies either, really."

"Not my fault the head of the institution was so obviously involved in a sex trafficking ring."

Mycroft sighs and sucks a long breath of smoke deep into his lungs. "Anyway, behave."

He taps the ashes off his cigarette and drops it to the ground into the slush. Mycroft hands Sherlock the rest of the pack with a cheap lighter as Lestrade's approaching them, a riled up Donovan on his heels. Mycroft leaves the scene before he has to witness Sherlock in another verbal fight without a worthy opponent, trying to channel his ill-founded anger at the best suited victim.

II.

That same evening, a little past ten, Mycroft leaves his office and heads off with the conviction of a man not willing to commute any longer than necessary. It just so happens that Harry Hart's house is closer than his own. There's the added bonus of getting to eat a proper meal, instead of facing his own bleak fridge stocked with Nutella, three types of Swiss cheese and pre packed salad portions stacked into neat towers. He crosses the path through the garden up to the front door and raps with the handle of his umbrella.

"My, look what a pretty thing's ended up on my porch," Harry Hart says as he opens the door and Mycroft rolls his eyes even as he goes in for a sort of hug.

With his arms around Harry, Mycroft reaches for the gun he knows Harry's tucked into the back of his trousers, whispering 'honestly' in an exasperated voice that reeks of fondness. At another point in time he might consider it abominable, but he's half in love and it's a Friday night with crap telly on in another room.

He fetches himself a serving of leftover Shepherd's Pie and joins Harry by the television with his belt unbuckled and his jacket chucked over the back of a chair. It's awfully domestic and perfectly comfortable in the same way they both are at ease in London's fanciest restaurants. Mycroft tucks his feet in under himself and watches the crime show that he's certain Sherlock would enjoy hating the same way he secretly enjoys watching political dramas.

"Anything interesting happen that wasn't on the news today?" Harry asks, because occasionally Mycroft discloses a thing or two, considering the ex-Kingsman agent is familiar with certain conflicts he handles.

"Plenty of things that weren't on the news, none particularly exciting, considering I spent half my day at MI5."

"Have they gotten boring again? They're quite the pain in the arse with all their paperwork. I suppose it's a way of preserving jobs."

"As is drinking milk."

"You make no sense."

"That's because I'm out of the office," Mycroft mutters and points at the telly, "There's a crack in the glass railing of the balcony; victim must've hit his head there. Wonder how long it'll take those idiots to figure it out."

"Sometimes I really think you should've become a detective instead of a politician."

"I'm afraid that position is occupied by my brother."

"So he just taught you a thing or two back in the day?"

Mycroft snorts, nearly outright laughs at the thought of Sherlock teaching him about deduction. "It just so happens to be that I am the older brother and he learned from me. The divergence in our paths is a matter of different applications of our shared skills. I'm afraid my brother follows his own, slightly questionable ideology."

To Harry's questioning look Mycroft adds, "No, he's not in prison. He merely insist on being a self-diagnosed sociopath."

"And you?"

"I make sure he doesn't get himself or anyone else killed. Other than that, London is his playground."

Harry smiles like it's a joke and Mycroft doesn't know how to express his brother's abnormalities in a convincing way. Not that it matters, because Sherlock's a separate entity from Harry Hart and in Mycroft's opinion should also remain as such.

"There we go," Harry says and Mycroft looks back at the television to see two police officers speculating over the crack in the railing. "It's just that they'll take another half an hour to realise he wasn't driving the car to begin with."

Mycroft sighs. "Why are we watching this again?"

"Because I moved our dinner reservation to Monday since you were working late."

"Is this punishment then?"

"Hardly, unless you're the type to be into that."

"Chivalrous, aren't we," Mycroft jokes and pokes Harry Hart with his foot.

"Speaking of which, a co-worker of mine just had an unpleasant fallout with his wife and is now left with two tickets to Le Corsaire next month. I offered to take them, if you're interested."

"Le Corsaire, the one with the pirate. I saw it a lot when I was younger," Mycroft says, thinking of all the times Sherlock insisted on seeing it on their trips to London. He idly wonders whether his brother would like to go see it now, twenty years since the last time he went. That time Mycroft spent all night looking for him, until he found Sherlock in his seat, eyes wide and sweating with cocaine infused blood rushing through his veins. Perhaps choosing it would be cruel. "When is it?"

"First weekend of March."

"My parents are in town that weekend and my brother's supposed to take them to a ballet actually. I'm guessing he'd prefer that particular show over any other."

"If you don't consider it an imposition, we could perhaps go together. Depending on your situation with your parents of course."

"They're not judgemental, if that is what you mean," Mycroft says dryly, "It's just that we've never really brought anyone around, me and my brother. I think they've given up hope by now."

Harry Hart squeezes his hand at the confession of long lived loneliness and says, "It's up to you, really. I'm certain I can push them onto another Kingsman, if you don't want to go."

"I'll think about it," Mycroft says and he might honestly consider it. They've been a system in equilibrium for five months now, and it's not very far from counting as something.

Harry nods. "It's Abraham, right?"

"What?"

"The murderer," he says, nudging his head towards the telly and Mycroft turns back to look at an actor do their best pondering copper impression.

"Yes, though the common viewer won't figure that out until half eleven."

III.

Mycroft buys Sherlock and his parents a box for the showing of Le Corsaire the same night him and Harry are going, the two of them safely tucked into the comfort of the Upper Circle and a camouflage of suited people to swallow them in the masses. He doesn't address the tickets to Sherlock, but gets them delivered to his house to give to Mummy upon her arrival, because Sherlock really can't be trusted with these sorts of things. Last time he'd made a show of burning the tux Mycroft had bought him for a family party with a special dress code. He texts the details of the ballet performance to his brother and returns to the dilemma that's arisen with Venezuela during the week.

The following hour is devoted to a long phone call across the Atlantic ocean and when Mycroft gets to return to his own mobile there's a message from Sherlock, which he can only imagine to be some sort of angry retort that his brother really shouldn't bother to send, considering how little he cares. A waste of data, he'd once told Sherlock.

Instead he gets text saying 'YOU'RE SEEING SOMEONE? -SH' and Mycroft's mouth goes dry in the most unpleasant way, because Sherlock doesn't use caps unless he means it and that could only mean one thing. Somehow Sherlock's gotten his hands on Harry Hart and Mycroft doesn't even want to think about how terribly that could end. He is out of his seat at lightning speed, tucking the most important folders and notes on his desk into a briefcase.

In his mind, Mycroft narrows down the places Sherlock could have run into Harry Hart and drawn the conclusions he had, unless Sherlock had gone absolutely off the rails in a different and no less alarming way. He storms out of his office and nearly has a run in with Anthea and a tray of tea.

"Are you going somewhere, Sir?"

"Yes, it's an emergency."

"Would you like me to order a car?"

He lets himself think about a split second before he says, "Yes, please, but tell the driver to come to the office entrance of the car park. I don't have time to wait outside."

She nods at him, already on the phone and Mycroft leaves without so much as a goodbye, stalking for the stairs. He runs down them thinking his entire staff might just burst out in flames at the rumours his exit will procure, but he's got other things to worry about right now.

Mycroft climbs into the back of his usual car and the driver immediately asks 'Where to, Sir?' like he understands the rush his employer is in.

"To my residence, please," Mycroft says and he doesn't forget his manners even under stress, because Mummy did always tell him that turns even the best men into beasts. Harry Hart comes to his kind, all shiny and kind on the outside, and yet he could kill one handed.

Mycroft imagines Sherlock earlier that afternoon picking his lock for whatever stupid reason, Harry on guard inside and the undoubtedly dangerous situation of two wild beasts facing each other on foreign territory they both consider their own. And Sherlock being Sherlock wouldn't look remorseful or even caught out, no, he'd probably deduce Harry Hart in a single breath, because it might be the only one he has left. How will he explains this to Mummy?

The ride is pure torture as Mycroft tries to reach his brother and constantly hits the voicemail. "Sherlock, I swear if you've gotten yourself killed, I will personally resurrect and flay you," he finally says and hangs up.

It's raining by the time Mycroft gets home and he runs up to his front door through the downpour. "Harry!" he yells as soon as he's fumbled the lock open and there's an eerie silence in the house.

Mycroft rushes from one room to another, looking for signs of a physical struggle. "Harry!" he calls again. He hears sounds from upstairs and heads towards the stairs where Harry Hart gives him a concerned look from upstairs.

"Is something wrong?"

"Where´s Sherlock?" Mycroft asks, taking the steps two at a time with his heart racing.

"Oh, your brother. I'm afraid he left about ten minutes ago. He ate your half of dinner and stayed for tea before he went. Didn't want me to call you though."

"Sherlock was here and ate actual food?" Mycroft asks, not trusting himself to interpret anything correctly in his state of mind. "And he left, alive and unharmed."

"Yes, he was quite an interesting persona," Harry says and grabs hold of Mycroft's shoulders, "Are you sure you're alright?

"I think so. It's just- This is Sherlock, and you. I half expected a dead body in the foyer. Didn't he break in and deduce you from head to toe in the blink of an eye?"

"Well, he did, but he came in with a key, yelling 'Mycroft I know you're home, you git!' Didn't seem too dangerous if I'm honest."

Mycroft lets out a shaky laugh and backs up to lean against a wall, because of course bloody Sherlock always had to strive to do the opposite of what is reasonably to be expected, even considering it's Sherlock. He texts an angry 'I hope DI Lestrade won't have anything better than a 3 on offer for a month. -MH'.

"Thank you," he tells Harry and kisses him.

"For what?"

"For not killing my nuisance of a brother. Now, I'd appreciate a cup of tea maybe. I don't think I want to eat tonight."

They sit down at the kitchen table with steaming hot tea and Mycroft breathes in the plain comfort of good old black tea. Harry Hart looks at him like he's trying to read something from his face and then asks, "Were you going to tell me your brother is the world's only consulting detective?"

"I figured you'd either put two and two together or let him live his life in and out of the tabloid covers and let me live mine with you. As far as our relationship is concerned, that is Sherlock and I, he likes to get into petty fights with anyone and I simply worry."

As if on cue, Mycroft's phone pings on the table and Sherlock's message of 'You didn't go into cardiac arrest then. Pitty. -SH' pops up on the screen.

IV.

Mycroft holes himself in at work for the next ten days, embarrassed over his freakout about Sherlock. The culprit keeps sending him snappish texts demanding one thing or another to solve a case and Mycroft's patience is wearing thin by the time his brother storms into his office.

"Sherlock, get out," he groans, holding his palm against the receiver of the phone to spare the poor soul at the other end from their quarreling. His brother merely huffs and proceeds to search Mycroft's coat hanging beside the door.

"It seems a situation has just arisen Mr Ashcroft. I will call you back later. In the meantime, my assistant should be capable of providing most of the information you need," Mycroft says into the phone, praying that Sherlock won't relapse to his childish antics of yelling profanities in the background. As soon as he gets and acknowledgement that his words have been heard, Mycroft slams the receiver down and turns to Sherlock.

"Pray tell, what are you doing here?"

"Ask yourself that and while you're at it, hire new security." Sherlock triumphantly finds an unopened pack of cigarettes and nicks Mycroft's lighter with it too. "Also, stop ignoring me. There's a serial killer with ties to MI5 and we both know it is impossible to deduce in a void. Lestrade's useless."

"Too bad for you. Learn to say please and stop interfering with my life."

Sherlock laughs and leans over Mycroft's desk to tower over him as he says, "You're one to talk."

"I should've let you rot away in Serbia."

"Oh, please. You wouldn't pass up the opportunity to strangle me yourself."

"I don't have time for your antics, Sherlock," he snaps and gets up to match Sherlock's height and claim the inch he has on his brother. And that is how it's always been, Sherlock lashing out at Mycroft, who holds the advantage in age, height and intellect even thirty years into their constant bickering.

"No? You seem to have time to entertain a goldfish, for fun."

"Sherlock, I'm not doing this with you," Mycroft tells him and makes a move to grab his coat.

"Fine," Sherlock snaps, "Oh, and by the way, I'm not coming to dinner at your house."

"Yes you are. Mummy insists on it and I'll have you at that table, if I have to drag you there myself," Mycroft says and opens the door as a final warning that they're leaving and Sherlock better count his breaths.

They stalk through the halls towards an elevator, a passing minion or two scuttling out out of the way at the menacing picture the two of them paint. "You'll bring your little pet to jump through hoops, won't you?" Sherlock drawls sarcastically and Mycroft merely rolls his eyes.

"I am bringing Harry Hart to dinner, yes. But he's not a pet and you can consider yourself very lucky to even be alive. On that note, Le Corsaire starts at six and we'll eat after that."

Mycroft leaves it at that and steps out of the elevator with Sherlock still on his heels.

"Why pirates?"

"It was on and you'll like it. Despite common conception, yours mostly, I'm not trying to make your life miserable," Mycroft says briskly as he slides into the back of his car and slams the door into his brother's face. As much as Sherlock has no respect for personal space, he does the draw the line there and Mycroft tips his head back against the cool leather seat as the car pulls into traffic and his brother angrily stalks into the other direction with a scowl etched onto his face. Mycroft lets the thought go and gets a hold of his phone to text Harry Hart instead.

I'm off early. Will pick you up. -MH

I'll be out in ten. -Harry

The car idles in front of Harry's house for a few minutes and Mycroft has time to think about the fact that he's celebrating Valentine's Day for the very first time in his life and he doesn't even consider it repulsive, though Sherlock would tell him twice over how ridiculously sentimental it is: hiding a surprise present that's already being half expected in his briefcase as he waits for his date to join him.

The door by the curb swings open and Harry ducks inside with a brief 'hey' and a kiss on the cheek. "You're not early because some miniscule country got blown to bits, are you?"

"No, I simply got up and left at a reasonable time after hanging up on Ashcroft in a very rude manner."

"Ugh, I've had dinner with him. He never shuts up and has no concept of not recounting every detail his eidetic memory can recall."

Mycroft snickers, delighted in a tad of freely spoken gossip. "Seeing as I share that memory with him, I find it mind-numbing to discuss any event we've both been at. If it weren't for Sherlock I'd probably still be talking about the Rawson policy."

"There's only so much to be said about it, after all."

"On that note I'd rather talk about something else."

"Like what?" Harry Hart asks and turns his full attention to Mycroft.

"I'm dying to know what desserts they serve at the establishment we're going to."

"Last time they had a very nice pavlova on offer."

They both smile and drift into their own thoughts, holding hands like they're sixteen, though Mycroft was up to wholly different things back then. He thinks it's for the better that way as they roll up in front of their restaurant and he crawls out of the car into bright lights after Harry.

"It has two Michelin stars and a fair bit of glitz," Harry Hart explains as they get their reserved table in the back instead of the lit windows where lovey dovey couples sit on display for the passing public.

They order venison with exquisitely silky pinot noir and chat away about foreign politics and newly released weapons like it's the equivalent of a new art exhibition at the National Gallery. "If you ask me most the things Merlin comes up with could be classified as art," Harry Hart says, "You just can't exhibit them, because a twelve year old schoolboy would end up killing his whole class by accident."

"I'm sure a head or two have been bashed in on the sockets of the statues at the Gallery anyway."

"Yeah, but that was a few hundred years ago. They didn't have the news back then, so I suppose no one knew."

"A much easier time to commit murder to put it quite frankly. Sherlock would've been delighted."

"He's a bit morbid, isn't he?" Harry Hart asks and it's not accusing or judgmental at all. Mycroft guesses they've got a fair share of sociopaths in Merlin's ranks as it is.

"Considering he isn't the murderer, yes. Apart from that he's on the side the angel, even if he's a fallen one," Mycroft considers if he should go on and decides there isn't much to be lost, "Mummy always did try to make sure he's on the right side one way or another."

"About that," Harry clears his throat and pours them both more wine. "Have you thought about the ballet?"

"I'm quite inclined to go with you. And, if you want to, you're welcome to dinner at my house afterwards, given my parents and Sherlock will be there."

"Meeting the parents," Harry laughs, "We're getting to be a bit old for that really."

"Well, I wasn't particularly popular when all my hair was still in place, so maybe more luck this time."

"I shaved all my hair off once, if it makes you feel better," Harry confesses, "Happened to take part in the Kingsman trials not long after with this terribly itchy and patchy stubble on my head. Haven't gotten that drunk ever again."

Mycroft laughs into his wine glass and tries not to suffocate on his drink. "Christ, how old were you?"

"A lot older than I would've liked to be doing that. It was Valentine's Day then too actually; that's why I got drunk off my arse in the first place. Miserably alone in a shitty flat in my twenties. For the record, this is a much nicer way to spend the evening and you look a lot better than my spinning ceiling."

"Is that meant to be a compliment?"

"I could tell you your freckles are adorable, but I have a feeling you might murder me."

Mycroft blushes, because the freckles are something he's self-conscious about. Something Sherlock used to make fun of when he stopped thinking they're just strange stars on Mycroft's face. "I like you more than that. Besides, my self-restraint regarding urges to murder have been well tested over the past thirty years with Sherlock."

"He seems to have the potential to be infuriating."

"Oh you have no idea. It's a bit tiring really."

"Where did it all start?"

"He accidentally killed my goldfish when he was five and refused to apologize," Mycroft says and he has to admit it sounds ridiculous said out loud, but they'd been stuck in an avalanche ever since. "I'd rather talk about dessert instead though."

"They have some absolutely divine tea here," Harry comments and Mycroft is grateful that he simply rolls with the change of topic. As Harry orders Mycroft tries to come up with a proper way to say thank you and decides to leave it for when they're in private. He beams at Harry once he turns back and tells him all about the Venezuelan fiasco.

V.

He invites Harry for tea at his office on the afternoon of their sixth month anniversary. Mycroft pours himself some scotch with a liberal hand and watches the street for his lover's arrival, contemplating that they might as well be an item by now. And it was all due to a megalomaniac, the former Arthur making a fatal choice and Mycroft's need to control everything. All he offered was tea and a way to keep up the integrity of Kingsman as a Secret Service and instead he was left with a nearly typical relationship with Harry Hart. Even the possibility of it seemed odd at first, but their respective professions and other quirks taken into account, the two of them have slotted together in the most comfortable way Mycroft could imagine.

There's a solid knock on his office door, the kind that sounds from an umbrella handle, and Harry Hart clicks the wooden door to peek inside. "Daydreaming?" he asks as he slips inside.

"Always," Mycroft says and jokingly adds, "I was lost in an imperium of tie pins, cufflinks and crisp shirt dresses."

They take their respective seats and make themselves comfortable for tea that Mycroft pours into his favourite porcelain cups. Harry Hart takes a polite serving of two biscuits and expectantly waits for Mycroft to disclose why they are doing this.

"Look," Mycroft eventually says, tea held pristinely in one hand and the saucer in the other to stop himself from fidgeting, "I know you probably own a calendar and know how to keep track of time and you know I'm terrible with all this relationship fuss, so I will unceremoniously get to the point: I've bought you present for the sake of having had the privilege of seeing you for half a year."

He takes a sleek black case from the single drawer in the table between them and hands it over to Harry Hart. "You didn't have to," Harry says as he runs his fingers over it.

"I wanted to," Mycroft says simply and adds, "I like you, that's why."

Harry snaps the locks open and lifts the lid to stare at a gun lying in a velvet mold. He lifts it out of it's case, running his hands along the barrel and the trigger as Mycroft watches on. Eventually he says, "It's MI6 issued. Palm print recognition and state of the art arms technology."

"It's beautiful," Harry mutters, flabbergasted and Mycroft breaks out in a wide smile.

"I'm glad you like it."

"I just don't know when I'll get to put it to the test."

"I think you might want to shoot Sherlock by the end of dinner next week. I know I will."

"That's hardly a good first impression to be making on your parents, if I shoot your brother. Besides, I have a present for you too that might aid you in the job."

"Are we really gifting each other guns?" Mycroft asks, because that's bordering on unbelievable and he has no idea how could ever explain this to anyone.

"Well, not quite," Harry says and holds out his umbrella,"I got you this. It's fully weaponized and made with bullet proof fabric that's also excellent to keep rain at bay. To save the remnants of your hair from London weather."

"Flattering," Mycroft says with a roll of his eyes, though he's genuinely intrigued by the umbrella. "What did you have to bribe Merlin with to get your hands on this?"

"A Kingsman doesn't kiss and tell."

"I hope that's not meant literally," Mycroft says dryly, arching an eyebrow carefully and the fact that Harry Hart smiles is mildly disturbing.

"Jealousy suits you," he says.

"Would you go as far as to say it's lovable?"

Harry Hart smiles fondly and says, "I'd go as far as saying I love you."

"Is that so?" Mycroft asks, smirk sneaking onto his face and he leans forwards out of his until his arms are braced on Harry Hart's knees and their faces are a mere three inches apart.

"I'd say so, yes."

"You might want to know the sentiment is returned." For the first time in his life Mycroft Holmes commits the not-so-abominable crime of kissing another man in his office. He licks his lips and sits back down to finish his tea with his heart racing under four layers of clothing.

VI.

Him and Harry meet an hour before the ballet at a nearby wine bar for some liquid encouragement, because Mycroft insist he won't survive and entire night with both Sherlock and his parents, especially if he's forced to be nice. "You've gotten through worse," Harry reminds him as he's downing his second glass at a not so gracious speed.

"Might want to rethink that statement later on." Mycroft sets his glass back down and presses his lips together, a leftover nervous tick back from the time when he used to worry his bottom lip. "Sherlock will pick the tickets up soon, whereas my parents will come straight to the show. God knows where they are right now."

He refrains from ordering a third glass and watches Harry sip at his own drink as they wait for Sherlock to materialize in the crowd with that scowl of his. Eventually he comes storming through the doors, coat flapping about as usual with the effect of showing off his nicer-than-usual suit and the fact that he's actually bothered with a bow tie.

"You didn't expect me to show up in a tracksuit, did you?" Sherlock taps his fingers on the table as he addresses Mycroft, sparing Harry Hart no attention.

"Well, you did come to Buckingham palace in a sheet," Mycroft bites back, "and you stole an ashtray. Did you think it would really go unnoticed?" He doesn't let Sherlock answer before he adds, "And all of it just to impress John Watson. He doesn't even smoke."

Sherlock pierces him with an intense gaze and asks, "Do you really want to get into this now?" The implied 'because Mummy won't like it' hangs unspoken in the air, but even Harry Hart doesn't miss it.

Both brothers drop the subject and direct their attention towards him for once. "Did you solve your case, Sherlock?" The question is more an attempt at being polite and diffusing the situation than anything else, not that anyone seems to mind.

"Of course. It was the gardener. You could tell by the ladder; he should've at least disposed the shoes he used while getting rid of the body."

To that Harry Hart offers some insight in regards to exchanging rubber soles to keep the shoes utilitarian and it crosses Mycroft's mind how their conversation are the strangest kind of normal he's ever encountered.

"I might suggest that to John for the next time he comes along. Mary doesn't like it when he comes home in bloody shoes."

Harry nods despite not knowing who either John or Mary are and moves on to ask Sherlock if he too would like some wine. "They have an excellent selection of whites as well, in case you prefer that," he adds, when Sherlock's face is already going sour.

"No, thank you. I'm afraid Lestrade won't stop pestering me about helping him with his paperwork and I have to get changed in time for Le Corsaire. I hear you're coming."

"I suggested it in the first place."

"Good choice," Sherlock says, takes his tickets and whirls out of the door without a word. Mycroft looks after him, annoyed that he'd compliment Harry Hart on the choice of ballet he would've found abominable, if Mycroft had chosen it.

"He doesn't seem bad, a bit strange, but that's only to be expected," Harry says to break the silence and draw Mycroft's attention back to himself.

"He only gets along with you because he knows it annoys me and delights Mummy."

"I'm sure he has better interests at heart; he is your brother, after all."

"You'd be surprised," Mycroft says and leaves it at that. He doesn't care to elaborate on the many times Sherlock's surprised him, often in highly unpleasant ways. He waits for Harry to finish his wine before he tugs on his gloves and they set out for a walk before the ballet.

VII.

At ten to six, Mycroft nervously tugs at his cuffs in the main hall as he waits for Sherlock and their parents to arrive. He lets Harry set his handkerchief into a perfect little blip of colour poking out of his breast pocket and tells himself not to pick at it anymore lest he mess it up. "I swear Sherlock's gotten them all arrested somehow," Mycroft grumbles under his breath and watches Harry put on a pair of white cotton gloves.

"You should go ahead already," he tells Harry, "I'll be up in a minute."

"I can wait."

"No, no. Just go. There's no time for introductions anyway. I'll just point them to their box, promise." Mycroft goes for an assuring half smile and Harry Hart concedes. He watches him make his way up the stairs with a last glance back at Mycroft before he's engulfed in finding the right entrance.

It takes a long minute of waiting and glancing at his watch repeatedly, but eventually, to Mycroft's great relief, his family comes through the door in a burst of faffing about and Sherlock's customary elegance even trying to fend off Mummy's attempts at fixing his hair.

"Darling, there you are," Mummy exclaims and Mycroft's subjected to a quick hug and a kind smile from his father. Sherlock rocks impatiently onto the back of his heels and Mycroft thinks this isn't any different from when he was fifteen and Sherlock was nine.

"Where's your goldfish?" Sherlock asks.

"I'll show you to your box," Mycroft tells his parents, "though I myself sit elsewhere tonight. I suggest we meet over there after the show. I have ordered a car." He points to the intended meeting spot and then directs them to the stairs, counting down the minutes until the show begins.

He has to hurry to make it to his seat before the lights go down, but makes it anyway, breathing slightly heavy when he plumps down in the seat next to Harry Hart. Mycroft tries to focus on the unfolding story on stage instead of his slowly calming heartbeat and the sweat that's barely broken out at the base of his neck.

"No need to get excited, yet," Harry whispers and that only starts his racing heart up again. The man sets a gloved hand on his thigh and leaves it there, though Mycroft adamantly keeps his eyes on the performance until half time.

When the lights go up and then the people rise out of their seats, Harry Hart sneaks his hand to the small of his back and says, "Your brother seems to have quite a blast."

Mycroft glances instinctively at Sherlock with his elbows still perched on his knees in keen wait for the show to go on. Mummy's already out of her seat and encouraging his younger brother to come for tea. The five of them meet around a miniscule standing table with a cloth draped over it in an attempt at false luxury.

Harry pours tea as Mycroft orders a flute of champagne each.

"Mummy, Dad, this is Harry Hart," Mycroft introduces him, Harry offering a hand to both his parents.

There are the 'pleased to meet you's and general British politeness before his Dad asks what Harry does for work and the ex-agent smoothly answers, "I'm in the tailoring business. There is nothing as valuable as a well fitting suit."

"Oh, well Mycroft certainly agrees with that statement," Mummy chimes and Mycroft gives her one of his false smile twitches and turns to his champagne for relief.

"He has been in the habit of buying a thing or two here and there at my shop for the past five months, I believe," Harry Hart says.

"Is that how you met?" Sherlock asks, the implication that Mycroft doesn't do human interaction out of his own free will lingering about.

Mycroft shoots him a glare unnoticed by Mummy and says, "We met a month prior to that to discuss business."

"You in the tailoring business?" Sherlock snipes, because he knows full well what Harry Hart's made a living with for a couple of decades before the Valentine incident.

"No, actually," Harry cuts in with his neatly crafted backstory, "I used to work for the Government as an accountant, but tailoring had always been my passion and I recently got an opportunity to switch careers."

"What a bizarre combination," Mummy comments. She is about to say something more, when the bell signalling the continuation of the ballet and they're all rushing back to their seats with the crowd. Mycroft thinks Sherlock is visibly relieved to escape the forced social interaction, scuttling back to the privacy of his box and the magic of the performance.

Him and Harry Hart follow it with only half of Sherlock's devotion and yet with whole hearts, hands resting atop one another on the armrest between them. On stage the dancers execute their choreographies in synchronisation Mycroft wishes could be carried over into the conduct of his wide spread minions. Not to mention an unfathomable elegance that's enticing to anyone, muscles flexing in controlled motion and Mycroft knows of nothing as well executed apart from the practised pull of a trigger by his best sniper. The way Harry Hart faked his own death to save his life not half a year earlier.

Harry squeezes his hand as the ballet reaches its end with one last leap into a frozen picture frame of dancers heaving for breath, and the lights go down for a moment before the audience bursts into applause. Mycroft claps too, but looks at Harry Hart and thinks he's glad the man's alive. Why he always has to have that thought about the people he loves sooner or later never ceases to bother him. He shifts his gaze onto Sherlock, who jumped off a building once and deliberately didn't die.

VIII.

Their whole lot, Sherlock included although not without protest, make their way to Mycroft's house in a vehicle that's not a car, but won't qualify as a limousine either. It doesn't come equipped with a selection of liquor, so Mycroft takes it upon himself to pour them each a glass as soon as they've made it through the door. He hands Sherlock something strong in an attempt to take the edge off his hatred and downs something similar to preserve his sanity. His parents both opt for gin and Harry knows where to find himself something appropriate.

In the kitchen Mycroft's housekeeper and occasional cook fusses around to get dinner onto the table and head home where she won't have to witness the eternal struggle of Holmes family dinners. Either that, or she has a family of her own to look after. Mycroft doesn't bother to remember properly.

"Dinner should be ready in a moment," Harry Hart says, coming out of the kitchen with his own drink. "Shall I fetch an appropriate wine?"

Mycroft nods and the others take it as a call to seat themselves around the preset table: Mummy sitting across from Mycroft and next to Sherlock, leaving a spot for Harry between Mycroft and his father at the head of the table. He thinks it's an oddly conventional sitting order, considering how his father never was one for the whole tradition of patriarchy. In his childhood home that had always been secretly reserved for Mummy, though she sat exactly where she still does today.

Harry returns with a bottle of white and bottle of red, pouring them each their prefered type before taking his own seat. Their each served a platter of amuse bouche arranged from starters to mains to desserts. Mummy asks him whether it's even proper food. Sherlock makes a quip about french eating habits and a jab at Mycroft's dieting regime.

"One would think you'd have come up with something new by now," Mycroft says dryly and eats as though he isn't trying to make out how many calories his food contains. Harry knocks his knee against Mycroft's and smiles reassuringly, sensing the struck nerve yet again.

Mycroft's father makes an attempt at steering the conversation onto safer waters and asks, "How has work been?"

"Busy as always." He can't disclose more, unlike Sherlock, who will happily lay out every little detail of his most interesting cases when prompted.

"Obviously not too busy to maintain a relationship," Mummy says to enforce a point she tried to drive home for years without success.

"It was never about that," Mycroft says and shoots Harry a pleading sideways glance to save him from yet another trip down this same lane.

"Mycroft is rather unconventional," Harry blurts, "I think it takes someone who understands the nature of his business to fully understand him or even earn his trust. As you know, there are plenty of things he can't disclose."

"And trophy wives tend to snoop sooner or later," Sherlock remarks and earns a glare from both his parents. Unphased by it, he continues, "There's no point in opting for anything less than an equal."

To Mycroft's great surprise he realises Sherlock likes Harry Hart for who he is, killer and all, and not simply to annoy him. He gets a piece of white truffle macaroni and cheese stuck in his throat and tries not to cough it out right onto the table. He still sounds like he's suffocating ungraciously as he tries to eject the lump into his serviette and Mummy immediately asks 'Darling, are you alright?' in a tone of passive, maternal worry.

Harry claps him on the back once, just in the right spot, and the piece comes flying out and into the fabric as Mycroft is on the verge of tears. He fold the cloth and sets it back onto table, nursing his wine with a blush creeping up his neck.

"One would think you would've learned to eat properly in forty-two years."

"Sherlock!" their mother shouts and the table settles into a temporary peace over yet to be eaten amuse bouches.

Sherlock doesn't say anything after that and Mycroft falls silent with him. They've always made sure to obey Newton's laws, and where his brother doesn't push he doesn't have to push back.

Harry pours him some more wine and Mycroft drinks it all, alcohol starting to build into a warm fuzz in the back of his mind. He eats the first part of his dessert and loses himself in the sweet flavour of it. Sherlock is still stuck two courses behind, and Mycroft idly wonders how long they'll have to wait for him to finish.

IX.

Eventually they're all sat in the living room, sprawled out over sofas and armchairs like a dysfunctional family from the twenties on modern television. Mycroft takes a look at his watch and they're only half an hour away from when the car is coming to pick up Mummy and Dad and Sherlock, and he'll finally have his house and Harry Hart back to himself. It crosses his mind that he's nearly survived a whole evening with his immediate family and partner without the world spectacularly falling to pieces of bursting into flames. He's so elated he wants to tell them all to fuck off right away and he might, if he takes another brandy, because he's a bit too drunk to socialise politely. Harry even knows how to cover that up and Mycroft ponders if there's anything Harry Hart can't fix.

"I think it was even better than the one we went to see on Sherlock's seventeenth birthday," Mummy says, referring to the ballet, "Or what do you think, darling? You've seen it so many times anyway."

Sherlock is silent for a moment, and Mycroft knows he thinks about the last time he saw it, the time Mummy was never told about. "It was an excellent performance on the main dancers part, though the female lead could have done better, considering how much money Mycroft put into the tickets."

"Why can't you just say thank you like normal people?" Mycroft grumbles.

"Because I'm not normal."

"No, and that's only 'cause you're caught up playing a self-diagnosed sociopath simply to sidestep manners, when you don't feel like beha-."

Mummy cuts them off with a curt 'Boys!' and Mycroft casts his eyes to the ground. "Sorry."

Sherlock sulks in his chair, crossing his arms and drawing his feet up onto the seat. Mummy sighs and she too looks at the clock with longing for the first time that night.

"I heard you have quite a large garden," Harry Hart says into thin air, really grasping for anything at all to save the evening from going sour at the last minute. Their Dad, equally eager for the same and willing to participate in plebeian chit chat, tells him all about their hyacinths and Harry Hart doesn't know anything to say to that, so he nods and hums in the appropriate places.

"Perhaps you two should visit us sometime," Mycroft's Dad says, "I could show you everything properly in that case."

Sherlock and Mycroft both look up at their father and this is the final mark of acceptance. Mycroft supposes it might be the line drawn in the sand to mark the exact moment their relationship turned from aimless floating around into something that's acknowledged as semi-permanent even by the general world.

His world topples over even a little more as the sound of a car pulling up outside pulls them all out of their seats and Mycroft realises the night is truly about to be over. Sherlock is the first to bundle himself into his coat and loiter by the door as his parents take the time to say goodbye.

Mycroft hugs both his parents and his mother forces Harry Hart into an embrace as well, while his Dad settles for a firm handshake. "You'll call us, won't you?" Mummy asks and Mycroft assures her in low murmurs and makes a mental note to actually do it this time.

"Can we go?" Sherlock asks impatiently and it makes the whole situation unravel. Mummy fusses about with Sherlock's scarf, but makes it out the door without further delay.

Mycroft leans on the doorframe to steady himself as he watches his family climb into the back of the car and drive away as little red lights in the night. Harry stands behind him, one arm perched against the other side of the doorframe and Mycroft notices the slight flush in his cheeks from the combination of cold air and alcohol running through his veins.

"I'd have sex with you just for being marvellous, but I'm both bloody tired and moderately drunk."

"I was going to suggest sleep anyway," Harry says, "We'll see how shit a condition we're in tomorrow morning."

"Sounds like a fantastic plan," Mycroft says and loosens the knot of his tie.

They don't bother with the lights or the glasses lying all around the living room, instead making their way up the stairs into the cool of a dark bedroom. "Don't turn on the lights," Mycroft mutters, pulling the tie away entirely.

He sits down on the edge of the bed and fumbles with the buttons of his waistcoat. The rustling of fabrics registers in his mind and he briefly has the thought that Harry Hart must be stripping on the other side of his bed in a half dark room. Mycroft also decides it's the most domestic moment they've ever had.

Behind him the bed dips and Harry Hart kicks the blanket around. Mycroft takes his time, ridding himself of cufflinks, shirt, trousers, socks and their suspenders, until all he has left is his pants. He makes one last move to wriggle out of them and tosses them onto the heap of clothes on the floor.

"You know," he says to Harry and crawls under the blanket, "I'd hand you the entire world on a silver platter, if you asked for it." Mycroft slots his body against Harry's warm mass and revels in the comfortable familiarity of it, like symbiosis reaching perfect completion.

"Is that your way of saying 'I love you'?"

"Yes," he says and brushes Harry's carotid artery with untamed affection.

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