I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC.

If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Mycroft Holmes shifts uneasily in his seat.

The Japanese affair is going to take at least another eight hours to resolve (damn the ambassador's assistant; you'd think he'd have read up on even the most minor cultural mores in advance), and he's getting so very tired of sitting in his office, trying to deal with these insane people. Not just the Japanese contingent, either; the representatives from the United Kingdom, with the obvious exception, are as bad, if not worse.

Mycroft misses his partner. He is new to relationships, new to relationships with men, new to relationships with Scotland Yard (and wouldn't that be frowned upon if anyone save Anthea knew that he was… involved). He is utterly unaccustomed to this strange feeling of loss engendered simply by the fact of being separated from another person. He finds it very odd to reach out to his side, find nothing there, and be bothered by that.

There has never been anything there before. Why should he miss it now?

When he discovers that he is actually twitching in his seat like an impatient schoolboy, he smiles ingratiatingly and proposes that they all take a brief recess. Shall we reconvene this evening? he suggests, and proposes The Gilbert Scott. They'll book the private room. They can book the entire restaurant, if necessary. The Japanese dignitaries nod, bow, excuse themselves; the British diplomatic team shoot questioning glances at Mycroft, but leave as well, unable to complain about a respite from the dark and stuffy rooms below 10 Downing Street.

Mycroft, for his part, summons a car (well, he summons his assistant; she brings the car) and is gone from the building before anyone can make any further demands on him.

Anthea's skill with her mobile phone proves highly effective, and in minutes, she has directed the driver to a crime scene in north London. It takes less time than it should to get there (even as a cover, the position of a "traffic minister" is quite useful indeed, though he knows he will be chastised for his irresponsibility later), and before he is entirely sure what he is doing, Mycroft is out of the car and striding across the filthy Hackney street toward a certain startled-looking detective inspector.

He is a man on a mission, though, and the incredulous gazes of the police teams around him barely register as his feet carry him forward, hands grasp the rough fabric of an inexpensive Oxford shirt, bodies in suits (one off the rack, one bespoke) press against one another, and they are kissing. On the street. At a crime scene. In front of an entire division of the Metropolitan Police.

John nods matter-of-factly and tries, rather unsuccessfully, to appear completely uninterested.

Sherlock grimaces elaborately and turns away, desperately seeking something, anything to focus on other than the fact that the British government – his brother – is currently snogging one of his colleagues.

DI Lestrade just grins and says, "Bloody hell, Dimmock, can't you save it for later?"

The twin double-barrelled glares he receives indicate that the answer is unequivocally no.