John felt truly happy, for the first time since he could remember. Who would have suspected he had found it in Sherlock's strong, lean arms? A small, submissive voice nagged in the back of his mind that he had no right to feel this way, what about Mycroft? He was after all, still his boyfriend. But John, rather uncharacteristically, had drowned out the weak, persistent voice with his now constant thoughts of Sherlock, damn the bloody consequences. But even he knew that he would have to deal with Mycroft, and soon. What he was doing now with Sherlock, was, although it pained him to admit it, cheating. That was Harry's area of expertise, not his.

John, after the kettle had finished boiling, had dragged Sherlock over to the sofa with two steaming hot mugs of coffee, sat the man down, unceremoniously placed one mug in his surprised hands, and proceeded to curl up beside him. He sipped the coffee, letting the liquid seep through his weary bones. He looked at Sherlock, who was staring into the murky depths of his coffee, absentmindedly taking hold of John's hand. John liked that.

"Mycroft." That single word which Sherlock muttered made him wince. He knew they would have to discuss him sometime. He watched his newly spun happiness shatter like fine glass.

"This is so wrong Sherlock. We're going to hurt him so bad. I mean, you're his brother, and I'm – however much you don't like it- technically still his boyfriend."

"It's your choice John. If you went back to him, I couldn't do anything, however much I wouldn't like it, and he would be none the wiser."

"Sherlock, you know I'm going to choose you. We're going to have to tell him."

"Who said anything about 'we' telling him?" Sherlock grinned cheekily.

He wouldn't dare, John thought. "You are not leaving me on my own to tell your brother I'm in love with you. No bloody way. He's Mycroft bloody Holmes, for Pete's sake. He'll kill me. Or worse." But despite the gloom clouding his heart, he couldn't help but be infected by Sherlock's grin. Sherlock pulled him in for a chaste kiss. He leant in. Sherlock nestled closer.

His heart almost stopped when he heard an all too familiar chuckle from the corner of the room, by the door. He and Sherlock jumped guiltily apart and turned to face this new intruder. John's world froze as he saw Mycroft standing elegantly in the doorway, umbrella in hand, gleefully swinging a pair of keys in his hand. His smile, though appearing innocent, was ruined by his eyes, which glared maliciously.

"Ah, John, Sherlock, forgive me, did I, interrupt something?"

Sherlock was glaring evilly at his older brother, and the phrase, if looks could kill, jumped to the front of his mind.

"Mycroft, this isn't what you think..." John was silenced by a particularly fire freezing glare form Mycroft.

"Ah, my Dear John," he spat harshly. "Remember our date tonight? I'm rather looking forward to it."

John swallowed guiltily. "Mycroft, you know I can't go on a date with you. Not anymore."

"Oh John, why ever not?"

Beside him, John heard Sherlock growled. "Mycroft, get the fuck out!"

"Manners, Sherlock, remember your manners." Mycroft sighed dramatically.

"I can't go because I love Sherlock!" John cried in frustration.

Although notions like this had clearly darted through Mycroft's incredibly fast brain, hearing the words from John's own lips had reeled him slightly.

"I take it then, I am what the term those mundane beings use, 'dumped'?"

John got up. God forbid, he didn't want to hurt the man, and he had no experience whatsoever in ending relationships, but he was going to give it his best shot. This was going to awkward with Sherlock here, glowering at his back.

"Mycroft." he decided against taking his hands. "I've really enjoyed the past few months I've spent with you." Even though he'd been forced to stay at home most of the time. "And I will never regret taking that bullet for you that day." He saw Mycroft visibly gulp. He didn't think he could hold together if this formidable man started to cry. He carried on, palms sweating. "But I've realised now that it has always been Sherlock. I love this man. I had no intention of hurting you; I was going to tell you sooner, I promise. I'm sorry."

When Mycroft spoke next, some of the bitterness had left his voice, his shoulders had sank, he looked resigned. "Apology accepted John. I hope that we can remain at least acquaintances. Good day to you both." As the door clicked behind him, John sighed with relief, and sank back next to Sherlock. Sherlock looked rather surprised.

"You would have thought he would have made more fuss over this. It would only have been natural, seeing as you two had been dating for a few months. Surprised he didn't want to duel me for it. Isn't that what they usual do?"

"Let's just be grateful for small mercies," John leant into Sherlock. He felt like a huge weight had been taken off his shoulders, he hadn't felt it go until Mycroft had left. The nagging voice had stopped, his mind felt clearer. He let himself have a small smile.

As Mycroft walked down the steep stairs, it was all he could do not to cry. Stupid fool, he scolded himself. This is exactly why you never let anyone in. They always, always hurt you. Mycroft considered this to be one life's most important lessons. He felt the tears evaporate. Never let the emotions go, he repeated to himself, because these are the consequences. He knew thereon in that he would never cry again. His face hardened again into the cordial, but impenetrable mask he usually wore. He knew he should feel anger towards John for the pain he had caused him, but that had melted away as soon as John's eyes pleaded with his. He knew he hated Sherlock, but there was no love lost there. And as he closed the door to 221b, all the happy memories and thoughts he had ever had there were left behind, trapped forever. But he knew that there would always be an empty, burnt room in his heart labelled John Watson.