The song in this fic is Kiss Me, I'm Shitfaced by The Dropkick Murphys. If you haven't heard it, you should really go listen to it because it's awesome, and this fic will make more sense.

"Sherlock, we need to get your brother drunk."

Sherlock and John looked up from the Cluedo board, recently removed from the far wall, to see a frazzled, frowning Greg Lestrade standing in the doorway of 221B.

"What?" John looked flabbergasted and amused, grinning when his eyes met Sherlock's.

Greg flopped down onto the couch with a sigh. "He showed up at the Yard again and started telling me how to improve my surveillance for the Braxton case. In front of the Detective Superintendent, who then asked me why I had brought my boyfriend to work. Donovan and Anderson had a field day, everyone was laughing at me…"

"Surely you're above caring what people think?" Sherlock was focused on the Cluedo board, only a small grin betraying his glee.

"Well, yeah, but I don't tell him how to do his job, whatever it is. He needs to just get off my back and- I swear, I haven't seen him do anything fun-"

"Mycroft, having fun? While you're clearly dazzled by whatever charms you perceive my brother to have, I can assure you that he does not have fun. Nor does he drink, beyond the occasional brandy."

Lestrade threw up his hands. "There's got to be something. We're meeting up later, but I don't know if I can stand another go at me."

John giggled while Sherlock continued to study the board.

"You know what I mean! Seriously, help me here."

With an exasperated sigh, Sherlock stood from the table and went to his room, leaving John and Lestrade in the sitting room wondering. When he returned, he was clutching a small plastic pill bottle. He handed it to Lestrade.

"Here. They're water soluble. Lowers inhibitions, increases sociability, and affects rational decision making, temporarily, of course."

John lunged over and snatched the pills out of Lestrade's hand. "Wait, Sherlock, what is this? Is this even legal?"

"I've been experimenting with the effects of combining behavior altering substances. Separately, yes, all of the ingredients are legal."

The color drained from John's face. "Experimenting on who?"

"Not on you, if you're worried." He plucked the pills from John's hands and returned them to Lestrade. "On me."

"Wait, you've been experimenting on yourself? But I haven't noticed anything diff- oh." The color returned to his face full force as he blushed scarlet.

Lestrade held up a hand to cut off Sherlock, who had opened his mouth to speak. "For God's sake, Sherlock, I don't need to knowany, any, of the details of your sex life. So these are safe to give him then? And they work?"

"Oh, they work all right," John replied.

As Lestrade was getting up to leave, Sherlock turned from where he had settled back at the table. "John's forcing me to visit the pub with him later. You should stop by with my brother so I can observe the effects."

Greg pushed through the crowded pub to John and Sherlock, sequestered in the corner at a small table. Sherlock was pouting about something, his gin & tonic barely touched, while it appeared John had already downed two pints and had started on his third.

"Sherlock, exactly how many of those pills was I supposed to give your brother?" The look on his face was a combination of nervous amusement and terror.

"Just one. I do hope you didn't exceed that dosage, as I haven't yet been able to-"

"I did only give him one, only…well, let me go get him. Can't leave him by himself, the way he is. Could you get me a pint while I'm gone, I think I'm going to need several."

As Greg shoved his way back through the crowd, John and Sherlock couldn't quite decide whether to be amused or very, very afraid.

The first thing they noticed when Greg reappeared, towing Mycroft behind him, was that Sherlock's brother seemed to be missing his suit coat and tie and had rolled up his shirtsleeves and unbuttoned his collar. That alone made Sherlock's eyes widen. The smile on Mycroft's face, devoid of his usual snarky grin, was enough to make Sherlock actually gape.

"Oh, this is going to be good."

Greg led Mycroft to a chair before immediately downing half of his pint. Mycroft leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table and propped his head in his hands, tilting his face toward John to look up at him. "So. John. How are things with my brother?"

John stared, open mouthed, and turned back to Greg, who rolled his eyes and waved a hand as if to say told you so.

Five minutes later, Mycroft declared that he wanted a drink and managed to flit off to the bar before any of the others could catch him. He returned with a giant grin on his face and a mojito in his hand, complete with small green paper umbrella.

He plopped back down onto his chair and proceeded to drink, oblivious to John's inability to hold back his giggles after another pint and the look of glee on Sherlock's face that was usually only seen when he solved a case. Mycroft leaned over the table to waggle the glass in front of Greg.

"Greg, try some, it's a mojito."

"No, thanks Myc, I'm fine."

"Nooo, but it's good. Better than the shots."

"…what shots?" At the horrified look on Greg's face, John's giggles turned into a full-on laughing fit. Sherlock looked up from his phone to stare at his brother.

"The three shots I had at the bar. Don't remember what kind."

"I probably should have mentioned," Sherlock interrupted, "that I also haven't had time to test the effects of alcohol on the pills. Although this is fascinating so far and terribly amusing."

"Yeah, well, next time you decide to use your brother as a guinea pig, a little warning would be nice, Sherlock." Greg was now pouting while trying to move the drink Mycroft continued to shove in his face.

A particularly loud laugh from John made them turn to watch the man, who now had tears streaming down his face as he pointed at a sign on the far wall. It listed each night's drink specials as well as special events. Their eyes were drawn to the Saturday listing, where large, luridly colourful letters declared KARAOKE NIGHT!

"Oh no. No, no, don't you two dare tell him. I will keep all the interesting cases to myself for a month if you mention-"

"Mention what, darling?" Mycroft had finished his drink and made his way around the table to throw his arms around Lestrade, hugging the detective to his chest. He planted a kiss on Greg's cheek, who then proceeded to blush violently scarlet.

"I wish I had popcorn for this," John managed to stutter out before the giggles consumed him again.

"Nothing, Myc, it's nothing. And it's not like I haven't had to put up with you two going all googly-eyed at every single bloody crime scene."

They were interrupted by the sound of microphone feedback. "Well then, welcome everyone! We've got an excellent lineup so far for our karaoke night, so let's get started!"

The mixed cheers and jeers from the crowd drowned out Greg's groan at the look on Mycroft's face. The man looked as if he was ready to celebrate every Christmas he had skipped for work all at once. It was a look rarely seen on Mycroft Holmes's face, and it was aimed directly at one Greg Lestrade.

"No, My, absolutely not."

"Yes, Gregory, absolutely yes."

John leaned toward Sherlock while they watched Greg and Mycroft bicker. "Reckon he actually knows any songs? That other people know?"

"I think he might have a Police record somewhere."

John snorted and raised his eyebrows with a nod toward Greg. "Well, we already know he likes law enforcement."

Mycroft suddenly attempted to dart away from Lestrade, moving quicker than any of them had ever seen him move, but this time Greg predicted the escape and grabbed his wrist, pulling him close.

Mycroft reacted by wrapping his arms around Greg's waist and bending him over to plant his lips firmly on the other man's in a deep kiss. Lestrade froze in shock but relaxed into Mycroft's embrace, making no move to pull away.

John hooted and whistled. Sherlock's look of disgusted horror only made him laugh more. "Maybe I picked the wrong Holmes!"

"Yes, well, I'm sure one of them will need to come up for air any moment now," Sherlock responded drily.

And then, while Greg was still reeling from being thoroughly snogged by the British government, Mycroft dashed away into the crowd.

"You've got to help me find him," Lestrade begged when he could speak again.

When neither John nor Sherlock moved to get up, he let out an exasperated groan and took off after Mycroft.

"Sherlock, have you ever heard Mycroft sing before? Does he even know how?" John's laughter had finally ceased, leaving a bemused smile still twitching across his lips.

Sherlock had paused in his note taking to sip his drink and scan the crowd for his brother. He turned back to John after several failing to spot Mycroft.

"I'm sure he understands at least the basic concepts," he murmured, distracted now by how John's eyes were shining from drink and mirth and the pub's dim lighting. He leaned over with a small smile and laid a soft kiss to John's lips. Sherlock forgot about Mycroft as John raised a hand to cup his cheek and returned his own feather light kiss, chaste and loving and utterly endearing.

The sound of bagpipes broke through their distracted state, and they jerked their heads up just in time to see a small group of men mount the stage…including Mycroft.

"Oh god…I know this song…"

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he flipped through his mental music catalog. There wasn't much bagpipe music stored there, and he had a feeling the song was more popular than most of the songs he knew. "What is it?"

"You were right."

"Of course I was, I always am…about what?"

John leaned back and crossed his arms, grinning widely again. "This is going to be good."

"I play in a band, we're the best in the land,

We're big in both Chelsea and France…"

And then Mycroft stepped up to the microphone. Greg had reached the edge of the stage, frozen in horror, and Mycroft turned to sing to him:

"So come on now honey, I'll make you feel pretty

These other gals mean nothing to me.

Let's finish these drinks and be gone for the night

'Cause I'm more than a handful you'll see..."

With a saucy wink, he stepped back to sing the chorus with the others:

"So kiss me, I'm shitfaced,

I'm soaked, I'm soiled and brown.

In the trousers she kissed me,

And I only bought her one round!"

John, tears of laughter streaming down his face again, hooted and raised his drink as he watched Sherlock's reaction. The man seemed to be confused, and turned to John with a laugh.

"How does my brother even know this song?"

"Oh god, I have no idea…are you filming this on your phone? Please tell me you're filming this."

Sherlock whipped his phone up just in time to capture Mycroft returning to the microphone, grinning widely as he shoved a lock of hair back out of his eyes:

"I own a house on the hill with a red water bed

It puts Hugh Hefner's mansion to shame

With girls by the pool and Italian sports cars

I'm just here in this dump for the gain!

So kiss me, I'm shitfaced

I'm soaked, I'm soiled and brown

In the trousers she kissed me,

And I only bought her one rooouuunnnd!"

When the song finally ended and Mycroft wobbled down the stage steps, he was immediately seized by Greg, who frog-marched him back to the table. Sherlock had just slipped his phone back into his pocket, and he and John were smirking at one another, knowing that the next time Mycroft tried to force them to work on an assignment, a recording of a certain British official would ensure said official would beat a hasty retreat…at least until he could hack into Sherlock's phone and erase the video.

Greg kept a firm hand on Mycroft's wrist as he leaned down to put his face directly in front of Sherlock's, completely deadpan but with murder in his eyes as he growled, "No new cases for two weeks. Two. Weeks."

Lestrade dragged Mycroft to the exit, swatting the man's hand away when it reached down to squeeze his arse.

John and Sherlock downed the remnants of their drinks before pulling on their coats. As John reached up to help Sherlock with his scarf, he chuckled to himself.

"I almost feel sorry for Greg. Although I certainly think it was worth two weeks without cases. You could always work on some of the unsolved ones, I suppose."

Sherlock frowned for a moment at the thought of having to work on backlogged cases, then grinned down at John.

Mycroft woke in a tangle of sheets and limbs. The pillows from his bed were strewn across the floor, the drapes were hanging crookedly, half-puddled on the floor, and the detective inspector currently sleeping on his chest sported vivid bite marks across his neck and chest.

His confusion was replaced by dawning comprehension as he managed, through a raging headache, to piece together what had happened last night.

Greg stirred, blinking awake to see the look of horror on Mycroft's face. A small smile of glee lit up his face as he burrowed his face into Mycroft's neck, pressing a small kiss to his throat.

"Well, this isn't quite a red water bed, but it is pretty comfortable."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."