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The invitation arrives with the rest of the post on Tuesday morning while John is making tea and Sherlock sits hunched over the table, his face buried in his arms.
John recognises the textured cream envelope instantly and doesn't bother to turn it over to look at the seal. He throws the small pile of letters, minus the invitation which he tucks into his back pocket, onto the kitchen table, careful to avoid the puddle of something that Sherlock won't let him clean up. Sherlock doesn't so much as flinch, though the displaced air ruffles his hair.
John rolls his eyes and hums cheerily (pointedly) and adds a teabag to a third mug.
Mycroft arrives just as he adds the milk and John enjoys the surprised rise of the other man's eyebrow as he passes over the extra tea.
"Thank you John." John shrugs and places Sherlock's mug by the detective's elbow. Sherlock still hasn't pulled his face from the cradle of his arms, but then he has only been up for an hour so John doesn't expect him to show many signs of life until the tea is almost cold. Without a case, Sherlock is almost sloth-like in his morning habits.
Looking up from his flatmate, John catches the fond look on Mycroft's face before the man directs his gaze away from his younger brother and the moment is gone.
John hides his smile behind his mug and turns into the lounge, settling into his chair. Mycroft follows without a word, folding his longer frame onto the edge of the sofa, his legs stretching out across the space between them, trousers rising just enough that John can see a hint of sock above his shoes, a perfect match in colour to the civil servant's pale blue shirt.
They sip at their tea for a few minutes, John enjoying as always the quiet time before Sherlock fills the flat with noise and his frantic movements. He wonders if Mycroft isn't enjoying the same thing, though John supposes that Mycroft has fewer moments of peace in his life, John after all has a job he can escape to when Sherlock gets a little too much, Mycroft's job is likely the other cause of turbulence in his life.
Halfway through his mug, he recognises the changes in Mycroft's posture that indicate the other man is about to speak. John drains the rest of his cup and leans forward to drop it onto the coffee table, reaching into his back pocket as he does so and removing the still unopened invitation.
With a grin, he holds it out in front of him, stopping Mycroft's likely well prepared speech in its tracks.
"I suppose this has something to do with you?" John imagines that few people would even notice the hesitation as Mycroft's mind reacts to John's question and rewrites the structure of the conversation.
It is fascinating in the same manner that watching Sherlock deduce is, the way that Mycroft's mind works, plotting out all variations of a conversation he hasn't yet had, working through the probabilities of certain responses and topics until he is able to appear ready with an answer to any question and never feel surprised.
It is one of John's favourite pastimes to try and throw the man off.
"Yes, you haven't opened it." With the new conversation ordered in his mind, Mycroft leans back into the sofa, his mug held against his stomach. Really, John loves the Holmeses.
"No." He rubs a thumb over the familiar seal and makes a show of reading his and Sherlock's name in the crisp calligraphy. "But there's only one social event that issues invitations like these."
"You've seen them before." Behind his bland mask, John knows that Mycroft is reviewing everything that he knows of John's history. The pale fingers tighten around the mug's handle and that is the moment that Mycroft decides someone on his staff will lose their job for poor research. John feels a small niggle of guilt but he'll make sure that comes under the heading of 'damage control' later.
"I have. Not really my scene." He says with a depreciating shrug. Entirely true, he hates these parties. There is movement from the kitchen and then a few seconds later the invitation is plucked from his fingers and torn open.
"Of course it isn't. You don't care about politics." Sherlock's eyes take in the brief lines of text before he turns the invitation over and studies the card. "You would feel inferior around so many people so much more successful and powerful than yourself, believing that you stick out as different."
"Really, Sherlock..." John shoots Mycroft a grateful glance, surprised that the man has apparently now taken up defending him to his brother.
Sherlock turns suddenly, looking John in the eyes. "You shouldn't." John forces his face still, knowing his friend well enough to wait. "You would've been beneath their notice, I doubt they even remember you were there, John." And there it is.
John rolls his eyes, smiling at Mycroft around Sherlock's legs. "Thanks Sherlock."
"You're welcome John. We're busy on Friday." He adds, turning to his brother.
Mycroft looks resigned to a fight and John wonders how long he has put aside today to have this argument.
"Sherlock, you have no case at present and you're unlikely to find one before the weekend."
"John has to work, he does have a job you know Mycroft." John smirks, and shakes his head.
"Yes he does, although I am surprised to learn that you know that."
The brothers frown at each other.
"Don't I get a say?" John speaks up, tempted to raise his hand like a schoolboy.
"No." "Of course John."
John glares at Sherlock, kicking him in the ankle. "Thank you Mycroft, we'd be delighted to attend. I assume you'll send a car?"
Mycroft's face breaks into a smile, a little more real than his usual professional smirks and he pushes himself up from the sofa, placing his mug beside John's.
"Of course, I will collect you at seven. I'll leave you both to your day. John, Sherlock." He nods at them and then unhooking his umbrella from the door handle, lets himself out.
Sherlock slumps onto the sofa in his brother's place and glares across at John, rubbing at his ankle. "I'm not going." He says, pouting like a toddler.
"We are." John says and rubs his hands together. "Or there will be no more body parts in the fridge and I'll tell Lestrade where you hid Anderson's new microscope."
Sherlock scoffs loudly. "So?"
John smiles slowly, revealing tooth after tooth . "So, another drugs bust and oh no, where has Sherlock's violin gone now?"
Sherlock pales and his eyes dart to the corner where the black case stands against the wall. "You wouldn't?"
"We're going Sherlock." John says in place of an answer. Sherlock flicks his eyes back to John and then walks over to the violin, grasping it in his hands and holding it close like a child would a soft toy.
"I'm going to hate it."
"Probably." John nods. "But you'll pretend to like it anyway."
John leaves him sulking in the living room and returns to the kitchen, pulling out eggs, sausages and bacon.
Cracking the eggs over a frying pan, John makes a mental note to remember to call his mother before Friday, wouldn't do to forget to wish her a happy birthday.
----
"Hello Mycroft." John slips into the car, sliding across the seat until his thigh brushes up against the other man's.
"John." Mycroft's eyes rake over him and John resists the urge to straighten up. "The uniform suits you well Captain." John grins, letting his little finger stretch out and brush against Mycroft's knee.
"He looks stupid." Sherlock breaks the moment, climbing into the car and slamming the door closed behind him. With a sigh John folds his fingers and rests his hands in his lap.
"Good evening Sherlock." The car starts and they pull out onto the road. "You seem to be in fine spirits this evening."
"He's been sulking all week." John says, turning a little so that he can look at Mycroft. It has the added benefit of putting his back to Sherlock which will only wind the detective up more.
"I don't sulk." Sherlock shifts, the leather of the seats crackling and says no more.
John turns his attention to the other Holmes, sharing a moment of shared exasperation.
"You look good too Mycroft." He says finally, ignoring the snort from behind him and reaching a hand out. He runs his fingers over the shiny material of Mycroft's lapel, brushing it down as though it were not already laying perfectly against Mycroft's chest.
"Thank you John." Mycroft's eyes gleam in the lights of the passing cars and he brings his hand up to cover John's.
For a while, they travel in silence. John is not at all surprised by the voice that breaks it.
"I just don't see why we had to come tonight." Sherlock says suddenly, apparently finished with the silent treatment. He looks at John accusingly. "You admitted that you dislike these occasions John. You should have been coming up with an excuse, instead of shining shoes and medals all day." John frowns.
"It wasn't all day." He says and where his hand is still pressed against Mycroft's chest he can feel the quiet rumble of the other man's laughter, but when he spares him a glance Mycroft's face is as bland as ever.
Sherlock ignores him. "In fact, you could have worked tonight. Sarah called you, three hours before we left. Your left eye twitched; she needed someone to cover. You told her no even though you felt guilty. Your shirt sleeves were rolled up." He explains even though no one asked him.
He perks up suddenly, seeming to realise that there is a puzzle here after all. "So why do you want to go to this party?" Without looking John knows that Sherlock is staring at him in the intense, slightly scary way that he has.
"We're here." Mycroft says, no doubt just as Sherlock opens his mouth to list off a series of (wrong, John thinks with a tickle) deductions. Reluctantly, John reclaims his hand, squeezing Mycroft's fingers once before letting go.
"You did that on purpose." John climbs over Sherlock and leaves the car to avoid answering.
-----
"Please stop pouting Sherlock." Mycroft glares at his brother from behind his champagne flute and John pretends he doesn't find their bickering hilariously funny.
He knows why he's in such high spirits tonight, and it has everything to do with the way his hand still remembers the feel of Mycroft's around it.
Another Secret Agent passes by and stares at them and John grinds his teeth together. He hates them, he really does.
He spots a familiar shock of silver hair and quickly drains the rest of his drink.
"Would you like another John?" If they were alone, John would kiss Mycroft right now.
"Thank you." He says instead and Mycroft nods, heading off for the bar.
"I'm bored." Sherlock says and John holds in a groan only to brighten. With a smile, he waves at the man approaching them.
"Q!" He says, pulling the older man into a hug.
"John? Is that you?" Q pulls back, holding John away from him by the shoulders and looking him up and down. "You look better old boy!"
John grins and breaks the hold. "Amazing what not getting shot at does for the complexion." He says and then turns to Sherlock.
The detective is studying Q like a suspect in a case. "Sherlock, I'd like you to meet Q. Q, this is Sherlock Holmes" He waves between the two men and Sherlock reluctantly holds out his hand to be shaken.
"Holmes, you say?" Q asks, his brows frowning in thought. "I've heard that name."
Sherlock ignores him. "What kind of name is Q? It's not a real name; a title then."
"I've earned it. What sort of name is Sherlock?" Q replies, before looking back at John. "Are you still working at the little surgery? I think I have some new equipment that would do wonders…"
"I've told you before Q, if it can work itself that's fine but if it's any more complicated than a television remote don't bother."
"Mhm, my predecessor did mention that you don't like modern gadgetry quite as much as other people." John glares at him briefly, knowing just who the 'other people' refers to.
"John, tell me you aren't encouraging him." John turns at the female voice, a soft smile settling on his face as he faces the older woman.
"I don't think I could encourage him any more than Bond does, do you?" The woman rolls her eyes, but steps closer to him and presses her lips to his cheek.
"It's good to see you John, though I am surprised by your presence tonight." There is disapproval in her voice. "Usually you avoid this party like a plague."
She holds out her hand and a glass is placed in it. John sighs while the woman sips at her drink.
"You know why." He says and then scans the crowd. "Is Harry here?" He asks, knowing the answer.
"Really, John. Don't be a child." Feeling chastened, John bobs his head in apology.
"She's your mother." Sherlock's voice breaks their conversation, causing them both to look at him.
"He is a clever one, isn't he." John bristles a little at his mother's sarcasm, but as it goes completely over Sherlock's head he doesn't say anything.
"Yes Sherlock, it's her party." He adds.
Sherlock looks between them for a moment, entirely unimpressed; "Happy birthday" he says and then turns back to his conversation with Q. "I see where John has inherited his height." Q swallows a laugh.
John's mother circles his wrist with her fingers, squeezing lightly. "I am glad you're here." She says and John fights a wave of guilt.
"I know." He says, placing his hand over hers. "I'll try harder." He means it, although he isn't sure how he will manage if he has to spend more time with James without throttling him.
His mother smiles, her fingers slipping away. "Good." She says, and just like that John feels as though he has signed up for one of her missions. "Now, wasn't there a third person in your little group a moment ago?"
John searches the crowd, catching sight of a familiar body moving through the sea of people. "Yes. Sherlock's brother. You'll like him." He says with confidence.
His mother just smiles.
-----
Mycroft returns with the drinks a moment later, passing Sherlock his just before the detective disappears into the crowd. John catches a glimpse of him heading after Q and decides that the building has survived worse things than Sherlock in a top secret lab.
Taking his own drink gratefully, John wraps his fingers around Mycroft's, giving him a little tug and pulling him closer so that their bodies are pressed together down one side, hiding their joined hands.
"Mycroft, I'd like you to meet m-"
"Actually, we have already met, John." His mother interrupts. "How lovely to see you again Mr Holmes." She doesn't hold out her hand and her face takes on a cold mask. John frowns, studying her.
"The pleasure is mine, Ma'am." Mycroft has gone stiff beside him, his hand loosening around John's, pulling away. John puts a stop to that quickly.
It takes only a second for him to put together the angry, protective look on M's face (and in that moment she is M and not John's mother) with the way that Mycroft's whole body is suddenly vibrating with tension.
John groans. "What did James do?"
Mycroft's eyes flash in surprise, John lets his thumb rub across the other man's knuckles.
"Nothing that was not easily contained." M says without looking away from Mycroft. "As I believe I stated at the time, Mr Holmes."
"Agent Bond drew his weapon in broad daylight in Camden Market and proceeded to fire four shots whilst chasing after his target, Ma'am." Mycroft says. "A man who had no qualms about using innocent members of the public as human shields." The hand in John's is almost white with how hard Mycroft is now gripping him.
"They were not hurt. Agent Bond does not shoot at civilians." John has heard that tone from his mother before and has to stop himself from rolling his eyes.
This new incarnation of 007 has caused the Agency no world of trouble, M especially, and John knows that the woman does in fact agree with every word that Mycroft is saying, she most likely had exactly the same conversation with James herself during his debriefing.
Unfortunately, that will only make her rail against Mycroft all the more. There isn't much M will protect above the Agency, but James is a sort of family (John has no idea why, he can barely stand the showy Agent) and his mother is fiercely protective of family; just look at he and Harry - even Mycroft hasn't managed to uncover their connection with the head of MI6.
"He blew up three market stalls and a phone shop."
M narrows her eyes to glare at Mycroft.
"He saved the world, Mr Holmes." John does allow himself to roll his eyes now, fully aware that his mother can see him. Just once it would be nice if not everything were about James bloody Bond.
"With all due respect Ma'am, we all of us save the world from time to time, we do not all amass hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of damage in the process."
John swallows the urge to cheer, knowing how hard it is for Mycroft to argue against someone he sees as a superior. He shifts his body to the side, making sure that his mother can see their joined hands.
She does, pausing in what no doubt would have been a rather long list of Mycroft's own expenses in the line of his work and his surveillance on his brother to glance at John.
'Are you sure?' her eyes ask, jumping between his own, their hands and Mycroft, stood tall and still as a statue beside him.
"Yes." John says aloud, to avoid any hint of doubt.
After a brief moment of hesitation, M waves a hand lazily, her small frame relaxing as she lets go of the fight. "Very well."
John smiles, darting forward to kiss her on the cheek.
He comes back to Mycroft's side still smiling. "Mycroft, as I was saying earlier; I'd like you to meet my mother. Mum, this is Mycroft."
He bites his lip waiting for Mycroft to make a move. With only the briefest of pauses he does, taking the hand that M holds out and turning it, bringing it up to his lips.
John knows that Mycroft's mind is hardly in the moment, instead running through a hundred different files and memories trying to reconcile what John has revealed, it is unutterably adorable then, that his body would make such an action on reflex.
Very Victorian-gentlemen; John finds himself as charmed as his mother now appears to be as she meets his eye and smiles.
----
They leave after the toasts. Mycroft does his own rounds after John's mother is whisked away by some foreign diplomat or other and John can't help the little ball of pride he feels in his stomach every time someone greets Mycroft as a superior. It's all the more impressive because John knows who these people are.
"You very nearly are the British Government, aren't you? Sherlock wasn't exaggerating." He says as they wait by the curb for the car.
"I never exaggerate." Comes the affronted voice from John's left but Mycroft simply looks at John and shrugs demurely.
When they reach 221B Sherlock leaps from the car and bounds into the flat. John turns to Mycroft. "Coming up?"
They settle on the couch shoulder to shoulder (Sherlock disappears into his room with a quick good night and John pretends he doesn't see the wires and lights overflowing in his pockets because he is fairly certain that Q won't have let him leave with anything too dangerous).
Mycroft laughs suddenly, making John jump and look at him in question.
"I have always wondered why you didn't seem intimidated the night we met, John. Now I know."
John chuckles. "Mum used to bring Harry and me to work sometimes, when it was safe." He says. "But the phone boxes, that was impressive."
Mycroft smiles modestly but John can see that he is pleased despite himself.
"And you didn't want to join the family business?" Mycroft asks, the fingers of his left hand plucking at the buttons on the cuff of John's jacket.
"It doesn't work like that. No really." He adds at the other man's disbelief. "Mum hates nepotism. Only those fit for it get in."
"John, I have seen your record. I've watched you shoot a man through two windows at night." John looks at him in surprise, there was footage? "Yes, it was destroyed. You joined the Army instead."
"I wanted to be a doctor. And I don't always agree with Mum's way of doing things." John says and then because he doesn't really want to be talking about his mother right now, he turns to face Mycroft and runs a finger up the line of his shirt, where the buttons meet until he reaches the perfectly tied strip of black material at his neck. He moves, twisting so that he can lift a leg over Mycroft's and kneel over him.
"I love a man in a bowtie." He says, letting his voice drop huskily, leaning in and nudging at the other man's jaw.
Mycroft swallows thickly, bringing his hands up to curl around John's hips and then-
"Really John? I had no idea, no wonder you were always so uncomfortable around me at M's dinners."
John growls, his head falling to Mycroft's shoulder.
"Fuck off, James." He says, his voice muffled by Mycroft's jacket.
He feels Mycroft remove a hand from his waist and he stifles a groan, but Mycroft leaves the other where it is and John opens his eyes, watching with one eye as Mycroft holds his hand out.
"Mr Bond, your timing is as perfect as ever, I see." James blinks at the hand as though he has no idea what to do, but then he slips his own into it and they shake. "Now, I believe you heard John. Please do fuck off."
James's eyes go wide and he looks at John. "Bye James." John says with a wave, and is only marginally surprised when James leaves. Mycroft is brilliant.
John leans back as the front door slams closed and looks at Mycroft.
"He'll be back. He's been grounded to headquarters and Q must have told him that you and Sherlock know. He's been pissing Harry off all week, just dropping by."
"I don’t doubt it." Mycroft brings his hands up John's back, one hand going higher to cup the back of his head. "However, I think we were in the middle of something." He says, pulling John closer.
"We were, weren't we." John leans in.
Mycroft pauses, their mouths a hairsbreadth apart. "Was I really not at all frightening?" He asks and John very nearly groans.
"Terrifying." He says instead and presses his lips to Mycroft's before he can call him a liar.