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“Let’s have dinner.”
Mycroft falls silent. He stares at John with that uniquely inscrutable expression of his.
“...Taking a page out of The Woman’s book?” He wonders.
“Figured it’s worth a shot,” John shrugs.
Myroft inclines his head minutely, looking at him with an unimpressed half-lidded gaze.
“It didn’t work on Sherlock. So why do you think it would work on me?”
The answer is simple.
“Because you’re not Sherlock,” John says.
And, finally, it seems to click. The realisation induces quite an amusing expression on Mycroft’s face. Eyes comically wide, he has to blink them back down to regular size.
John smiles at him, not unkindly. He offers his hand out, silently asking for one of Mycroft’s in return. Myroft hesitates, then tentatively reaches out and places his palm in his. John takes a second to appreciate it, the softness and the warmth. Then he places his other hand on top, cupping Mycroft’s with his own, and strokes the soft skin with his thumb.
“You’re not Sherlock,” he repeats gently. “You’re the most dangerous man I will ever know. And I love danger.”
Mycroft visibly swallows. John watches his Adam's apple bob.
“I’ll say it one more time.” John squeezes Mycroft’s hand firmly. “Let’s have dinner.”
“...It depends,” Mycroft says finally.
“On what?” John asks.
“If I dare to believe.”