AN: Been toying about with this pairing for a while, and I finally sat down and wrote it. It is slash, but it doesn't get any more graphic than some self-parodying romantic drivel and two short kisses; it's rated to be on the absolute safe side. Again, slash. If you don't like same sex relationships, it would save everyone time if you'd simply not read this than if you read it and send me a Deuteronomy-inspired rant.

Ask me exactly how it happened and I'm not sure I could truly tell you the details. I suppose when you are around a person enough you develop a certain level of comfort, but for one reason or another, perhaps subconscious desires on either or both parts, the relationship between myself and Mycroft Holmes slipped not into comfortable friendship or mere acquaintanceship but rather into a state in which he pecked me casually on the cheek by way of saying goodbye before either of us had acknowledged anything to each other or to ourselves.

For all Holmes berated me for being a hopeless romantic, ours was a quiet yet comfortable situation. There was none of the overwhelming, fiery passion young people threw themselves into headfirst, no grand displays of affection even in absolute privacy, and yet it suited the both of us.

Mycroft was a subdued man by nature, and I believe this is where my love of him stemmed; I spent so much time in the exaggerated world of murders, alibis, and unsolvable mysteries that it was a relief afterwards to sink into an armchair and converse about paperwork, the weather, and plainly stated emotions. My body was strained enough capturing criminals, and so gentle affection was much more welcome than borderline aggression.

Today, however, the man was being decidedly boring. His workload had become heavy as a contract between England and China began to form, and although we were in the Stranger's Room of the Diogenes Club, I think the silence of the place was so deeply imbedded in him that he did not hear a word I said. I eventually silenced myself and worked away at my documentation of the cases of Sherlock Holmes.

Although I did cherish such quiet moments, I would rather the stillness take place with his arms around me, or perhaps facing him with a pot of warm tea, not when we had our backs to one another and were planted on opposite sides of the room. Truth be told, the silence was beginning to get to me.

"How does this sound to you?" I finally spoke, merely wanting to hear a sound other than the scratching of pen upon paper. "'He held the small metallic object up to the light, eyes mimicking its sheen as he turned it in his long fingers.' Does that flow well?"

"Hmm…?" was the far less than enthusiastic reply from the bulky frame before the room's other desk. "Oh, yes, fine. It's fine."

I could not help but scowl. "Did you even hear a word I said?"

Mycroft gave a slight wave with one of his broad hands. His right. The left hand continued to write. "Sherlock, metallic, sheen. It's wonderful. Very descriptive." He had a wonderful talent of remembering things without truly hearing them.

"Do you mind if I read the next bit off to you? I'm not sure about the tone I'm heading into, I'd like your opinion."

"Mm-hmm." That was Diogenese for 'Say whatever you will; I won't be listening in the slightest anyway'. Had I not had the beginnings of genuine love for him, I might have thrown something heavy at him. I wondered if even a paperweight to the skull would distract him from his blasted foreign policy.

I cleared my throat slightly. "Alright, then. 'Holmes gave a characteristic dashing smile, tucking the small charm into his pocket. "We're on the trail now, dear fellow!" he all but crowed, rising quickly to his feet and taking off like a young deer buck across the field, sending me scrambling to follow him. When in motion, it was obvious to see how fine a physical specimen my intimate friend was. His lean body was at his absolute command, and he possessed the grace and spirit of an animal left free to the wilderness. It was obvious that while his frame at times could make him appear far too thin, it was obviously lined with lean, hard muscle, that sans fabric would…'. I'm sorry, Mycroft. Questions? Comments?"

I had not gotten very far into my narrative before my portly companion had risen from his seat and plodded over to my location to look over my shoulder with a glare I could very nearly feel tanning my neck.

I glanced back in time to see watery eyes narrow and scan my papers. "You were making that up."

A smile darted across my features. "I wanted to make sure you were listening. It seems you were, so good on you."

His scowl increased. He was too intelligent a man not to read between my borderline romantic lines. "We're going out to dinner tonight. Reinhold's." That was Mycroft Holmes's version of a heartfelt invitation to a wonderful meal.

"One has to have a reservation for months…" I began, playing the innocent.

"I don't." Then, almost as if definite of the fact that I could ever belong to anyone else, he kissed me briefly but solidly before plodding back to finish his work in time to take the evening off.

I returned to the far less personal memoirs, smiling to myself. One could teach the most stubborn dog to fetch a stick, after all.