Author's Note: Hey, everybody! I finally just finished the last real chapter of this fic, and I have to say, I'm a little sad. Thanks so much to all of you who read and reviewed - it's been wonderful to hear your thoughts. At some point, I'm planning on adding an epilogue, so I hope to so you all again, then, but for now, enjoy the thrilling conclusion to the plots of the Casablanca Gang!

"I really don't understand how you can dress like this all the time," Lestrade said, trying in vain to make his bow tie look as crisp as Mycroft's.

"Oh, here, let me, you'll wrinkle the silk," Mycroft replied exasperatedly, stepping in to help, "Of all the facets of my job, the bit that baffles you is the formal wear?"

"Well, international intrigue isn't so far from my job," Lestrade defended, "If you gave me a bomb threat or a heated peace negotiation, I like to think I could handle it. But this? Handshaking and concerts and silk ties? Totally out of my sphere."

"It's a shame, really," Mycroft concluded thoughtfully, putting the finishing touches on Lestrade's tie, "You do look so dashing in a tuxedo."

"Oh, do I?" Lestrade asked, his eyes suddenly glinting. "You know, keeping in mind that you just spent an hour getting dressed, it seems awfully foolhardy for you to say things that make me want to rip your clothes off."

Mycroft's eyes widened infinitesimally at this, and his face took on an expression of equal parts fear and interest.

"Now, Gregory," he said carefully while backing away slowly, "We have an allegro movement to be listening to in forty five minutes. It would take at least that long for me to even get your tie back in proper order."

Lestrade, not in the least convinced, inched closer to him, gaze becoming more and more predatory, and said, "What do you say we skip the allegro, sneak in during the second movement, and settle for my tie being in improper order?"

"But the plan, Sherlock and John..." Mycroft protested.

"Are going to be more than adequately looked after by your driver," Lestrade finished for him. "Our bit doesn't enter into it until intermission, anyway. And should anything unexpected occur," he continued, anticipating Mycroft's next protest, "Charlie and Jim are on hand."

"You're just trying to get out of wearing that tuxedo," Mycroft observed wryly.

"Maybe," Lestrade replied with a wicked grin as he began removing his jacket. "Is it working?"

Mycroft stepped forward, paused for a tantalizing moment, then with a flourish flicked Lestrade's tie undone and murmured, "Oh quite well indeed," before crashing his lips down on Lestrade's.

Lestrade responded by slipping Mycroft's tuxedo jacket off his shoulders, dropping it gently on the footstool when he heard the anguished little noise Mycroft was emitting at the thought of having it wrinkled, and maneuvering them both toward the bed. Mycroft finished the thought by tumbling them both down on his gray silk duvet, never once taking his hands off Lestrade.

With the dress clothes he had just painstakingly donned flying everywhere, Mycroft realized for the very first time in life, at some point in between when Lestrade starting nibbling his way down the nape of his neck and when he reached his sternum, that even to a gentleman, some things really did take precedence over an impeccable toilette.

One hour, some very hurried redressing, and both the allegro and adagio movements later, Mycroft and Lestrade snuck guiltily into their seats on the balcony of the theatre like two teenagers returning to class after an illicit smoke break.

"Have you found them?" Mycroft whispered, peering through his opera glasses.

"Not yet," Lestrade whispered back, glancing over the crowd.

"Ah, wait, I see them!" Mycroft exclaimed suddenly, nearly jumping up in his seat to have a better look, but thinking the better of it upon seeing the imperious glance given to him by the lady in the adjacent seat. He pointed hurriedly to the center of the lower section and held up the opera glasses so Lestrade could look.

Through them, Lestrade saw Sherlock, eyes closed, swaying slightly in time with the music. While it was very apparent that Sherlock was entirely wrapped up in the music, it was equally obvious that John was just as entranced with Sherlock. Although he started by pretending to focus his attention on the stage, sneaking only the occasional covert glance at his flatmate, by the climax of the final movement, he was staring unblinkingly at Sherlock.

"He's feeling guilty about leaving and even worse about not telling him yet," Mycroft murmured in Lestrade's ear.

"How on earth can you tell all that just by looking at them?" Lestrade asked skeptically.

"His expression is clearly adoration tinged with sadness, which equals regret, and what else would he have to regret?" Mycroft shot back.

"Touche," Lestrade ceded, "But where does that leave us?"

"Ready to implement part two of the plan," Mycroft replied, "What time do you have?"

"Quarter past nine," Lestrade whispered. "Charlie and John should be making their way to the cloakroom right about now."

"Good," said Mycroft, "Let's go and meet them." With Lestrade behind him, he began inching his way toward the exit, murmuring, "Pardon me," and "So very sorry," and even one, "Touchy bladder you know," before spilling out into the aisle and darting from the balcony. The two of them made their way swiftly down the plushly carpeted hallway and snuck quickly behind the red velvet curtain at the end. Behind it, they found Charlie and Jim having a heated argument about their costumes for the evening's festivities.

"This is what people wear to concerts, Charlie!" Jim defended, gesticulating wildly with his hands, which were encased in white opera gloves.

"You have a monocle!" Charlie shouted back.

"Would you two keep it down in here?" Mycroft hissed, "There is a concert going on, you know."

"Thank goodness, voices of reason!" Charlie exclaimed, lowering his voice and turning to them. "Would you two please tell the Phantom of the Opera here that his outfit's going to give the game away?"

"The false moustache is a bit much," Lestrade admitted.

"I think the top hat's quite dashing, though," Mycroft added. "Costuming aside, is everything in place?"

"I believe so," Charlie replied with a last reproachful glance at Jim, who merely tapped the ground twice with his silver walking stick defiantly. "Sherlock and John are busy watching the concert and when intermission hits, Jim will intercept them at the bar and - "

Charlie was interrupted in his explanation by the rapid entrance of two visitors into the cloakroom, and the four of them watched in growing horror as Sherlock and John walked swiftly in their direction, arguing the whole way.

"I just don't see why you couldn't wait until intermission to get your phone," John was saying.

"It's perfectly simple, John," Sherlock replied, sounding bored, "The conductor's slight hesitation in signaling the timpani recalled to me the way the dead stockbroker's brother paused for a fraction of a second when I mentioned the missing saxophone. Now I realize of course he was never his brother at all, and I must phone Brazil to confirm."

Upon seeing the four conspirators, who were trying desperately to shift their expressions from alarm to casual surprise, the two of them stopped short. John's expression conveyed mere perplexity, but it was with a look of pure suspicion that Sherlock fixed his gaze immediately upon his brother.

"Mycroft. Should have known you'd be here," he said, eyes narrowed.

"Yes," said Mycroft lightly, hoping to play it off as a coincidence. "Gregory here lost a bet, so I got to subject him to an evening of higher culture. We were just retrieving our coats and -"

"Charlie?" John asked suddenly, his eyes lighting up in recognition, "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, hello, John!" Charlie said with a wave, speaking quickly, "You know how it is, saw an advert in the paper, didn't have anything to do..."

"How do you know Mycroft?" John asked, confused.

"Know him? Oh, well, I don't really, I mean..." Charlie mumbled, unsure of the best tact to take.

"Nonsense, you must," said Sherlock matter-of-factly.

Charlie looked startled and managed to stammer out, "Oh, m-must I?"

"You're married to his boyfriend's best friend, I'd have thought that your paths would have crossed at least once or twice," Sherlock replied dryly.

Charlie's eyes widened with shock as John turned to Sherlock and asked confusedly, "What are you talking about?"

"It's Jim Stevens, isn't it?" Sherlock said in lieu of a reply, turning to Jim, "We met at the CID Christmas party three years ago. If memory serves, you were sloshed enough to be wearing a Christmas wreath instead of a tie. As a result, when you ran into me by the buffet table, you had no hesitation in telling me all about your rubbish best friend who dragged you to the party and your marvelous new husband who had nevertheless refused to let you wear your blue sequin dinner jacket for the occasion. You'll forgive me for not recalling sooner, I must confess to being a bit thrown off by the false moustache."

"Yes, well," Jim said bashfully, ripping the moustache off at placing it in his pocket, "how nice to see you again. I know you must be thinking it's a bit odd, me going around with detachable facial hair, false advertisement and all that, but the fact is I'd always wanted one, so when this do came up on the schedule, I said to myself, "Jim, old lad, what a perfect time to test out a moustache," so I popped on over to Marks and Sparks and -"

"Good Lord, you're my cabbie from the other night!" John nearly shouted, interrupting Jim's rambling monologue. "I didn't recognize you with the moustache, but I heard enough of your voice that night to know it anywhere. You told me your name was Louis!"

"Nonsense, John," Sherlock said impatiently, "You are clearly laboring under a misapprehension. This is Jim, who's the best mate of Inspector Lestrade over there and, judging by their matching silver and alabaster wedding rings, is married to the man you have already hailed as Charlie. All perfectly simple. The only thing which has thus far eluded me is why you seem to know them as an entirely different group of people and why they're all looking so terribly guilty about it. With only this much to go on, I can only assume this was some plan of Mycroft's, although as to its aim I must confess to being entirely in the dark."

While Sherlock was neatly unraveling the whole deception, John was growing paler by the second as things clicked into place, and by the time Sherlock ceased speaking was nearly shaking with anger and embarrassment.

He stepped forward and, his gaze glancing over each of them in turn, addressed them, his voice a bit shaky, "That terrible night two weeks ago, you must have planned it down to the last detail. Lucky for you that I'm such an idiot, I played right into your hands. And you did all that work just to get me to that bar, get me talking? I'd almost be flattered if I weren't furious. But none of you would have gotten involved on your own, not even you, Lestrade."

"No, this is all your doing," he continued, whirling on Mycroft, his voice getting louder, "Only a Holmes could have masterminded something that brilliant and callous. My God, you even set the ball rolling by pretending to set Sherlock up with that woman, knowing both of us well enough to predict the argument that would follow. It must be awfully fun to be you, Mycroft, having the resources and disposition to play God, laughing at us poor mortals as we try to muddle along and throwing something unexpected into the mix every now and again just to make your life a little more interesting."

Mycroft stepped forward to explain, to soothe; His hands were raised in supplication and his head bowed a little to convey regret, with the result being that he had no way of anticipating or avoiding John's right hook colliding sharply with his nose or the stream of blood and sharp stab of pain that followed.

John stood over him and shouted, "From now on, you can do it with someone else's life. I'm done."

As Lestrade knelt quickly to help Mycroft into a sitting position and place a handkerchief to his almost certainly broken nose, Sherlock stared at John in shock, having evidently not anticipated the pain his revelation would cause, and started hesitantly, "John, what...?"

"And you!" John shouted, turning to direct his anger at Sherlock, still shaking with rage, "You're worse than he is! I've spent all this time blaming myself for how I've been feeling, but, really, it's your fault! You just go around in your own little world, noticing me when you feel like it, when it suits you. For Christ's sakes, you told me that I was a replacement for your skull! You are the worst flatmate in the history of the world: you steal my clothes, you refuse to do the shopping, but the worst part, the very worst part is that you made me fall in love with you and didn't even have the decency to notice!"

John's eyes were filling with tears, but he seemed too upset to notice, barrelling on, "Well, I'm done, Sherlock, I'm done with all of it. I've taken a job in Sussex, and I leave next week. I guess you'll just have to find yourself another poor stiff to talk to!"

Without waiting for Sherlock to respond, John rushed from the room, leaving only a swinging red velvet curtain and five sharply dressed men with looks of utter shock on their faces. After a moment, Sherlock started turning toward the exit with the intent of pursuing him, but Lestrade quickly held up his hands and said, "No, I'll go. It's better that way," and strode swiftly out into the hallway. He saw John duck out onto the terrace overlooking the gardens and took a trip to the refreshment table to buy two beers and give John a few moments to collect himself.

After a couple minutes, he opened the door to the terrace and, finding John leaning on the banister and staring dejectedly at the beautiful ornamental garden beneath him, walked quietly up to him. He placed one of the beers next to John's elbow and sat down on the banister, opening the other beer and sipping it contemplatively

John said nothing, but accepted the alcoholic peace offering and took a long sip, all the while keeping his eyes fixated on the beautiful scene before him or his expression conveying utter despair.

They drank their beers in silence for quite a few minutes, but, finally, Lestrade broke the quiet, saying "If you think he doesn't love you, then you really are an idiot."

"Great apology, Lestrade, really, top notch," John said bitterly.

Lestrade ignored him and continued, "Remember the Carfax kidnapping case last month? When that lowlife McNair cold-cocked you with a pistol? You won't remember this bit - you were out for a good ten minutes - but Sherlock was a wreck."

John said nothing, but turned his head to look at Lestrade, his curiosity clearly piqued.

"I kept telling him it was just a bump and that you'd be fine, but he wouldn't have it. Just kept staring at you, pacing back and forth and inhaling these jerky little gasps of air; it was like he couldn't breathe properly until he saw you open your eyes again. When you finally came round, you were groggy for long enough that he could compose himself and pretend that nothing had happened. But I know what I saw."

"I don't...I mean, I can't...are you sure?" John stammered, eyes wide. "That doesn't sound like Sherlock."

"A year ago, I would have agreed with you," replied Lestrade, "Sherlock Holmes, behaving irrationally, trusting his emotions over sound, medical facts? Impossible, I would have said. But since he met you? You can't possibly know how much you've changed him, John."

John thought on this, then asked a bit dejectedly, "But what does that really change? I can't just take your word that he feels about me the way I feel about him. That's not enough to build a life on."

"No," agreed Lestrade, "But it might be if you hear it from him. Before you pack up your jumpers and your bruised heart and move to Sussex, at least have a real conversation with him. You owe both of you that much."

John looked at him for a moment, then finished off his beer, clapped Lestrade on the shoulder and turned to leave the terrace. He had taken only a couple of steps when he turned round and said, "I'm sorry I punched Mycroft."

Lestrade shot him a knowing look and said, "No, you're not."

John laughed and admitted, "No, you're right. I have been wanting to do that for ages."

A sudden sound at the terrace door had them both spinning round to look: it was Sherlock, his expression utterly unreadable. Whatever Sherlock's intentions, Lestrade knew that he would interfere with them, so after giving John an affirming nod, he slipped past Sherlock into the concert house and returned to the cloakroom in search of Mycroft. He found him sitting in the corner holding a piece of cloth to his nose.

"You look very pleased with yourself for a man with a lacy handkerchief holding his nose together," Lestrade remarked, gently lifting Mycroft's head to get a look at the damage. "Does this mean that you got through to your brother?"

Wincing only a little at the pain in his nose, Mycroft simply grinned back at him.

30 minutes earlier.

As Lestrade rushed out in search of John, Jim and Charlie exchanged worried looks and slipped out as well, with Jim murmuring a quick, "We'll be at the bar if you need us," to Mycroft.

The second they were alone in the cloakroom, Sherlock whirled on Mycroft and asked angrily, "What the hell did you do to John? If he had not already taken care of it, dear brother, I might very well have been tempted to lower myself to physical violence."

"My goodness, Sherlock," Mycroft said calmly, "I had expected such a show of emotion from John, but from you? Most surprising indeed."

"Goddamn it, Mycroft, I'm not in the mood for your petty mind games!" Sherlock shot back, his voice coming dangerously close to shouting, "I know this is your doing, now out with it!"

"Calm yourself, my dear Sherlock," Mycroft said lightly, "it was merely a little experiment. I had a theory, and I asked Jim and Charlie to be my assistants in proving it. This involved some necessary, minor deceptions, which led to the confusion you witnessed on John's part about their true identities. As you are so fond of saying, perfectly simple."

"John is not a test subject, Mycroft! You can't just use people like animals in a lab!" Sherlock was actually shouting now, giving up on any attempts to control his temper.

"Don't you dare act morally outraged with me, Sherlock Holmes!" The calm in Mycroft's voice was now only thinly disguising the layer of cold steel beneath. "I have done nothing you haven't done yourself a thousand times, and we both know it."

"Not with John," Sherlock said fiercely, "Never with John."

"And why not?" Mycroft asked callously, staring unblinkingly at Sherlock, "He's just your flatmate. Things go wrong, you can surely get another one. Can't find one, it's of no real consequence. I'll pay half your rent and you can live by yourself; much better that way, anyways, no unnecessary distractions."

"John. Is. Not. An. Unnecessary. Distraction," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

"All right," Mycroft countered, "What is he, then? What is he to you that can't be easily replaced?"

Sherlock paused in his tirade for the first time, as if he had never before considered the question. Finally, he said confidently, "He's someone to talk to,"

"Hardly that intimate of a connection. I'll pick you up another skull next time I'm at the curio shop, you can talk to it," Mycroft said easily.

"He's my flatmate," Sherlock tried again.

"That's merely a business arrangement, next, please," Mycroft parried.

"He's my...companion." The pauses between Sherlock's guesses were growing more and more pronounced.

"I'll find you a cat. You can stare moodily at each other for days on end not saying a thing, it'll be perfect for you," Mycroft said, neatly overturning his latest attempt.

"John is my...friend," Sherlock tried once more, by this point speaking as much to himself as to Mycroft.

"Now that's much closer," Mycroft replied encouragingly. "Implies a level of intimacy, familiarity.

But Sherlock, I want you to ask yourself, really ask yourself, if John is only your friend, why does the thought of him leaving cause you such an ache inside?"

"That doesn't prove anything," Sherlock defended, "Under the assumption that he is my friend, it is also safe to assume that the sudden deprivation of his presence would cause me some distress. Simple cause and effect."

"All right," Mycroft continued to probe, "If he is only your friend, why is he the first person in your thoughts in the morning and the last one on your mind at night."

"You can't possibly know any of that," Sherlock said, though he had grown a trifle paler

"Once the disease is known, the symptoms aren't hard to guess," Mycroft said sagely.

"Oh yes?" Sherlock challenged, "And what, pray tell, is my disease?"

"You know perfectly well," Mycroft replied evenly, looking him straight in the eye.

"If I know, then why are playing this infernal guessing game?" Sherlock shouted, exasperated.

"Because you're afraid," Mycroft said without hesitation, "Just like when you were ten years old and you told me that you'd seen a sea monster at the bottom of the lake and that's why you wouldn't swim in it - even though we both knew it was because you were afraid of drowning. But every day that summer, I sat on the side of that lake with you and pretended to respect the power of that imaginary sea monster because it would have hurt you to have to admit a human failing like fear."

"But, Sherlock," he continued urgently, standing and placing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, "You are far too old to be playing pretend, and besides, there isn't time. The best thing to ever happen to you is about to walk straight out of your life, and trust me when I say that the consequences of that are far worse than any of the phantoms you've been afraid of all this time. So I ask you again, Sherlock, and for God's sake, consider your answer - what is John Watson to you?"

Sherlock stared at him for a full ten seconds, seemingly frozen except for the nearly imperceptible tremors running through his body, then said slowly, "Oh God, I'm in love with him, aren't I?" and sank despairingly into the nearest chair Mycroft could not remember ever having seen his brother look so panic-stricken over anything before.

He took a few paces to kneel by Sherlock's chair and look up at him, speaking earnestly, "Sherlock, I'm your brother, and whatever petty battles we engage in at any given moment, you have to know that I love you and that I want you to be happy."

Sherlock nodded slightly and muttered, "My limited knowledge of human emotions has yielded that much information, yes, Mycroft."

"Then you know that I'm only saying this for your own good," Mycroft continued sincerely. "You have to tell him. Right now, before he's gone forever."

"I'm terrified," Sherlock admitted. "I'm rubbish at feelings."

"I know it feels that way," Mycroft said sympathetically, "But that's how it's supposed to be. Badly designed if you ask me, but there you go. At this point, you've nothing to lose, and a whole world to gain."

Sherlock stared at him for a few moments, then shifted his gaze to the door and was up and out of the room in an instant. Mycroft had just extracted himself from his kneeling position and was in the process of looking for a fresh handkerchief for his nose when Sherlock burst back through the red velvet curtain and caught him in a fierce hug. Mycroft barely had time to react before Sherlock had murmured a quick "Thank you," and departed as quickly as he had come.

Mycroft felt a bubble of warmth spread through his chest and was consequently not in the least miffed that the only handkerchief he could find in any of the coats was an absurdly feminine one with embroidered violets. He was still grinning when Lestrade found him.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Lestrade asked impatiently, "We have to go see how it turns out!"

"How?" Mycroft asked, his voice a bit muffled by the embroidered cotton. "I didn't have time to plant a mic on either of them, not to mention the fact that my previous meddling resulted in this," he reminded Lestrade, motioning to his bloodied nose.

"Have you no faith in me, Mycroft?" Lestrade asked, his expression of mock hurt morphing quickly into a sly grin as he said, "Come on, then" and hoisted Mycroft carefully to his feet.

"Where are we going?" Mycroft whispered as Lestrade led him by the hand down the hallway.

"You'll see," Lestrade murmured back before bringing them to a halt in front of a well-hidden doorway that blended in perfectly with the wood paneling of the hallway. Before Mycroft could say anything further, Lestrade produced a small key, slipped it in the lock, opened the door, and ushered him inside. Closing the mysterious door behind them, Lestrade led Mycroft down a dark little hallway which to Mycroft's great surprise led directly onto a small terrace overlooking the gardens.

Mycroft was prevented from asking any of the hundreds of questions swarming round his brain by Lestrade lifting one index finger to his lips and using the other to point to the larger terrace next door, on which Mycroft was astonished to find Sherlock and John staring at each other.

They then crouched down so as to avoid detection, and Mycroft managed to get out a whispered, "How?"

"You put me in charge of recon," Lestrade said simply, "I found this place on the blueprints and thought it might be useful, so I bribed the janitor for a key."

"Fantastic," Mycroft marveled with an admiring shake of the head, before Lestrade shushed him and directed his attention once more toward the object of their machinations. Though Sherlock and John were a little distance away, the two could nevertheless make out their conversation, such as it was.

"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively, breaking the minutes long silence.

"I..." Sherlock started, then lapsed again into silence.

"Sherlock, I can't do this anymore," John said with a sigh, brushing past Sherlock toward the French doors leading off the terrace.

"I lied about Ilsa!" Sherlock blurted out suddenly, whirling around to face John.

"What?" John asked in confusion, pivoting slowly.

Over on the little terrace, Lestrade looked for an explanation from Mycroft, who simply shrugged in bewilderment.

"When we watched that film, Casablanca, a couple months ago," Sherlock explained nervously, "You asked me if I would have endangered hundreds of lives for someone I loved, and I said no. I lied."

"I thought love was a lesser, irrational thing fit only for idiots who can't reason properly," John said sarcastically, throwing his own words back at him.

"When I said that," Sherlock said quietly, focusing gaze on his hands, "It was only because I was very afraid that I had already become an idiot. Because, John?" he raised his head and looked directly at him before continuing, "If it were you and me on that tarmac, I could never have gotten on the plane. I would have let Victor leave, knowing that cities might burn, the war might be lost, but that I would rather live with that...than live without you."

"What are you saying?" John asked hesitantly, stepping slowly toward him.

Sherlock took a deep breath then said, only a little shakily, "I have gone over the evidence quite thoroughly and, though I might not understand it, and it might terrify me to admit, I can only conclude that I love you."

John began to rush toward him but stopped abruptly and warned him, "Sherlock, you know you can't just stay that because you want me to stay. You have to mean it."

"Of course I want you to stay!" Sherlock said exasperatedly, "I'd be lost without you. I'd curl up on the couch for weeks, months on end and not even the most fascinating logic problem would be able to move me. That's how this love business is supposed to work...isn't it?" He looked suddenly unsure.

John smiled at him fondly and, stepping forward to gently take his hand, said, "Yes, yes, I suppose it is."

Sherlock looked down at their joined hands, then back up at John, tentatively raised his other hand and lightly stroked John's cheek. John leaned into the touch and took a final step forward so their faces were mere inches apart.

Back on the secret terrace, Mycroft was squeezing Lestrade's hand in anticipation as they both subconsciously leaned forward. He very nearly cheered aloud when he saw his brother lean down to close the small distance between himself and John with a kiss.

Though tentative at first, soon they were both showing marked enthusiasm, with John wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and Sherlock responding by winding his around John's back.

"We should give them a little privacy," Lestrade whispered to Mycroft.

"In a minute," Mycroft murmured back, laying his head on Lestrade's shoulder and taking in the perfect sweetness of the moment. After a minute or so, Mycroft reluctantly stood up and followed Lestrade back through the secret corridor to the main building.

The second they re-entered the lighted hallway, Mycroft let out a loud shout of triumph, before tamping down on his excitement at a stern look from a rather imposing usher. Mycroft waited until they had moved to a more deserted part of the building to enthusiastically throw his arms around Lestrade's neck.

"We did it!" he cried jubilantly, "After all that, we actually did it."

Lestrade grinned back at him and said, "We did, didn't we? Mind you, it was rough going there for awhile..."

"Oh, never mind that," Mycroft scolded lightly, "The important part is that we managed to pull it off. They're together and they're happy."

As he descended slowly from the high their success had brought, Mycroft's expression changed from exuberance to bliss, and he leaned forward to give Lestrade a lingering kiss, which was gladly returned. When they reluctantly separated, Mycroft looked into Lestrade's eyes and said, "I know you don't like to meddle, but you did, because I asked you to. Now for the first time in my truly extensive memory, my brother is actually happy. None of this would have been possible without your help."

Lestrade smiled and brushed one hand gently down Mycroft's cheek, saying quietly, "There isn't much I wouldn't do for you."

Mycroft placed his hand over Lestrade's and said, "I know. I just wish I could thank you properly."

Lestrade replied dryly, "Well, you can start by buying me a drink."

Mycroft's eyes suddenly lit up, and he exclaimed, "A drink? Oh God, Jim and Charlie! They're probably downstairs moping and thinking the plan's failed terribly. We have to go tell them the good news!"

He grabbed Lestrade's hand, and they practically bounded down the rest of the hallway, as well as the hall's impressive staircase, before reaching the bar, where they found Jim nursing a scotch and Charlie instructing a thoroughly terrified-looking young bartender in the art of making the perfect martini.

"The secret is in the shake, you see," he explained. "You must always keep your wrist loose and your elbow bent on a swing from forty-five to one hundred and twenty-five degrees. Like this," he said, demonstrating his technique with lightning speed and depositing a perfect martini next to seven others identical to it on the bar. "Now try it again, this time with more panache."

Jim was giving a little sigh and sending him a look conveying a wordless, "Why must you always do this?" As he heard their approach, however, Jim turned his full attention to Mycroft and Lestrade and asked, concerned, "How did it go? I can't believe we didn't think of the wedding rings. Gave the whole game away."

Mycroft smiled and strode over to give him an affectionate clap on the shoulder, "Think nothing of it, dear fellow, it's all fixed now. We may officially declare Operation Casablanca a success!"

"Really?" Charlie exclaimed excitedly, "Oh, that's marvelous!" He ran out from behind the bar - much to the relief of the bartender - to give Lestrade a hug and said eagerly, "I want every single detail."

"And you shall have them," Mycroft declared, "But first, barkeep, a round of champagne if you please."

The boy behind the bar glanced nervously at Charlie, who gave him an imperious nod of assent, and he went to fetch the champagne.

"He's a dear boy, but still in need of further instruction. I told him to come by the pub next week to continue his lessons. Ah, perfect, thank you, Timothy," he said as the boy returned with four glasses on a tray.

At Charlie's small hand wave, he asked quickly, "Will there be anything further, gentlemen?"

"No, this will be more than enough, thank you so much, Timothy," Jim cut in firmly before Charlie could add anything further and shot the boy an apologetic look.

"A toast!" Mycroft said, "To Operation Casablanca!"

"Here, here!" the others shouted as they clinked their glasses together, before turning their attention to sampling the bubbly.

"Oh, that reminds me," Charlie interjected, rummaging in his bag. "I got us all a little something to remember the adventure, assuming that everything went well, of course." With a little flourish he produced four identical silver key-chains from his bag, each engraved with a name.

"This is going to be a bit hard to explain to the boys at the office," Lestrade said dryly, picking up the one in front of Mycroft with "Ilsa" emblazoned on it in fancy script.

"Nonsense," Mycroft replied, then turned to Charlie and added firmly, "I shall display it proudly, whenever I need my keys."

"As shall I," Jim declared, taking out his keys and slipping them on the ring labeled "Louis."

"And me," Lestrade assured him, copying Jim.

"Excellent!" Charlie exclaimed, obviously pleased. "Now, enough celebrating, we want all the sordid little details."

"Well," began Mycroft, "Right after you left..."

"Interrupting a meeting of the conspirators, am I?" came a voice from behind them.

Upon seeing John, Mycroft subconsciously backed up toward Lestrade and raised a hand to his battered nose.

John raised his hands in the air and said, "Never fear, I come in peace. Actually, while Sherlock is getting us a cab, I wanted to come by to thank you all for your extreme, but well-meaning interferences in my life, and to be properly introduced. Charlie, I'm presuming that is your name?"

"Oh yes," Charlie said, "And I really am the bartender at the Carpenter's Arms."

"I'm the one with the alias," Jim cut in, a bit embarrassed, "It's Jim. I'm Greg's best friend from the old days."

"Well, Jim, it's nice to meet you," John said cordially, shaking his hand. "So that magnificent billiards game you were telling me about, purely a work of fiction?"

"Alas, yes," Jim said wistfully.

"Pity," John remarked, "By all accounts it would have been quite remarkable."

It was then that Sherlock appeared in the doorway and looked at John almost shyly, indicating with a slight tilt of his head that the cab was waiting.

"Ah, I believe my ride is here," John said, then added magnanimously, "Gentlemen, I bid you goodnight. I'm sure I will see you around soon, but for now, I'm going home," unable to suppress his grin as he said the last word. With a little bow, he turned and walked over to the door to meet Sherlock; John leaned up to whisper something in his ear, which caused Sherlock to laugh brightly, and the two of them departed from the concert hall, arms around each other's waists.

The four of them gathered at the bar gave a collective sigh at the sweetness of the image before Charlie said, "I suppose we should be going, too, it is getting quite late. Soon though, shall we say next Friday, come to our place, and we'll bribe you for the details with Jim's award-winning chicken parmigiana."

"It's a date," Lestrade promised, and he and Mycroft bid Charlie and Jim farewell for the night.

"Alone at last," Lestrade said contentedly, linking his fingers with Mycroft's.

"Yes," Mycroft agreed, sighing a bit wistfully. Suddenly, a gleam entered his eyes, and he asked casually, "Say, Gregory, is your sister still in love with that boss of hers? I always thought they would be really good together."

"No," Lestrade said firmly," Mycroft, no. This was a one time deal. I will not be traipsing around the British Isles playing matchmaker for anyone you think needs a bit of help in the romance department. No."

"Oh, but Gregory," Mycroft pleaded, "We already have the team together, it would simply be a matter of -"

"No," Lestrade interjected, "Absolutely not. I finally have you all to myself, and I'm not trading that for anything. Besides, we have plans through Tuesday, anyway."

"We do?" Mycroft asked, intrigued.

"I took the liberty of booking us four nights in a little hotel room overlooking the Seine," Lestrade announced, looking quite pleased with himself. "You and I are going to spend a very long weekend in full French style, eating pastries and looking at art, all while wearing matching berets, of course."

Mycroft started to smile brightly, but then his face clouded, and he said, "But I have that damn budget meeting on Monday -"

"Which I, of course, had Anthea reschedule," Lestrade interjected, "In fact, she's cleared your entire agenda until Wednesday. She also muttered something to the extent of 'About time,' if I remember rightly."

Mycroft scanned his considerable brain for any reasons he couldn't play hooky with his boyfriend for the weekend and, with Sherlock happily ensconced at 221b with John to look after him, was delighted to find none at all.

"And besides," Lestrade continued, wrapping his arms around Mycroft's waist, "I know the second we get back, you will roping me into some mad scheme, which I will inevitably go along with, but," and here he lowered Mycroft back into a dramatic dip, "At least we'll always have Paris."

Mycroft laughed and leaned up happily to kiss him, very glad that at least one Rick and Ilsa in the world could get a proper happy ending.