This is just a little piece of fluff that I wrote for fun after seeing a picture that dealt with a similar situation.

Not beta'd or britpicked - any mistakes are my fault!

It was quiet in 221b, which was unusual in itself, but most certainly not unwelcome.

Sherlock had solved a case that morning; they slogged through rain and mud only to arrive just in time to discover that a vital piece of evidence had been destroyed by the weather. But two cab rides, a traipse through a library (which earned them very severe looks from the librarian as they dripped rainwater all over the floor), and a chase through several slippery back alleys later, they cornered the murderer just as Lestrade arrived to arrest him, due to a text and remarkable foresight from Sherlock.

Now it was the resting time, as it were, the calm between the storms. The rain outside still blustered about, but John was sitting in his armchair now, in dry clothes, reading the paper in peace.

A fire crackled in the grate, and John stretched out his feet to the warmth as the chemicals that Sherlock was poking at in the kitchen spluttered and popped.

It was peaceful, John realized, with a small start of surprise. Sherlock had not yet descended into boredom, still flushed with the trill of the last case and preoccupied with his new experiment. John was able to relax with only a small nagging worry that the kitchen might blow up. It was a nice feeling, and not something that was common, living in 221b. It was almost domestic. Perhaps it was because of the morning they'd had that John appreciated it so much.

He folded up his newspaper and was about to toss it aside when something caught his eye. The paper had gotten turned inside out, and the Classifieds were facing up. More exactly, the For Sale section of the Classifieds, and a name had jumped out at him. John looked at it, then blinked and looked again.

Well. Peace couldn't last very long, could it.

John got up and walked into the kitchen.

"Sherlock," he said, slowly and calmly. "Would you like to explain why your brother is for sale in the Times?"

Sherlock barely looked up. "He was being irritating," he said vaguely, marking down a note about his experiment.

John sighed. "You can't sell people, Sherlock. Especially not your family. Especially not your brother who, in your own words, is the British government."

"Not good?"

"Quite a bit not good, actually, yeah."

"But it's Mycroft," Sherlock said, looking up at John. "Surely there is a far greater grey area around everything he is involved in."

John looked at the advertisement again. "One fat government to live in your house and irritate you. Will eat all your cake. Umbrella included. Apply at—" John looked more closely at the phone number Sherlock had put in the advertisement. "Sherlock, that's my number!"

"Your powers of observation are sparkling as always, John."

John brandished the newspaper in his face. "Why on earth did you put my number on your ridiculous childish feud?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "As I've said before, John, mine's on the website. Always a chance it will be recognized. It would all be pointless if someone figured out that the person advertising was simply trying to get rid of his older brother, they would dismiss it as silly and childish. Mycroft knows my number as well, incidentally."

"It is silly and childish, Sherlock, and Mycroft knows my number too, in case you've forgotten," John pointed out. "In fact, I think he knows the number of everyone in the English-speaking world."

As if on cue, John's phone started ringing. John looked across the room to where it was sitting on the desk, then back at Sherlock. "If that's Mycroft, you are doing the explaining, Sherlock Holmes," he said. "I am not being kidnapped again over this."

Sherlock smirked. "Your phone is ringing, Doctor," he said. "You'd better answer it."

John trudged across the room and picked up his phone just as it gave one last ring and went silent. John sighed in relief and checked the recent calls.

Oh.

"It was Lestrade," he told Sherlock, knowing he wouldn't care unless it involved another murder. Quiet frankly, John was completely done with murder for the day. Nothing Lestrade had to say could possibly be so pressing that it couldn't wait until tomorrow. "He—Jesus." He stared at the phone in disbelief. "He's called me six times."

What could have happened that warranted six consecutive calls from the DI? Genuinely frightened, John quickly dialed Lestrade's number.

"Does he have a case for me?" Sherlock asked, getting up and coming over to where John was standing.

"It's ringing," John told him, as there was a click and Lestrade picked up.

"Greg Lestrade."

"It's John Watson," John said, although he was fairly sure Lestrade had him on caller ID. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, hello, John," Lestrade said. "What do you mean? Has Sherlock done something?"

"You called me six times," John said. "I assumed there was some sort of national emergency."

"Oh." There was a long silence. John could hear papers rustling. "Erm, no, sorry, I guess I had the wrong number." Lestrade sounded uncharacteristically gruff.

"Oh, right," John said, wondering what number Lestrade had tried to call six times without realizing it was the wrong one. He decided that it would be too rude to ask, however.

"What did he say?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"He had the wrong number," John told him, covering the speaker with his hand.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and grabbed the phone out of John's hand before he could stop him.

"You called John six times today. The first two calls were this morning, two minutes apart, when John and I were chasing Jeffery Forbert across a rooftop. Quite understandable that he didn't answer the phone, given the situation. You called again after we had gotten home and you had returned to the office, presumably. Three calls then, but John didn't hear the phone because he was in the shower. You called a sixth time five minutes ago, an hour since your last call. You don't have another case for us, because the first time you called was when you were still working on locating Mr. Forbert, which we were busy doing for you, by the way. Disappointing, but John thinks that one murderer a day is a good rule. I haven't persuaded him otherwise yet. It wasn't the wrong number, either, because you called six different times. Only Anderson would dial the wrong number in exactly the same way that many times. However, it's true that you didn't know it was John's number, because you didn't know what he was talking about when he called you back. Foolish, you should have his number on your phone, you never know when you might need to reach him. When he questioned you about it, you tried to hide behind a very frail lie. Bad plan, that never works with me. Let's have the truth, please."

"Yes. Well." Lestrade sounded distinctly uncomfortable. "I was attempting to answer an advertisement. I didn't expect John to be behind it, although I should have known it was you. Tell him I'm sorry, and kindly bugger off, Sherlock, this really has nothing to do with you."

The line went dead. Sherlock stood there for a few moments, then slowly lowered the phone. Shock showed plainly on his face.

"Oh God," he said slowly.

"Well?" John reached for his phone, and Sherlock gave it back to him without resistance. "What did he tell you?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a breath. "Stupid, stupid," he breathed. "The signs were everywhere. How could I not have seen it?"

"Seen what?" John sighed in exasperation. "Sherlock, what's going on?"

Sherlock was pacing in small, tight circles. "Lestrade was answering an advertisement. My advertisement, in the Times, with your number on it. Selling Mycroft."

"Oh." John blinked. "You mean— "

"Lestrade is certainly not getting back together with his wife," Sherlock said, cracking a grin, which disappeared as another though hit him. "And last month I was teasing Mycroft about being in a new relationship. Oh!" He stamped his foot in frustration. "He was laughing at me, the bastard!"

"Hold on a minute, Sherlock," John said, raising his hands. "Slow down. You're saying that Lestrade and Mycroft—?"

"Yes." Sherlock cut him off. "Our lovely Detective Inspector is shagging my brother."

There was a minute of silence as John let that thought sink in.

"I would never have expected Mycroft to be in a relationship with—well, anyone," John said finally.

"Yes, well, it certainly hasn't worked for him before," Sherlock said. "He had a boyfriend at university, but it was a very short-lived affair. He threw himself straight into his career. He's married to his work even more than I am."

"Well, it seems like he's cheating," John said.

"Yes," Sherlock said, his mind clearly far away. "Yes, I believe he is."

"What about Lestrade? You said there were obvious signs, what was obvious about him?"

"I have to go wash my mind palace," Sherlock announced suddenly.

"Wash it?"

"The last few minutes have presented me with several mental images that I never wish to see again. I need to put them in the dungeon."

"The dungeon?" John nearly burst out laughing. "Do they get their own cell?"

"Hmm. Yes. I don't want to mix them with anything else."

"What are you going to call it?"

"Call what?"

"Their cell. You know how people make names for couples by combining the names of the two people?"

"Not particularly."

"Well, they do. So, what do you think? Gregcroft?"

"John, you're embarrassing yourself and I'm going to leave the room."

"You're right, that sounds horrible. Erm… Mygreg?"

"John…" There was a warning note in Sherlock's voice.

"Excuse me if I can't have a bit of fun with this, Sherlock. What about Lecroft? Mystrade?"

Sherlock stopped mid-glare. "Mystrade. That does have a bit of a ring to it, I suppose. Oh, shut up," he added, in response to John's grin.

John laughed. "Go clean out your palace," he said, heading into the kitchen to make some tea.

As John got out two mugs, he could still hear Sherlock muttering "Mystrade" in the other room.