As Greg approached 221, he looked up from the pathway where he had been walking, his eyes falling on the smartly dressed man holding an umbrella. "Mr. Holmes," he said, grinning and with a twinkle in his eye.

The corner of Mycroft's mouth crept up, just hinting at a smile. "DI Lestrade." His voice was warm. "You were summoned, I presume," he said dryly.

Giving a little laugh and plunging his hands into his pockets, Greg admitted, "Yeah, but it was John, not His Nibs, who called."

The government official's eyebrow rose at that. "Really?" He peered up towards the exterior of the flat, considering. "It was Sherlock who requested my presence." There had been an emphasis on 'requested'. Musingly, Mycroft added, "He was almost polite about it."

The DI looked concerned. "Did he text or call?"

Mycroft regarded Lestrade with pride. He really wasn't dull. "He called. What might we deduce from that?"

"Ha! I don't know, but it can't be good, can it?" Greg's expression had grown positively grim. The only times he and Mycroft had both been involved with Sherlock simultaneously had been in the dark times, the drug days.

Now, the government official gave Lestrade a genuine smile. "Oh, I don't think it's anything dire, even with both of us on hand. Sherlock didn't sound high or like he was on the wrong side of a high. If he had been, it would have been John who called me. No, this is something very different." Mycroft extended an arm in the direction of 221. "Shall we, Gregory?"

Once through the front door they paused for a quick stolen kiss before climbing the stairs to 221B. They exchanged one last warm smile, then put on their public faces. Mycroft knocked with the handle of his umbrella then opened the door and they walked on in.

Mycroft took in everything in a glance: John, relaxed, dressed in his best, smiling, warm and welcoming; Sherlock, tense, likewise dressed in his best, pacing, nervous and off putting. It was almost business as usual at Baker Street. If the government official were anyone else, he would believe that it was, but he wasn't. He quickly schooled his expression to placidity so as not to ruin the surprise and took a seat on the sofa, for once. This let Greg sit next to him with no need for an excuse.

John stood, corralled Sherlock in his arms and guided him into the kitchen. He slid the doors shut, giving them some privacy, obviously wanting to calm his consulting detective.

Greg leaned over, close to Mycroft and asked in a low whisper, "What the bloody hell is going on?"

"Language, Gregory," the government official admonished. "They are preparing to announce their engagement, as evidenced by John's clear happiness and my brother's nervousness."

The DI brightened at that. "Really? And they're telling us first? Why would they do that?"

Sliding his hand over to grip Lestrade's, Mycroft whispered confidentially, "I expect that we're to be the best men."

Shaking his head, the DI sighed. "I guess we shouldn't steal the wind from their sails. We can tell them about us another day." Still, he risked stealing another brief kiss.

At the sound of the kitchen doors sliding open, Greg and Mycroft composed themselves and restored a respectable distance between them. Sherlock regarded them with narrowed eyes, but said nothing, just set a tray of Scotch and glasses down on the coffee table.

"Scotch, baby brother," Mycroft observed. "What is the occasion?"

Sherlock, torn between pride and embarrassment, took refuge in sullenness and flopped in his chair. John laughed fondly.

"I guess it's up to me, then," commented the doctor. "Sherlock and I have decided to get married." He said it with quiet joy, looking at his fiancé with love.

Greg leapt up and gave John an enthusiastic hug then he pulled Sherlock up and subjected him to the same treatment. The detective submitted gracelessly. Mycroft, too, had risen. He shook John's hand and congratulated him. Walking over to his brother, he hesitated, then he threw caution to the wind and hugged him. Sherlock stiffened at first, then relaxed into the hug, whispering, "Thank you."

The men resumed their seats and John took control of the conversation again. "We asked you here for more than just this little announcement." He turned to the DI. "Greg, would you be my best man? I can't think of anyone I would rather have stand by me at the wedding. You understand about me and Sherlock better than just about anyone else. It would mean a lot to me."

Even knowing it was coming, the request was touching. "Of course, John. Of course." His voice broke. "I would be honoured." He and John beamed at one another.

An uncomfortable silence fell. The doctor kicked Sherlock in the shin pointedly. The detective sighed.

"Mycroftwillyoubemybestman," Sherlock mumbled, looking down at his hands.

The elder Holmes brother smirked. "What was that brother dear?"

The detective rolled his eyes then looked at his brother. "Mycroft, will you be my best man?"

The corners of Mycroft's mouth twitched up. "Of course, Sherlock. It would be my pleasure."

"That's it? No snark? You're losing your touch, Mycroft," the detective spat.

"No, baby brother. I'm simply happy for you. Let it be."

A slow genuine smile crept onto Sherlock's face.

Scotch was poured, toasts were made and vague plans were discussed. When it came time to leave, Mycroft and Greg managed to do so together, both claiming the call of work.

Outside the flat, they got into the waiting black sedan together.

Sherlock watched it all from the living room window with a smile.