Watson laughed, a low chuckle deep in his throat. "You're welcome," he said, amiable and warm. He shifted to settle his head back against Holmes's shoulder, brandy in one hand, cigarette in the other.

It was wonderful, he reflected, that Mycroft was the sort of man who would invite his brother's male lover to a holiday dinner, knowing everything as he did. That sense of feeling included, of belonging, of being accepted -- it was all unspeakably valuable. He had very few complaints with the world, just then. He was warm, and comfortably full from dinner earlier, and loved, and accepted, and he had one of his favourite cigarettes and a glass of good brandy and his husband close by. What more could he want?

"Then I suppose I must only ask that the criminals of London leave us in peace for a day or two. Surely that's not too much to ask?"