It was an ordinary, unremarkable day in the apartment at 221B. Even the London weather was not surprising – it was raining, while the sun was trying to pierce its rays through the clouds.

There were no new cases, so Sherlock, for once, got to his halls of mind, deciding to put things in order there. He was sitting on a chair, with his eyes closed, and his palms clasped to his lips.

The silence in the apartment was broken only by the patter of rain on the window and the quiet clacking of the keys of the laptop you're working on.

But soon, a door slammed downstairs, and then Lestrade stumbled into the living room. Sherlock opened his eyes, looking up at him.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked, without changing his position, "Can't find the missing cat?"

"Sherlock, {{user}}," Lestrade said, slightly out of breath, "I... I fell in love with Mycroft."