Dedicated, as a Christmas present of sorts (a rather appalling one, I must add- like the socks from random relatives you barely know- that sort of thing), to Popeyy for the fantastic reviews, Chique52 for threatening me into writing, everyone else who's thinking of reviewing and YOU! Yes, you! Enjoy.

Minor note: Dunswood may or may not exist. It may also be a garden centre. Never been, don't even know where it is. Nothing like it's depicted in this fic, for those reasons.

Warning: May contain Christmas.

Watson

I can clearly recollect the occasion of my introduction to Mycroft Holmes, elder brother of my dearest friend. During the case (adventure is far too sensationalist a word) of the Bruce Partington plans, I was given the impression that only the direst of circumstances or most direct of commands could "derail" (to use Holmes' own words), his brother from the habits he has created for himself. Indeed, his habits are constant and unchanging, regardless of any climate, whether literal or political, and I was struck by his precision. From Pall Mall lodgings to the Diogenes club, his movements are predictable and methodical to the point of lunacy. Such a creature of habit I have never before encountered.

Having realised such about Mr Mycroft Holmes, the 'Jove' of the British government, you can imagine what a shock it was to me when he arrived, with neither advance warning nor any motive that was immediately apparent, at Baker Street.

My shock was easily discernable, not that I had maintained much hope of disguising it; Holmes has often remarked that "brother Mycroft" has even greater powers of observation and deduction than the world famous consulting detective, and so attempting to disguise such seemed pointless. Unfortunately, the younger brother was not in the flat, having insisted upon gallivanting off on "an errand", which sounded suspiciously like the procuring of Christmas presents to me. It would be typical of Holmes to leave such things until the last possible opportunity, or delay their delivery until Christmas Eve. Not that he has many to buy, I suppose.

"Ah, Doctor Watson." My explanation of Holmes' absence pauses in my throat, unwilling to interrupt the authority of his brother, even if he appears jovial enough. "I trust Sherlock is not here?"

How he knows that, I cannot fathom. No doubt this shows on my visage, as he later answers that question. "I apologise, he's running some errands."

Mycroft's smile grows as he waves a hand in a dismissive gesture. "No matter- Sherlock always did have a tendency to leave the actual collection of presents until Christmas Eve. I shall just drop some things off, if I may." He glances around the room briefly before refocusing on me. "I don't suppose Sherlock left some papers for my collection?"

Doubtless another case. I contemplate for a moment, but can record no mention of any such papers. "I'm afraid he hasn't mentioned any."

Mycroft's smile returned, along with a slight wheezy chuckle. "Christmas cards, Doctor Watson- no doubt you are very familiar with his reluctance to even acknowledge such things."

This sets me at ease somewhat, although the odd feeling of jealousy at not being included in a case still throws me off-guard slightly, even though I am perfectly aware of the reasons for it. Unacceptable reasons, of course, and ones that Holmes of all people would despise, which is why I am resolved never to inform him of the true place he holds in my affections. I chuckle in response. "Indeed. If he's left them anywhere, they're likely to be in his room." I gesture slightly in that direction and Mycroft nods.

"Thank you Doctor."

His brief search seems fruitful, although as I am sitting in my chair opposite the door to our rooms, I can see little of it. Finally, he leaves the package on the sitting room table and I bid him farewell before sitting for a while in contemplation. How odd. Perhaps the festive season is to blame. What with all the snow and carolling, it's enough to put anyone into a jovial mood. Maybe even a member of the Diogenes Club, although I would hesitate before accusing him of being surly or ill-tempered.

A chuckle escapes me as I imagine Holmes' expression upon hearing that his brother has ventured from his tracks and visited the flat. Maybe it signals an imminent apocalypse.

"Doctor Watson!" The familiar tones of our landlady Mrs Hudson echo up the stairs, and I once more rise from my chair to meet her at the door, where she presents me with a telegram. "Came a few moments ago, they said it was most urgent."

"Thank you Mrs Hudson." I reply out of habit, already reaching for my coat as my eyes scan the message.

Watson. 12.30 train, Dunswood. Further details upon arrival. Your assistance invaluable. Holmes.

Typical.

In the space of twenty minutes, I am on the train and speeding towards "Dunswood". It's times like these when I deeply ponder how wise it was to get involved with a man like Holmes, expecting me to drop everything, even during the Yuletide season, for some vague reason. But it would be difficult to change one's habits now, after so many years of absolute trust. And trust him I do.

I glance briefly into my inside pocket. My old army service revolver has indeed served me well.

To be continued- watch this space. Writing NOW on the 23rd Dec 2010. Next chapter on it's way. Honest! R&R, please.