UPDATED 5/25/2014

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters based off of Sir Conan Doyle's most excellent work. I make absolutely no money off of this.

Warnings: No warnings for this little drabble~

Mycroft Holmes understood there were small things in the world one could not predict. He also understood there were odd things he would never fully comprehend. Finally, there were minute things in the universe he understood he had no complete control over. This was a sensible, intelligent stance on anomalies, and he was not ashamed to admit to it. Sometimes, god forbid, there were even baffling things that could constitute all three of these inevitabilities. He took great caution to avoid interaction with such horrors.

One anomaly that continued to befuddle but was unavoidable was English weather. Mycroft simply kept up with a mobile app that dealt with the fickle variable. Today, despite the weatherman's guess at varied showers, it had been terribly sunny. However no day on the British Isles could go without a little downpour, and so the early morning drizzle still darkened the pavements at various intervals by the evening time. The elder Holmes found perfect entertainment at following the half-dried run patterns to the sewage ducts along the streets they traveled. Anthea, sitting across from his window seat, chose not to comment on his most unusual behavior. To be honest, Mycroft couldn't comment on it himself.

This was the second thing that fit all three attributes described previously. Mycroft's behavior as of late seemed sporadic. While nothing amiss in his work had a occurred of course, even his PA was beginning to worry about how the government official was on auto-pilot during his waking hours. This could prove to be a serious botheration should the behavior continue in public. How long did they have until someone else noticed? And, when this occurred, how unsavory would that person prove to be?

All it took was one mistake.

There were no new developments, no pressing crises, and not one of Sherlock's archenemies had surfaced to make so much as a ripple. The cause of the intensification of Mycroft's less fastidious character traits entirely escaped the pair. Mycroft was unsettled by this.

Somehow more and more of Mycroft's time had been spent gazing off into the distance or brooding about his lavish apartments or offices. He barely ate, slept far too little, had restless sleep when he did, and was prone to losing himself in thought. Most significantly, in the last six weeks Mycroft had dropped one and a half stone. For a man who had already met his weight-loss goal not four months ago, this was a cause for concern. He was going to begin looking gaunt. It was Sherlock whose form was fit for such aristocratic lightness; he'd inherited the lithe build from their mother. Mycroft, while equally tall, was meant to be stockier, like their father, in a full athletic figure. The hollows beneath high cheekbones were becoming pronounced, and dark circles under eyes could only be hidden by so much concealer. Suits could be adjusted only so far until tailoring was all that would fix them.

Truly, something was terribly amiss.

Mycroft had been to his family's regular physician in the city, and even to the one in the country at his mother's insistence after going to visit. For all their vast medical knowledge neither practitioner could pinpoint the origin of his distemper. After their lack of answers, and others he'd petitioned, the Holmes heir sought the comforts of work, light exercise, and daily reminders to eat. He could not falter like this. Sherlock, he had thought a few days ago, wouldn't let him live it down if something within Mycroft's control spiraled so readily out of it.

After careful consideration Anthea finally proposed contacting Dr. Watson. The man's extensive work with those under high-stress professions such as military and government personnel was exceptional. John's connection with his babe brother also gave him a leg-up as both Mycroft and Sherlock were not much different in temperament. Their vices were far more varied, but it was not hard to see they came from the same Holmes stock. It had taken Mycroft a considerable amount of thought to admit to the correlations between Sherlock and himself. No matter, he was still far superior in maturity.

...Yet, not superior in control, a wicked voice mocked the shadow master, whispering venomously in the back of his mind.

Whatever his distraction, it had to be severed at the root. Regardless of this ailment's origins, Mycroft would deduce it. He'd discover its proper treatment posthaste once they reached this most recent crime scene and John agreed to give him an appointment. He only mildly wondered as they turned onto the predominantly corded off street, why he hadn't thought to simply call upon the doctor at Baker Street.

AN: Made some updates. I couldn't leave this alone now that I've got my life together again. I won't make promises, but this is a good story. I'd hate to let it go for nothing. 5/25/2014

Are you interested to see what is distracting our ailing Mycroft? Review me your answers and your postulations~!