Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters.

"There was a long hard time when I kept far from me the remembrances of what I had thrown away when I was quite ignorant of its worth." - Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

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Date: 2 January 2015

Mycroft is on his second cigarette. He knows there is work to be done, but the urgency is muted. He doesn't know that he lit the fag fifteen minutes ago, or that he has been standing in the same spot for over half an hour. The encumbrance of work buzzes around him, like an insect. So much work. Feeds traced, files to be hacked, satellites repositioned. So much to do for this country - his country - which he serves resolutely. Not a soldier - far too much action in that area - but a player in the game. The soldiers are his pieces, and he moves them to employ his strategy.

He has always been a strategist. He has been able to predict the moves of every human he has come across. They are all predictable, boring - goldfish. Pawn to G6. There is no sentiment to be found for pieces on a checkered board.

Even his family. Any sentiment towards the man and woman who raised him is lost. He has never understood it. Even as a child, he found it difficult to feel anything other than detachment towards his parents. They are simply too different from him to enjoy their company.

Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes.

It actually made him gag. Honestly. He has long outgrown an old lady lecturing him on the aesthetics of family. The old woman was pathetic and ordinary, and useless in the grand scheme of a calculating strategist. And yet his brother defended her. It caught him unawares, at first believing Sherlock was dumb enough to believe what she had said.

Though do in fact shut up.

Should he be relieved or disappointed that Sherlock did not believe in family either? Well, not their family at least.

Strategy served Mycroft well in the past. Predicting terrorist strikes, planning assassinations, protection for the highest in the land.

But for the first time in all his years in service to the Crown, he does not feel the determination to investigate the highest security threat they have seen in years. The threat is there. James Moriarty poses a danger to the United Kingdom like no other. But it is muddled for now, drifting below the surface.

Logically that is where his priorities must lie. Logically, the threat of 64 million British citizens is more important than the life of one.

Mycroft has never felt conflicted by logic. Logic is made up of facts, statistics, intelligence. All of which he has.

Sentiment, he does not. Never has.

Logically, the most important task at hand is to find out where the feed came from and trace it back to the person behind this "resurrection." But Mycroft cannot close Little Brother away until further notice like he has in the past. Not this time.

Yes, he has always kept surveillance on him, always had eyes watching ever since that one slip up in 2005. The arrangement with DI Lestrade worked well for them all. Despite Sherlock's attempts to convince him otherwise, Mycroft always saw him as the King, not really useful for strategy, very simple in moves. The goal of the King is to stay out of threat.

But then Dr. Watson entered the playing field - a move Mycroft had not predicted. Mycroft Holmes does not make mistakes. He cannot afford to in this day and age. Dr. Watson became the Queen, and DI Lestrade the Knight. The good doctor protected the simple King. No matter what Sherlock insisted about him (What do you think, Doctor? You were a doctor!), the doctor was right (I was a soldier. I killed people! Captain John Watson.) He was a soldier, a protector.

Little Brother has made a friend, was not something an regular man would classify as dangerous, but Mycroft has seen the footage. He has seen... the lengths to which Little Brother has dragged himself in order to protect his friends. And vice versa.

He didn't need to see the footage. He knows William, and yet the man would not give him the time of day if he asked.

He does not pity his brother. It was his decision - a stupid one - but one that Mycroft could only watch from a distance as Little Brother drifted. He learned when they were young that William does not respond well to criticism. He only rebels and hurts himself further. It is best to not get involved.

Or, he thought it was best. But now...

He exhales, smoke pouring out of his nostrils and into the cold wind.

What would Dad say if he found out?

"Anthea," he says softly.

She looks up from her phone.

"We'll want to meet with the head of MI6 and the prime ministers."

She nods.

You couldn't even save him.

"And attain a pardon from Her Majesty."

"Request sent, sir."

He is a murderer.

"Thank you."

You are no better.

He is trying. He tries to be a "proper big brother," as Sherlock savagely put it. He does not know what that entails. He's not sure Sherlock entirely knows either.

He does not have a Dr. Watson to explain these sorts of things.

But he knows when he has wronged William. Oh, he knows very well.

He sighs and drops the cigarette to the asphalt, grinding it under his shoe.

You ruined him.

His whole world unraveled because Mycroft, as always, had to prove his intelligence for stupid little Billy.

He snorts. Intelligence indeed.

And the child left behind was merely a fragment of his former self. There are still signs of William, but only when the drugs strip away the outer shell, leaving him bare, like a skinned rabbit.

William never forgave him. Rightfully so.

"Sir?" comes a tentative voice.

Anthea knows to keep to herself when he is preoccupied, but he understands her urgency. There is work to be done.

Something is always more important.

xxx

The entrance to Mycroft's memory palace is the entrance to his University's library, but far more spectacular because his extends infinitely, and is organized the way he wants. Not based upon ordinary people's needs. He won't find what he wants here though. He constructed this part when he was at school. The library contains facts which he needs to remember, files upon files of information organized neatly in the shelves he limitlessly constructs. Everything has a place here.

But not what he needs. He has to go to the part that he rarely visits, often pretends is not even there actually. But it does exist. Mycroft does not delete files unless they are useless.

The library's marble floors melt away to creaky wood, and he can smell tobacco smoke. Dad still smokes a pipe. He hasn't tried to hide it from Mum for over thirty years.

Mycroft ascends the narrow stairs to a cramped hallway and stops outside the door on his right. Just as he left it. There is a drawing of a sailboat and a crudely done stick figure with a black hat taped to the wood.

Doo Not Entur

(That Meens Yu Mycroft)

Mycroft doesn't know why he continually puts up with the incorrect spelling. He could have torn it down ages ago.

Instead he curls his fingers around the cold handle and eases the door open.

He has not thought about Sherlock's boyhood ever since that day. It was the agreement he chose to make with himself. There is too much there. Moments that he has gone back again and again to find out what he missed. Something long ago that he buried beneath his own self importance.

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1981

Time ambled lazily down a river of long days that summer. Billy seemed to have the power to slow it down, no matter how Mycroft willed the sun to cycle sooner. Mother's rule was that they weren't allowed to leave the house alone. So together they spent their days at the park, a communal pool, and in the woods grown up behind their home. Billy liked to go to the pasture across the road and fly his kite. He made it from a plastic bag and light weight wood from flag spikes sticking the ground at a nearby construction site.

That Spring, Billy had learned to ride his bike. His world expanded, and therefore Mycroft's was forced to as well. Mycroft craved rainy days, the kind with thunder and lightning. Perhaps it was cruel, but a thunderstorm meant Billy would spend the day in a fort, guarded by his Dorset soldiers in crescent around his fortress. Those days, Mycroft could finally find peace in the solitude of his room.

Anywhere Mycroft wanted to go during the dry days was nearly always a place his brother could not tolerate. The library, a building where he was overwhelmed by the lack of sound or stimulation, was too quiet for him. So father made a deal with him. Every Wednesday and Saturday when he returned from work, he walked there with Mycroft.

Father worked at a small law firm across from the pharmacy. He often brought home casework and Mycroft enjoyed sitting with him and reading through the document. It was his first experience with law. Father's cases were dull because they were predictable. Last will and testament issues, property suites, divorce papers. When he had been younger, Mycroft had imagined his father handling big court lawsuits like murder or government conspiracies. When he asked why Father never dealt with bigger cases (more money, bigger publicity and such), he said, "I don't have the resources to handle something like that."

"But it would be more interesting."

He nodded. "Maybe." And shrugged. "But sometimes we have to be content with what we're given."

Father enjoyed fiction. Mycroft didn't understand why. Reality was far more interesting. Father had tried to coax him into reading the same material, but he devoured the factual nonfiction section of the library. That summer he learned French and Italian, while Father was pouring into four-hundred-year old tragic romances by the overhead light in the kitchen. But then again, Father always was a romantic.

"What's that you've got?"

Mycroft begrudgingly held up the nicest copy that was currently available of 1984.

Father took if from him and flipped through the pages, smiling fondly. "You'll like that one," he said.

Mycroft looked at the cover to avoid looking up. This was the first year he had been assigned reading by his teachers. If he wanted to pass the class, it was required.

"Why?"

"Because it's an imagining of what a future world might look like if the government prohibited individual thought. I read it when I worked at the bookstore."

Mycroft scrunched up his nose. Impossible. "The government cannot prevent people from having individual thought."

He nodded. "No. But the point is to prove to the reader how important it is and that it makes us who we are."

Father once had asked him why he never read anything other children read. Stories with fictional characters had no meaning in the real world, where real problems occurred. He'd known Father wouldn't understand, so he had said shortly that he didn't want to.

He tucked the book under his arm. Mycroft saw the sideways letters spelling out, ...One Flew... and the rest were blocked by his arm.

"Let's head home then."

Mycroft usually checked out two books at a time, limiting himself to one a day, but tomorrow Billy had a doctor's appointment and he would be able to return the book after Mass.

The doors had just clicked shut behind them when they heard, "Ted!"

Three large paper bags hunched Father Simmons over as he hobbled towards them.

Father tucked his books in the crook of his arm and held out his hand. "Father," he greeeted as they shook hands. "Good to see you."

Father was a much better liar than Mother. Mycroft liked to think that was the devious lawyer side, but truthfully there wasn't a devious bone in his body. He often heard his parents talking about leaving the church. Father Simmons' morals conflicted with theirs on several occassions.

The priest raised an eyebrow. "You'll be at service tomorrow?"

Father nodded. "Yes, yes. Sorry about last time." He clapped a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. He jumped at the contact. "Myc had an interview with the headmaster in Brighton."

Father Simmons smiled. "Congratulations." He shifted the bags to his other grip and held out his hand. Mycroft shook it, nodding like Father had. He didn't miss the stains on Simmons' hand.

The priest quickly pulled back and grasped the grocery bags again.

His smile was lopsided. He laughed. "When do you leave?"

Mycroft tightened his grip on the book. "August."

His mouth curved upward in a big smile. "You'll make something of yourself there, won't you son?"

Mycroft looked at the man's shoes then back up. His clothes were rumpled, the shirt buttoned wrong, and he could see the outline of a key in the front pocket. His and Father Simmons' gazes met. The man's eyes were pink from a night out with drinks. He blanched, making his eyes appear almost red, as if Mycroft had asked aloud what the lady's name was.

Of course Mycroft knew about Simmons' "practices". Mum and Dad danced precariously around the subject like was still a child. Even Billy wasn't entirely clueless. Of course he was convicted that the female species was extinct beyond Mother and Gramma. They had no other female relatives to speak of, and Billy was not yet in school. No neighboring girls with whom he could spend time.

Mycroft had now twice caught the little wanker in the toilet with his hand down his pants. Not in an overtly sexual manner, he knew, but mere curiosity it would seem. Mycroft had slammed his hand on the door and Billy's head shot up, red faced and eyes wide and shameful, hand still down the crotch of his pants. One would think he had just been caught shitting in the tub.

He had tried to deny it, but Mycroft wouldn't let him. "Do it in your room, or don't do it at all," he had said. At least it was he who caught him. Not their parents.

Father had caught him once, tugging on himself in the den. He said boys who self abuse go to hell. And then of course the business with Father Simmons happened and Mycroft discredited everything his father had ever said to him. Billy was different though. The last thing they needed was a child who stuck his hand down his pants willy-nilly whenever he felt like it. It was Mycroft's job to teach him these things, whether he liked it or not.

And he, of course, had known about sexual intercourse since he was eight. He knew the signs. Father Simmons exhibited many.

Simmons coughed. "Lovely to see you both." He nodded at Father again. "Tommorow."

"Ta." He watched Simmons' retreating form with a curious expression. "Odd fellow," he murmured. Of course Father didn't recognize any of the signs. Any obvious observation went completely over his head. He patted Mycroft's back and they continued on their way.

They crossed onto Carver Road when Father spoke again.

"You know Mum's proud of you."

"Is she?"

He nodded. "We were thinking about getting you a gift. For all the work you've put into your education. We talked about maybe a violin, or... well I'm asking because we don't rightly know what -"

"My own Stowaway."

"Oh!" His eyebrows raised. Mycroft could see him thinking about it. For months now, he had been saving his chore money. He appreciated music, especially Father's, but Billy was always hiding the Walkman. It had been a Christmas gift, and Mummy had told them: "Share it." Five times because Billy kept stealing it away. But that had never been an easy virtue for either of them.

Anything Mycroft had, Billy needed too, and Mummy would make them sit in the time out room until they learned to share what it was that needed sharing. Once it was the last slice of Gramma's upside down cake. They didn't come out of the time out room until Billy started peeing out the window. He couldn't reach the ledge so Mycroft had to hold him up so he could aim outside.

Father ended up eating the pie. Mummy threw a fit, saying that the boys needed to learn to share. Which was ridiculous. Billy was the one who needed to accept that he couldn't have everything.

They were passing the church and cemetery. "So..." He pursed his lips. "Mum?"

Father nodded. "Yes. She's excited for you."

Mycroft snorted. "Like when I won the award and topped the test scores, right?"

"Of course! She's proud of you."

"I know."

Mummy was a proud woman, with reason. There was no fault in that.

She had published her third book on quantum mathematics before she gained her doctorate in 1960. She was older than most mothers, even Billy could see that. She had some lines around her eyes, and her hair was starting to gray around the temples. Again, not a fault. Children were not a priority for her early on.

What Mycroft did not understand was why he always felt like rubbish when he compared himself to her. In practicality, there was no need to compare himself. He was who he was, and there was no changing that. And his mother was a grand woman, a practical choice for one to model himself after. But her appreciation was a difficult, fickle thing.

"I'm proud of you too."

Mycroft stomach twisted. It always did when someone said it.

He did care about the man beside him, but he always got a funny feeling in his chest whenever Father spent time with him, like the time the dog had rested his head on his shin when he had been reading. The dog was inclined to show affection whenever it wanted. Mycroft had not fed it, or pet it, or played with it. Billy had been napping, so perhaps it had come in search of affection. Mycroft loathed attention seekers, so he ignored the dog, and yet he stayed at his side and would not go away. But the feeling had stayed with him. The dog wanted nothing, was simply content to just lay by his feet.

Father behaved the same way with certain people. Gramma, Mycroft and Billy, and Mother.

He remembered the first time he had beaten him at chess. He had called to Mother from his study. She asked if Father had let him win.

Father scoffed. "I haven't let him since he was seven." He smiled across at Mycroft. "Nope. Big Man's gotten good."

Mother hummed. "It was a match against you dear, don't stoke your ego too much now."

Mycroft still played with Father. He could settle after a day of school and they could sit in unified silence as they concentrated on their game. He sometimes played Mother, but it wasn't fun with her. With Mother, it wasn't a game, but battle. If Mycroft did not win, dinner would taste bland and his stomach felt like it was tying itself in knots. He was certain she tampered with his portions because everyone else seemed to eat with more gusto, especially her.

He did not play to beat Father, but if he did it was okay. Father never made him feel small.

He had a funny smile now. "What's that look for?"

Mycroft started, having realized he had been staring at the man for far too long now. He blinked up at him.

Father raised his eyebrows, waiting for an explanation.

"You don't count."

Simply, matter of factly. Mycroft did not lie. Lies only led to trouble and required unnecessary effort. And so he told the truth.

Father stopped, his brows furrowed, mouth set in a straight line. His eyes had a haunted look to them, thunderclouds rolling in. Perhaps he should not have said that aloud.

Why should his father's opinion of him be worth anything? It added nothing to his progress in school or to himself.

But when he glared at him, a terrible look really, Mycroft's stomach balled itself into an ice block.

He laid a palm over Mycroft's shoulder and squeezed. He had his full attention now. Father never touched him for more than a few seconds unless he was meant to listen to him.

He met his eyes.

"People who think others are less than them wind up being very lonely, son." He touched his breast pocket where his glasses rested.

Regret.

What could his father possibly have to regret? He had everything a Briton needed to be successful. A wife, middle class earnings, an old family name.

His father must have understood the confusion, for his glowering eyes softened and he let out a slow breath.

"I know you don't get along with us sometimes, but we've worked to have this life, and you could just as easily been born to people who couldn't give a rat's arse about your education." He motioned towards their home. "I know Mum doesn't..." He leaned against the gate. "She's had it difficult. I remember when we were younger and she always wanted to be the best. She put certain things above others." The corner of his mouth worked up, but his eyes were still troubled. "But she loves you, and wants the best for you, even if she has a hard time showing it."

His hand left Mycroft's shoulder and he flipped open the gate latch.

"I just want you to know that. And all we ask it that you return us the same courtesy."

Father opened the gate. The stiff metal let out a screech before it slammed shut.

Mycroft watched him from the other side of the gate. He wasn't lonely. Father's tone implied that loneliness was some terrible fate. But he was alone all the time, and it never hurt him. He rather preferred it to people.

A dull pounding caught his attention and he looked up to see Billy slapping his hands against the window pane. He must have been shouting, but Mycroft couldn't hear him from that distance.

He wasn't ready to go in yet, so he turned his back to Billy and opened his book to page one. And, as it was with every book he engaged with, the background faded to silence.

x

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To Be Continued

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