A.N. Hello! Blame andbreathe for the idea, its all her fault.

Disclaimer: I made up Mrs Perkins, but I don't own sherlock. :-(

Mycroft sat alone in his office, glaring at the object on his desk. It was a present, fairly large, squashy, and neatly wrapped in blue and green paper. It had a cheerful bow on top, and a label which read "Dear Mikey. Happy birthday! Love from Mummy and Daddy." in neat handwriting. It stood out like a walrus at a pet shop in the darkened room. Mycroft almost wished he had the walrus in his study.

'The only people who remember my birthday are my parents, who can't even bring themselves to use my name.' he thought bitterly, and sighed. Then Mycroft reached for the gift, even though he was certain of what it contained.

His fears were prove right as he unwrapped the garish paper to reveal a jumper, that had been knitted in a sympony of yellows and browns. Mycroft picked up the handknitted monstrosity and, holding it at arms length, he deposited it in a covered wicker basket that was hidden away behind the heavy curtain. The jumper landed in the basket, on top of at least twenty years worth of handknitted jumpers in varying horrible colours.

Mycroft sat back down in his chair, and sighed again.

His secretary, Mrs Perkins, knocked on the door, and then walked in.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes. I have your post ready for you, and there are some documents to be looked over fairly urgently." She wondered whether to wish him a happy birthday, but then remembered the last time she tried that.

"Happy birthday, Mr Holmes."

"How is it happy?"

She couldn't remember the other times, but she had wished him happy birthday for eleven years now, it was traditional.

"Happy birthday, Mr Holmes." She waited.

"Go away, Mrs Perkins."

'That was a new one.' she thought.

"Sherlock, you need to get Mycroft a birthday present." said John.

"Why?" asked the consulting detective, turning his back on John and going to the window.

"Sherlock, we've been having this argument for forty minutes! You're his brother, its his birthday, and that is final!" replied John. "Besides," he added, "didn't he get you something?" Part of his mind noted that sometimes, talking to Sherlock was like talking to a small child.

"He got me a book called 'How to be a super sleuth'!" said Sherlock angrily.

"And?" John was unsympathetic, as usual.

"It was for eight year olds!"

'Too old for you then.' John thought.

"I'm not getting him a present!"

"Yes, you are."

"Boys!" Mrs Hudson joined the conversation. "What are you shouting about?"

Sherlock and John froze, then said simultaneously:

"John wants me to get Mycroft a present."

"Sherlock won't get Mycroft a birthday present."

Mrs Hudson swept into action. "Sherlock Holmes!" she grabbed his arm. "You are going to come with me, and we are going to get Mycroft a birthday present." She pulled him towards the door. Sherlock shot a pleading look at John, who shook his head, and made a shooing motion with his hand. Sherlock scowled in Johns general direction, but it wasn't very impressive, as he immediately had to turn his head to avoid falling down the stairs.

John went to the window, and had to grin at the sight of the consulting detective being physically dragged towards a cab by a woman with a bad hip.

The cab pulled up at a long, one storey, grey building on the outskirts of London. There was a black and white cat sat in one of the windows that was giving them a bored stare. When they stepped out of the cab, the faint sound of meowing filled their ears. The sign on the door said Elm Tree Cat Sanctuary.

"You're going to get Mycroft a cat. Mycroft." said Sherlock, looking slightly shocked.

"No, Sherlock, don't be silly. He's your brother, you're going to get Mycroft a cat."

Pause.

"Why a cat?"

"He always seems so lonely, I thought a cat would be good company."

At the desk, there was a young woman, who looked slightly stunned at seeing Sherlock Holmes in a cat sanctuary.

"We'd like to adopt a cat please." Mrs Hudson took charge. The woman's eyes snapped from Sherlock to Mrs Hudson, and she said, "Oh, um, yes, of course, um, this way." Sherlock groaned inaudibly from behind Mrs Hudson. They followed the volunteer through a pair of double doors and into an enourmous room full of cats.

There were at least seventy cats in the room, and every single one of them were staring, or glaring at the three humans who had just entered the room. The volunteer said "I'll, um, let you, um, get to know each other." and fled from the room. Mrs Hudson started looking around. Sherlock glared right back at the multitudes of felines.

Mrs Hudson was occupied in talking to a purring ginger tabby with a white tipped tail and a red collar, so Sherlock looked around. Most of the cats had stopped glaring at him and resumed doing whatever it was cats do, but one of them was still glaring at Sherlock disdainfully. It was black, and fluffy, and its menacing yellow eyes followed his every move.

"Mrs Hudson, that cat is glaring at me." She looked at the cat he indicated, and smiled.

"Sherlock, it's the perfect cat for Mycroft!" His protests were drowned out by her calling the volunteer back into the room.

"We've picked one. Could we take that black fluffy one over there?" The cat was picked up and enticed into a carrier, and the relevant forms were filled in.

"His name is Octavian, and he may seem antisocial, but he's a lovely boy really." said the woman. "He hates children though, so keep them away from him."

"Oh, don't worry, the person we're getting him for hates chidren too." Mrs Hudson reassured the volunteer. "Sherlock, would you take him to Mycroft please?"

Mycroft was still alone in his silent office. But suddenly, from outside the door, there some unusual sounds could be heard. Some muffled cursing, and a feral, animalistic hiss.

Then the door burst open, and Sherlock appeared, red in the face, panting, and carrying a box. Which was wrapped, if slightly haphazardly, and had a bow stuck to the top. 'What is it with people and bows?' Mycroft thought.

Sherlock managed to stagger to the desk and drop the present in front of his bemused brother. Mycroft noticed that the wrapping had a hole punched in the top, through which a yellow eye could be seen glaring at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" said Mycroft. "I do hope it's nothing illegal, Mummy wouldn't like it."

"Don't worry, brother dear, I brought you a birthday present." Sherlock's smile was making Mycroft more worried.

Mycroft unwrapped it carefully, to see the blackest, fluffiest cat he'd ever seen glaring at his brother. Sherlock made a slightly disturbing happy face, and said, in a womans voice: "His name is Octavian, and he may seem antisocial, but he's a lovely boy really!"

"Don't be obnoxious, Sherlock." said Mycroft dryly.

"Did Mummy make you a jumper?" asked Sherlock.

Mycroft sighed. "Yes, yellow and brown this time, I put it with my collection."

As he turned and walked out of the door, Sherlock smirked. "Happy birthday, brother dear."

Mrs Perkins knocked on the door of Mycroft's study. "Come in!" called Mycroft.

He was leaning over his desk, writing something. He looked up and saw her.

"Ah, hello Mrs Perkins. What can I do for you?" Mycroft absentmindedly reached over and stroked a cat she hadn't seen before. As she watched, it turned its head and glared at her with large, hostile, yellow eyes.

"Mrs Perkins?"

"Um..."