They met at the Diogenes club. Of course. At Mycroft's behest. Of course. Sherlock didn't even attempt to rein in his annoyance.

Of course. He was Sherlock. Time and bitter experience had taught him slightly more restraint over the years, but some things are forever. Letting his brother know what a high-handed arse he was had to be included among those eternal verities.

"Nothing better to do on Christmas Day, brother?" he drawled, dropping easily into one of the leather club chairs in the Stranger's Room. "Not going to listen to Her Majesty's address to the nation? Not planning on rereading 'A Christmas Carol' for the thousandth time? Or listen to the Richard Burton recording of 'A Child's Christmas in Wales'?"

Mycroft smirked…but, then, that tight little not-smile was Mycroft's answer to all Sherlock's barbs—a reliable refusal to cooperate with his little brother's goading. It was nothing more than a gracious and refined "screw you, you snotty little prat." Rather than respond he ushered in a silent staff-member of the club, who carried a loaded tea-tray. Though the Stranger's Room was the one place in the club free of the requirements of silence, other than the private rooms reserved by members for their own use, Mycroft and the servant both refrained from speech, communicating with little more than a flickering glance, a microscopic nod, a hand hovering over the tea service. In seconds between them they'd come to an agreement on the placement of the repast, the arrangement of the china, the presence or absence of the server. A second more and the room was empty but for Mycroft and Sherlock.

Mycroft settled himself delicately in a second chair, poised over the tea service. "Shall I play 'mother'?" he asked, a particular wicked mischief flashing in his cool eyes.

"You do seem determined to do so," Sherlock sighed, melodramatically. "A lifetime of unnecessary maternalism, wasted on me."

"I quite agree," Mycroft said, with deceptive mildness, as he poured out Sherlock's tea. He didn't need to ask before adding two sugars and passing the delicate china cup toward his brother. "Which is why I've called you here this morning."

Sherlock, just starting to lean forward to accept the cup, froze in place momentarily, shaken by a sudden conviction he was walking into a trap. There was a wicked, lurking delight whispering under Mycroft's every move, his every word. He was, God help them all, up to something! Sherlock forced himself to relax and collect his cup, sipping delicately, studying his brother over the rim of the cup. "You have plans for change, brother-mine?"

"Quite," Mycroft smiled—and this time it wasn't a smirk, it was a true smile. "Though I thought I'd give you a chance to enter into discussion over my intentions."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Unless you're dealing with madmen, terrorists, or blackmailers, I'm unlikely to have any interest in plans of yours, Mycroft."

"Even plans that might free you from what you consider my too-intrusive concern for your well being? Or at least," he added, contemplatively, "to reduce my investment? Honesty compels me to confess that even my plans are unlikely to end my commitment to your health and happiness entirely."

"What are you up to?" Sherlock growled, feeling the hair at the nape of his neck rise in response to his sudden intuition of lurking trouble approaching.

Mycroft took a sip of his tea. His eyes lost focus for a moment, thoughts clearly turning inward. "I am not," he said, softly, "growing any younger. Nor are you, much though you may wish to think that, like Peter Pan, you can live in eternal childhood. Time, as they say, marches on. Though more and more I'm inclined to suspect it sprints. Or even gallops."

"I'm not ready for Mrs. Hudson's herbal soothers and endless complaints about my joints yet," Sherlock snapped—though he himself had to admit that the months since his return from exile had rather rammed awareness of time and mortality down his throat. Two years absence had somehow managed to dramatically underline changes that had actually been underway for at least a decade. He was almost forty. His brother approached fifty. DI Lestrade had reached that landmark. John, even with the moustache shaved, was no longer remotely able to pass as a "young man."

Sherlock disapproved mightily, but had no solution for the problem. It didn't improve his attitude in the least.

"What's your point, brother?"

Mycroft sipped more tea, eyes still looking into that private reality. He said, "After my death, you'll inherit the Holmes estate, you know."

"Tchah!" Sherlock exploded in rude disgust. "Keep it. Let it pass to Cousin Fredrick—though I must say, it's wasted on him. I want nothing to do with it."

"Yes. I thought you'd say that," Mycroft said. "And I quite agree regarding Cousin Fredrick. He's got none of the Holmes intelligence, no fondness for the land, and he's a complete prat. So, if you don't mind, I thought I'd find another solution to the problem of inheritance."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock frowned. "After Fredrick I thought the line died out. Obviously you can will your own substantial personal holdings where you like, but the entailed properties have to go to Fredrick or…what? Revert to the Crown?" He tried to remember current inheritance law as it applied to the primary property, Holmescroft, in Surrey, or any of the other entailed properties. It had been years since he'd worked a case dealing with entailed property, and he'd clearly chosen to let his information on the subject lapse in the time since, having no interest in his own potential future inheritance.

"Yes, they'd revert. Assuming I could cut Frederick out of his inheritance. The law would protect both you and him from any casual attempt to disenfranchise you, however. Failing more immediate heritors, it will most likely pass to one of you." Mycroft returned from his pensive contemplation, then, and his humor sparked bright. "Which is why you're here, of course."

One tended to forget Mycroft had such a vivid smile, Sherlock thought, taken aback. Not to mention that it could blossom so brightly, taking over his entire face and lighting his eyes. Still…

"I see no 'of course' about my presence."

"I'm not getting any younger, Sherlock. Neither are you. If either of us is to start a family, then we'd best be getting on with it, don't you think?"

Mycroft might as well have set a bomb off under Sherlock's club chair. The younger brother actually had to stop and collect himself, as he nearly choked on his own breath.

"Excuse me?"

"Family, Sherlock," Mycroft purred, amused. "Happy ones, ideally. Progeny. Offspring. One's immortality. The pitter-patter of little feet. Someone to educate in the values of the Holmeses. Someone to hide behind the sofa when the Daleks appear on Doctor Who. If either of us is to reproduce, we really ought to be starting soon, you know."

Sherlock's adrenaline output was hitting toxic levels. "Ch…ch…ch…."

"Children," Mycroft said. "Yes. Exactly."

Sherlock's mind scrambled for a response. "I can't be having a child at Baker Street. Too dangerous. And isn't something supposed to come before reproduction in any case? You appear to have left out a minor component of the normal reproductive strategy." Mycroft flipped a sardonic eyebrow, and Sherlock drawled, "Lurrrrrv. The romantic element. How does the children's rhyme go? 'First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Mycroft with the baby carriage'? You appear to have ignored the logical order of things, brother-mine. We're both rather without partners, aren't we?"

Mycroft chuckled—actually chuckled. "Women have been having babies without husbands for millennia, Sherlock. Marriage is hardly a critical element in one's reproductive strategy. Granted, I'd have preferred for either one of us to have found some form of domestic alliance. But allowing the future of the family to ride on the ability of two such social recluses as ourselves to find partnership is hardly reasonable. Especially at this stage in our lives. Sherlock, I'm going bald. And if my eyes don't mislead me, I think you're beginning to go gray. Just a little, mind you. But age isn't going wait while we dawdle. Especially as I have no sense that either of us are pursuing our romantic potential with any great commitment to the endeavor. That being the case, I propose to move ahead with the more procreational aspects of life."

Sherlock reached blindly for the tea cup, drinking it dry without really thinking about it. "Explain."

Mycroft shrugged, and poured out more tea for each of them before saying, calmly, "I'm going to become an unwed father, of course. Or you can. Your choice. That's why I called you here. While I will admit that the notion of having a child of my own is…enticing…I want to be sure that I don't cut you out of any options you'd been subconsciously cherishing. If you'd prefer a child of yours inherit, I'd be willing enough. Though if you're hoping to raise your own, be prepared for my insistence on taking some part in the child's upbringing. Much though I may admire you, you demonstrate some shortcomings when one considers the issue of parental skills and attributes."

"And you don't?" Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft gestured gracefully at the tea set in front of him. "You've said it yourself, Sherlock. 'Always playing mother.' I'm far from perfect. But I do have parental inclinations, and always have."

"And I've proven such a success you're determined to try again?"

"Let's just say I think I've learned from the dry run and am prepared to attempt the real thing, and leave it at that. The main question remaining is which of us is to 'be fruitful and multiply.' Your call, Sherlock."

"You're insane."

"On the contrary, I had my bi-annual psych review just last month. Passed with flying colors, if I do say so as shouldn't."

"You can't have brought your plans for the future up, then, or they'd have sectioned you."

"Again, I must differ. I discussed the issue extensively. Unlike you, my superiors do understand a man's desire to contribute not only to the present, but to the future. While my methods are considered novel, the underlying desire is considered a resounding indication of my overall sanity."

"Methods?"

"I was thinking I'd find an egg donor, and a surrogate mother for starters. In all honesty, I find the process quite freeing. Rather than being restricted to a list of those women I might possibly endure in a domestic relationship—a challenge given my preferences and my character—I can simplify the search for a good genetic match for the Holmes strengths and weaknesses. Brains, cast-iron constitutions, but perhaps less inclination toward depression and nervous stress."

"No tendency toward weight-gain or pattern baldness?" Sherlock snipped.

"If possible, though those are secondary concerns." Mycroft studied him. "Am I to take it you're not interested, Sherlock?"

"I'd rather spend the rest of my life attending meetings of the Women's Institute of Buggery-on-Thames. An eternity of jam and Jerusalem would be better than paternity."

Mycroft nodded. "While I find I regret it in some ways… though… if you wanted, I would be willing to accept a child of your begetting and raise it myself, sparing you the exquisite boredom."

That was…unexpectedly worthy of consideration. After a few moments, though, Sherlock shook his head. "Too likely to embroil us in domestic contention, brother-mine. Better to keep things simple between us. Insofar as 'simple' even comes close to describing our relationship."

"If you're implying incestuous complications, Sherlock, I think I'm offended," Mycroft snapped. "Seriously! For shame!"

"You are the one who's offering to be mother to my children," Sherlock pointed out, amused. "I hardly think…"

"You don't think at all," Mycroft grumbled. "Shocking. Entirely outside my intention, and you know it. Now do stop your teasing and keep your mind on the issues at hand. If you don't wish to provide genetic substance, do you wish to be involved as mere family?"

"What?"

"Are you prepared to serve as an uncle, Sherlock? Really, is this so very hard to understand?"

"Uncle?"

"Yes. Uncle. Show up for birthdays. Suffer the occasional holiday festivity. Tell vile stories about our shared childhood, to illustrate the dangers of consanguinity in our family. Show the little darlings out treehouse. Educate them in the ways of pirates. Are you prepared to be an uncle to my children, Sherlock?"

"Children? The count just increased without warning. How many children are you planning on, Mycroft?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Now that I know I don't have to factor you in as a potential genetic source, I thought I might quite like two or three. A family. A real family."

Sherlock stopped, almost unable to move as his mind calmly noted the faint trace of wistfulness in his brother's voice. "You…really want this, don't you?"

Mycroft didn't answer.

His brother really wanted this. Longed for it. Longed for it enough to override his own conservative leanings, his own sexual limits—both of orientation and of reproductive equipment—and to plan even in the face of the challenges his career would generate.

"They'll be hostages to fortune for you," Sherlock said. "You do know that. Targets for every enemy you ever provoked."

Mycroft's jaw set. "I'm aware of that, brother. But I've had decades planning for your own security to prepare me for this. The issue is already being dealt with."

"Boys?"

"Perhaps. But I've had better luck unpicking the gender restrictions on inheritance than the entailment itself. I've…quite liked serving as patron to my female protégés. Mentoring young women has been rewarding, and unexpectedly sweet. I'm…considering daughters."

And the vision that came with that was startling vivid. Sherlock could almost count the freckles on the daughters that would cluster around his brother. He could almost see the protective curl of Mycroft's hand on a slim shoulder.

"You're a twittering nuisance," he growled, caught between sentimental saturation and realistic awareness of what it had been like to grow up under Mycroft's watchful—and demanding—eye. "Daughters aren't apprentices, brother-dearest. If you treat them as you've treated me, what you're actually planning is to spend the rest of your life in disappointment and domestic conflict." He grabbed a biscuit off a serving plate. "It wasn't easy to be your baby brother, Mycroft. Speaking from direct experience, you're a demanding bastard."

Mycroft stared into his teacup. "Yes. I am…aware of that."

"And?"

"There's a reason I hope you'll stand as uncle to any children I might have, Sherlock. At the very least you can serve as a source of information for my daughters. They'd know that their complaints weren't unreasonable or unfounded. At best you might… you might even serve to remind me of my less admirable tendencies. Before I inflict them on my innocent offspring."

Damn. How entirely disarming of Mycroft. He was…what? Humble. God. Mycroft Holmes, humbled. By what? A mere desire to procreate? How the mighty were fallen!

What a good thing Sherlock was turning down the offer to do likewise! One fall in his life had been quite enough, thank you! Still…

"Well. You do at least seem to be planning sensibly," Sherlock said, warily. "This isn't going to happen instantly, is it?"

"Not instantly. I have yet to pick a maternal donor or a surrogate. And I want to prepare more fully for providing an extended family for my children. One not entirely drawn from my subordinates in the secret service, if you see what I mean. As an uncle, would you be comfortable allowing your own circle to associate with my daughters? You've been fortunate in your connections. I can't but feel that Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Watson, and Miss Hooper would be admirable role models. And for all your own shortcomings, John Watson and DI Lestrade would be men well-suited to providing girls with high standards when judging men. They could not go wrong with those men as their idea of goodness."

"You're asking if I'd introduce your daughters to my friends? Because they'd be good social influences?"

"Yes. After all, they put up with you. That's a point in their favor already, now, isn't it?"

"Or a sign of their underlying insanity," Sherlock snorted.

"You said it, not me," Mycroft said, laughter flashing again.

Sherlock hadn't seen so many smiles from Mycroft in… how long? Decades. Not, he thought with a trace of guilt, since Sherlock had first stumbled into addiction.

This—this idiotic plan. It was making Mycroft—what?

Happy.

God. It was making Mycroft happy. Sherlock drew a deep, deep breath. "I would be honored to stand as uncle to your children and introduce them to my friends, Mycroft. You had but to ask." And, oh, God. He' d said the right thing—judging by the radiance it might be the most right thing he'd said to his brother ever, in all their shared years. "Do…do you want input on the mother?"

Mycroft looked up, slightly uneasy. "I… might."

"John would provide good medical advice. For that matter, so would Mary and Molly. And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would at least be interested. I could… if you were comfortable… If they're going to be part of the girls' extended family, they might as well be in from the inception. And the conception."

"As it were," Mycroft said, dry amusement sparkling like gin fizz in his eyes and his attitude. "I might welcome that. Final decision is mine, though."

"Of course."

"This went rather better than I feared, brother." Mycroft studied Sherlock carefully, and added with true fascination. "Indeed, I think on the whole you're pleased."

"Gets rid of the entire inheritance issue, doesn't it?" Sherlock said, gruffly. "No more legal concerns hanging over my head. And it has the notable advantage of being both unique and interesting. Who knew you'd come up with such a novel solution to our circumstances?"

"Yes. Of course. Heaven forfend you be pleased at being offered a way to normalize our family relations somewhat."

"You're a total twat sometimes, Mycroft."

"And you're a complete vulgarian when it suits you, Sherlock."

"You know you love me for it, brother-dearest."

"Not in the least, brother-mine."

Sherlock rose. Mycroft followed suit. They studied each other, warily, if fondly. Something new was being born between them, and neither knew what would come of it. Still…

"I'm happy for you," Sherlock said. "I think this will suit you."

"I think you're right. I'm glad you'll be part of it."

Both nodded, then. They'd said what they had to say.

"I'll let my friends know," Sherlock said. "We can work out a time to get together as a group for further planning."

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

"Not at the Diogenese. Molly and Mary and Mrs. Hudson would be unlikely to feel comfortable here. Too many old male dinosaurs. Best we limit the tyrannosaurus count to you and you alone."

"Please promise it won't be a pub crawl, brother?"

"I think we can spare you that. Perhaps dinner at John and Mary's."

"Better. Or a private room at the Beloden? I hear they've got a good chef."

"Also a possibility. But choosing a mother and a surrogate for your daughters won't be managed in a single day. Perhaps both."

"Splendid. Let me know a date and I'll make reservations," Mycroft said. He held out a hand. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"You're welcome," Sherlock said, returning the handshake. "All quite sensible, actually. Now, I must be off." He nodded, and slipped from the room, already reaching for his mobile to start texting the news.

He was entirely unprepared for the emotional storm that followed.