It was a rainy day in London, but it had recently slowed down to a drizzle. It was also a Sunday, which meant Mycroft Holmes would be going out to another restraint with his father. He had already put on his best clothes, shoes, and jacket. The eager eleven year old stood on the front porch with his umbrella, looking up and down the street for his father's car. After ten minutes, Mycroft checked his watch to make sure he wasn't early to find what he already knew - his father was late. A thousand possibilities as to why ran through his head. Maybe there was traffic on the roads. Maybe he had been the victim of a crime.
But been those ideas were unlikely. Unless he had been the victim of a crime, he would have called, and even then, the police would have called to tell them.
Mycroft sighed and folded his umbrella, leaning on it instead. It took a half an hour before his mother called him back inside to tell him that his father wasn't coming to get him. Ever.
xxx
Twenty years later, Mycroft sat on the couch in his sitting room. He was no longer the excited boy who had waited for his father on the steps. He went either alone or with his husband to the restaurants he and his father used to frequent, but spent most of his time working. (Being the British government wasn't as easy as it looked.) Although Mycroft had tried to learn how to cook, it upset him more than it helped him. His husband was an excellent cook, though, and made wonderful desserts.
Despite having already had a slice of cake, Mycroft decided that he would have another. One for his father.