None mine, etc. Well, except for the characters that are, obviously ;)

I hate being a Holmes.

There. I said it. Mycroft, you can run to 'Mummy' with your little tales. I don't care anymore. I hate you, I hate 'Mummy', I hate this house and I hate every single member of the Holmes family!

I'm not even a real Holmes. Mrs Holmes (she wants me to call her Mummy, can you believe that? I'm almost fourteen!) adopted me because she wants to share her wealth and home with someone less fortunate. And no, I'm not being sarcastic; she said that herself.

For the vultures among you, the answer is no. I'm not abused here; that's not why I hate it. I have regular meals, my own room (huge) and my own bathroom, and my own study.

Oh yeah. That's the other thing. The Holmeses are rich. Really rich. I don't mean they have nice holidays and buy the odd DVD without worrying about the cost. I mean they go into places like Harrods and fill three trolleys between them without worrying about the cost. I mean they have whole rooms entirely torn out and redesigned and rebuilt and refurnished on a whim without worrying about the cost. I mean they buy brand new, expensive cars every year for their chauffeurs to drive them around in, and take a private jet to their own private island every year without worrying about the cost. That kind of rich. I don't know how much their house is worth, but it's got to be in the eight figure range. It's got a helipad, an indoor swimming pool with a diving board and even its own pair of hedge mazes. One of those was designed by Mycroft, the Golden Boy of the family. I've been in it once or twice, although I haven't made it to the middle yet.

I don't know who designed the other one. Nobody will tell me. I did try to solve it, but it took me six hours just to find my way back to the exit (which happens to be disguised as part of the wall, once you get into the maze). I was so relieved to be safely out that I never want to go back there again.

You're probably wondering why I hate living here. After all, it's a lot bigger than my foster home, and at least here I have my own bedroom, not to mention the pool.

The truth is, I feel trapped here. Everything's gotta have rules. Rules about what a Holmes can do, and what a Holmes can't do, and there are a lot more of the second than the first. For example, I'm not allowed to play football anymore, since only hooligans play football. I'm not allowed to play video games, because they're nasty and violent (although I've managed to get some on my laptop anyway). I have to dress nicely for dinner every night, and there are so many rules about etiquette that I've given up trying to remember half of them. I'm supposed to have gentle hobbies, like walking in the country or reading. I'm allowed to watch TV, so long as it's something like the news or politics, or a historical film and only at certain times. I can have friends over, so long as they're 'nice' friends. And I can learn to play the flute, although it's more accurate to say that I'm ordered to learn. Guitar or drums would've been okay, but the flute? Please.

I gotta say, if Mycroft's childhood was even half as boring and regimented as mine's become, it's no wonder he only visits once a week.

Oh yeah. Mycroft. Mycroft is my older brother. He comes over every Sunday. At first I thought it would be nice having an older brother, but I didn't realize at the time that he would be so much older. He's old enough to be my father and I'm not trying to be rude or anything; it's the truth.

Anyway, Sunday here is Family Day, at least officially. Unofficially, I think it should be called Brag About Mycroft Day; me, Mrs Holmes and Mycroft all sit in the drawing room (no, it's not a lounge; it's a drawing room) from ten in the morning until five in the afternoon – sometimes later – listening to how clever Mycroft is and how wonderful Mycroft is and how important Mycroft is at his work. I don't think Mrs Holmes knows what this work is; just that if Mycroft the Magnificent is doing it, then he's obviously the most important person at...well, wherever he works.

Mycroft himself doesn't say any of this, by the way, or even confirm it; he just sits there, lets Mrs Holmes get on with it and checks his mobile phone whenever she's not looking. I've never heard him boast about himself or even talk about himself very much. I don't have a lot to do with him; we've said about ten words to each other since I moved in. I don't think he really cares for her; I think he just visits because he feels he has to. I know he doesn't care about me, but that's alright since I don't much like him either.

He's a man of habit, though, and one who never visits on any day except Sunday, which was why I was surprised to look out my window on Thursday morning and see his car parked in the driveway.

I groaned. Whenever Mycroft's around, I have to act like the perfect little gentleman, speak like he does (or try to) and smile and agree with everything he says, not because Mycroft wants me to but because Mrs Holmes insists on it.

Maybe I was unlucky and he'd come down early for Christmas to try and beat the weather. We'd had a lot of snow recently, which would have been cool if there was someone else besides me who liked it. Mrs Holmes isn't the snowballing type. I don't know what would happen if I hit Mycroft with a snowball, but I'm pretty sure it would involve the end of the world.

I waited until I heard her and Mycroft go into the drawing room, then I crept downstairs to listen. When I first moved in, I discovered two things. The first is that Mrs Holmes has what must be the country's biggest collection of pot plants. Seriously. There are some rooms in this house which are more like gardens. The second thing I discovered was that there are enough of these same pot plants just outside the drawing room to make a very good hiding place.

I don't often eavesdrop, since Mrs Holmes' conversation is always so boring, but this time I was curious. What would bring Mycroft out of his beloved office during the week?

I wriggled in between two bushy plants, pulled a rubber plant in behind me and settled down to listen.

"—so lovely to see you, darling," Mrs Holmes was saying. "Sit down and I'll tell Mrs Parker to cook you a nice big breakfast, you know how you like your bacon—"

"No, don't bother; I can't stay long. I only came because you said it was so urgent."

I heard Mrs Holmes pouring tea into a cup for herself, then she said, "How are things at the office, dear?"

"Fine." Mycroft bit the word off at the end.

"Well, that's nice. And it's lovely to see you. I always say they work you too hard at that place and—"

"You said it was urgent." There was a definite bite in Mycroft's voice now.

"Oh yes. Would you like a biscuit?"

"No thank you. Just tell me why you called me here."

"Are you eating enough, dear?"

"Yes."

"That's good." I heard the tinkle of silver on china as Mrs Holmes stirred her tea. "Have you heard from your brother lately?"

I blinked. She thought I was in touch with Mycroft? How clueless could you get?

There was a long pause, then Mycroft said in a heavy voice. "No, and I don't suppose I ever shall."

"Well, if you can't find him, then I'm sure that nice Wilford of yours could help—"

"Wilford would be hospitalized if he went anywhere near my brother. Sherlock knows who works for me."

Sherlock? What kind of weird name was Sherlock?

"I'm sure if you gave him a chance to explain—"

"There's nothing to explain!"

I jumped and almost knocked the pot plant over. I'd never heard Mycroft raise his voice to anyone before, let alone his own mother.

"Sherlock is a very dangerous man," Mycroft went on sharply, "and right at this moment, he is also a very angry one. He has people too, and he also has me under constant surveillance whenever I'm not in my house or at the office. I don't think he's yet managed to infiltrate my workforce, but I suspect that this hasn't been for lack of trying on his part, and I also suspect that it's only a matter of time. He refuses to take my calls and on the one occasion when I tried going to his flat, his landlady wouldn't let me inside."

"You should have insisted, darling."

"She was holding a rolling pin at the time, and she's not the kind of woman who would be afraid to use it. Besides, my sources tell me that the last person who attacked Sherlock's landlady was unfortunate enough to fall out of a window." Mycroft paused, then added, "Several times, according to the police report."

"Well, it's not right. You should look after your brother, Mycroft."

I heard Mycroft sigh. "Why did you call me here? I really am extremely busy."

Mrs Holmes' voice had an injured note as she answered, "I wanted to tell you that I'm going to invite Sherlock over for Christmas and New Year. Do you have his telephone number?"

There was a long pause, then Mycroft said, "That really isn't—"

"I don't want any of your silly excuses. This childish feud between you has gone on long enough and if neither of you are willing to kiss and make up, Mycroft, then as your mother, I'll just have to step in. You and Sherlock will be here for two weeks. That should be plenty of time for the two of you to put an end to this sibling rivalry, you know it upsets me. I'm sure you can persuade Sherlock to bury the hatchet."

"Yes, in my bloody head!"

Wow. This really did sound serious. If I'd never heard Mycroft raise his voice before, I'd really never heard him swear.

"Don't use words like that, darling; you know I don't like them. Sherlock is coming and that is final. Now, give me his number, do."

"Is this the urgent matter?" Mycroft demanded, in tones which said it had better not be. "You called me here to give you my brother's mobile number?"

"Landline, dear, you know I hate those horrible mobiles. I don't know why you have one. Now, what is it?"

"You couldn't have phoned me and asked for it? I really had a lot to do today—"

"Oh, don't be silly. You don't come over half as often as you might, you know. What's your brother's number?"

"I think you're making a big mistake. And what about Benedict? Do you really think it advisable to have my brother meet him so soon? Or even at all? He's hardly the poster child for fine etiquette, is he? He's sullen, unappreciative and determined to have his own way in everything."

Mrs Holmes sighed. "I know, Mycroft, but Benedict is a member of the family now. You must learn to accept that. You know you're still my favorite son."

Benedict isn't my name, by the way – it's just plain old Ben – but apparently if you're a Holmes kid, even an adopted one, you're not allowed to have a normal name. I hate it, but I guess I shouldn't complain. Compared to Mycroft and this Sherlock character, whoever he was, I think I got off lightly.

"I was talking about Sherlock. I think it's a bad idea you inviting my brother to meet Benedict. He probably won't come; he never has before. Knowing my brother, he won't even bother to answer the invitation."

I frowned. My adoption had happened a lot faster than I thought was normal, so I hadn't had a lot of time to get to know this family, but I'd always thought Mycroft was an only child.

"Oh Mycroft, this silly feud has gone on long enough. I'm sure Sherlock misses his big brother."

Mycroft let out a very short laugh, one I couldn't help feeling had no humor in it at all.

"I'm not," he said. "Besides, I can't possibly come here over Christmas; I've got far too much going on at the office."

I've never found out where this office of his is, by the way. I'm starting to think he doesn't have one. I mean, it's not like he needs to work; about the only person who might be richer than him is Alan Sugar, and I'm not even sure about that.

"You haven't, dear; you're only saying that because you don't want to see Sherlock. Now, give me his number."

I backed away from the door. There wouldn't be anything more worth listening to; Mycroft would eventually give his mother the number, allow himself to be badgered into coming for Christmas after all and then leave. Even if Sherwood or Hemlock or whatever his name was did agree to come over, I was sure he'd just be a lesser copy of his older brother. Stuck up, smarmy, stuffy and content just to sit around and discuss politics and current affairs. Manners impeccable. Old-fashioned. The kind of man who'd wear a suit and tie even on his day off and be polite and charming to everyone, even when he didn't really mean it.

I couldn't help being curious about him, though. Incredible as it sounds, I hadn't even realized I had another brother; there were no family photographs of anyone except Mycroft and his mother. If Mycroft had been friendlier towards me, I would have waylaid him and peppered him with questions about this Sherlock, but as it was, I doubted he'd tell me anything.

I headed upstairs and into my room. I have my own phone, sort of; it's connected to the extension and so anyone else who picks up the landline can hear my conversations. Luckily, this went the other way.

I picked up my phone and waited until I heard someone dialing a number. I knew nobody would have heard me pick it up; Mrs Holmes never puts the receiver to her ear until she's actually finished dialing and Mycroft only ever uses his mobile. So long as I didn't breathe too heavily, no one would know.

I heard the phone on the other end ring, then someone picked it up.

"Hello?"

A man's voice. He didn't sound like a Holmes. Actually, he sounded quite nice.

"I want to speak to Sherlock." Mrs Holmes' voice had that haughty quality that only came out on the telephone. Kind of a how DARE you not be the person I wanted to speak to voice.

"Right. Who's calling?"

"I am his mother," Mrs Holmes told him in a tone which now said how stupid she considered the man on the other end for not being aware of this fact.

"Oh! Um...okay. Hang on a minute." There was a brief pause, followed by him saying in a faint voice, "Sherlock? It's for you. Your, um, mother."

There was a very muffled exchange that I couldn't hear, then the man came back on again.

"Hello, Mrs Holmes? Um, I'm afraid Sherlock's not actually available at the moment—"

In the background, I heard a deep voice bellow, "I am available, I just don't want to talk to her!"

"You may tell my son that I wish to speak to him about his brother."

"Yeah, okay. Sherlock? She says it's about your brother."

I heard Sherlock mutter something probably unrepeatable about 'darling Mycroft', then he shouted, "Tell her to contact him directly!"

The first man didn't bother, perhaps because Sherlock's voice had been so loud he didn't have to.

"Tell my son that I have contacted Mycroft. How else would I have got your number? And tell him I'm not calling about Mycroft; I'm calling about his other brother. His younger brother."

Dimly I heard the stranger's voice in the background passing this on.

"What? Give me that." There was a pause, then Sherlock came on the line. "Mother, what an unpleasant surprise. And what's this nonsense about a brother? You're far too old to still be breeding; you must have hit the menopause all of five years ago and besides, you always swore you'd never love another man after my father was stupid enough to go and get himself decapitated in Borneo nearly three decades ago. Now what do you want?"

Wow, I thought. So much for being like Mycroft.

"Well, you couldn't possibly know, Sherlock, since you've never bothered to keep in touch, but last year I was approved to adopt."

"What idiot made that decis—oh, of course. Mycroft. He pulled strings and you magically acquired the paperwork you needed a little faster than a normal woman."

Even through the extension, I could hear the rustle of clothes as Mrs Holmes drew herself upright.

"I didn't phone you to talk about Mycroft, Sherlock—"

"Well, there's a first."

"—I phoned to tell you that you will be coming here for Christmas and the New Year. You will arrive on the twenty third of December and remain here until the sixth of January, the exact same dates as Mycroft."

Short pause. "Oh, will I?"

"Of course. It's about time you came back for a family Christmas dinner, and your new brother should meet you at some point."

"Why? He's only recently found out that I exist."

"No, Sherlock, he has no idea. I've never mentioned you to him and nor has Mycroft."

Sherlock sighed. "Yes. As ever, Mother, you don't bother to think. He hid in your pot plants and eavesdropped on your earlier conversation with Mycroft."

I froze, staring at the phone in my hand. How—no. There was no way this Sherlock guy could even have known Mrs Holmes and Mycroft had had any kind of conversation earlier, let alone that I'd been eavesdropping on it.

"Of course he didn't, Sherlock! Really, the things you say!"

"Well, why don't you ask him yourself, since he's listening in on the upstairs extension right now?"

I gasped and dropped the phone. It hit the floor with a clatter and I snatched it up and thrust it back onto the hook, then turned and fled.

I didn't hear any more about this Sherlock guy until next Sunday. I'd managed to avoid the morning's Mycroft Worship by shutting myself in my room straight after breakfast and pretending not to hear Mrs Holmes trilling my name. I hoped she wouldn't ask Mycroft to stay to dinner; whenever he's around, the stupid etiquette rules always triple. Not because he starts telling me how to behave, but because Mrs Holmes seems determined to show me off, or show off herself. Maybe that's it. Maybe she's trying to prove to her son what a good, responsible parent she is.

Oh, I don't know. The whole family's weird. I've given up trying to work out what any of them are thinking. All I cared about was that I'd avoided having to sit and be bored out of my skull for hours on end. I'd have to spend the day in my room (the drawing room was between my room and the kitchen, not to mention my room and the front door, and if Mrs Holmes heard me sneaking past I'd just be summoned inside) but that was a small price to pay.

I sat down at my desk and turned on my laptop, entered my password and froze.

The desktop picture of me and my family had disappeared, to be replaced with some kind of classic art. Not only that, everything that wasn't related to schoolwork had gone. All my games, all my photos, everything.

For a long time, all I could do was sit there and stare at it, too stunned to react. A shaky search for the missing files in every place I could think of turned up nothing. Whoever had gone in had deleted them completely. I didn't have any hard copies of the photographs; like an idiot I'd assumed that if I had them on my hard drive, I could print out copies any time I wanted. Now they were gone for good.

The cold feeling inside vanished so abruptly it was like someone had flicked a switch and I got to my feet, now sick with anger.

Mycroft. It couldn't be Mrs Holmes; she's a computer idiot who thinks that MSPaint is a top of the range graphics program. It had to be Mycroft.

At the time I didn't stop to wonder how Mycroft was supposed to have crept into my room without my noticing him considering he'd only ever been here during the day (and his doting mother never let him out of her sight), any more than I wondered why he'd want to do such a thing in the first place. Instead I just stormed downstairs and headed for the drawing room.

I had no idea what I was going to do until I'd slammed the door open, and then some outside force seemed to take control of my body. I barely registered the fact that there was a third person in the room; instead I stalked up to Mycroft, snatched his tea out of his hand and hurled the contents in his face.

"You bastard!" I yelled.

I'd never said that to anyone in my life, but this was something of a special case as far as I was concerned. I didn't wait around to see what effect my words had (something told me I wouldn't like it), but turned and stalked out, slamming the door behind me so hard that the windows rattled.

Okay, that's it for the first chapter. Next up, a lot more Sherlock (and possibly John, haven't quite decided whether he's coming down for Christmas yet) ;) Hope you enjoyed it and if you read, please review!