A/N: A brief character study on Mycroft, written for my writer's craft class. A bit shorter than I normally go for, but there was a word limit, and I did exceed it. Ah well. Enjoy, if you so choose.
Mycroft leaned heavily on his umbrella. He slid one long finger down the windowpane, wiping away the condensation, and frowned. Someone must have left the office window open last night, which would never do. He would have to ask Anthea to have a stiff word with the cleaning staff.
Below him, London stretched and yawned, just beginning to brush the early morning fog out of its eyes to begin another day. If he was paying attention, he could hear the cabs honking their horns thirty stories down. And he was always paying attention.
When people said London never slept, what they really meant was that Mycroft never slept. Maybe he wasn't famous, maybe he only occupied a minor position on the British Government, but anyone who was anyone knew who you had to ask if you wanted anything important to happen.
The new Royal Museum. That had been him, getting the funding pushed through years before anyone had expected. Oh, and St. Bart's, just visible in the distance – best facilities in the world, now. That had taken quite a few favours, but Mummy had been ill. It had been necessary. And the marriage equality legislation that had been passed with surprisingly little controversy had been an early wedding gift for his new brother-in-law.
That wasn't his real job, though. Those were just the perks. What he was really there for, in the end, was to make sure each day followed the previous with as little fuss as possible. He had to know which undersecretary to the Prime Minister was most likely to accept a bribe in the next few weeks, which urban planning proposal was least likely to lead to a renewed insurgency of the Taliban, which popular actor needed a stiff talking-to to prevent massive job losses in the cosmetics industry.
Maybe he wasn't famous, but he was necessary. And, after fifteen years, that was enough for a man like him. He began as many days as he could like this, gazing out over the city that would be ruins and chaos but for him.
Leaning less on his umbrella, now, he turned and made for his desk. He had a job to do, he always did. Until London decided to take a day off, neither could he.
That was all right, though. Because, just like his beloved city, Mycroft never slept.