CHAPTER ONE

As far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned, interesting things simply didn't happen around him.

It certainly wasn't due to lack of trying. He had tried everything, from blowing up the oven (using nothing but a flashlight, pocket knife, copious amounts of whipped cream and a tea spoon) to preforming psychological experiments on Mummy's horribly dull guests (namely, painting numerous smiley faces on the inside of the toilet bowl, to see if no less the 52 little eyes staring up at their rears would encourage the messy gits to wait until they went back to their own house).

And though those experiments had been amusing, so much so Sherlock could occasionally go so far as to quietly consider them fun, none of them had ever really gone so far as to be truly interesting.

So, when a flash car (Rolls Royce; Charcoal; Latest model; rubbish muffler though, he had heard it approaching from blocks away) screech to a halt outside the front of his house, just long enough for a boy (teenager; ginger; tallish but hasn't had a growth-spurt in a while (obvious from the turn-ups of his trousers), so due to get taller) to be pushed out onto the drive, before speeding off down the road again, he was beyond excited.

That had never happened before. That was new. That was, dare he say it, interesting.

'Sherlock, what was that?' his mother asked, calling from her study down the hall.

Jumping off his bed and tugging on his boots, Sherlock shouted back, 'Rolls Royce with a broken muffler, Mummy!'

'Alright,' Mummy called back. 'They're gone now?'

'Yeah!' Sherlock called, skidding out of his room. 'I'm going outside, oka-'

The doorbell rang.

Oh, this was beautiful.

The boy from the car was at the door. Why was he there? Why had he been kicked out in the first place? Maybe he wasn't kicked out at all. Maybe he was injured and that's why he fell. Maybe, he and the driver were on the run from the police, and his partner decided to split up to avoid capture. What did they do? Maybe they held up a bank. Oh! Would that mean that he was armed? It would have to be a gun, wouldn't it? You can't hold up a bank with a knife, not really.

Oh, this is brilliant!

The doorbell rang.

'Sherlock?'

'Getting it!' he cried, grinning ear to ear.

Dashing across the hall and leaping down the stairs four at a time (without ever coming close to breaking his neck, in spite of what Mummy liked to believe) he was at the front door in seconds.

Practically bouncing on the spot with excitement, he yanked the door open and found… well that was disappointing. No gun. No threats. Not even the tiniest stab wound. That sucked!

'Uh, hello…?' the boy murmured, staring down at Sherlock with wide, surprised eyes.

Sherlock thought that was odd. People usually gave him that look after he stated to talk, not before.

He had bags too.

Why would he have bags? People asked before they had sleepovers (from what Sherlock had heard, at least) and Mummy would have definitely told him if she'd invited a stranger to spend the night. Besides, he was a lot younger than any of the men Mummy had asked over for dinner and a sleepover before.

They were very full too. Not just overnight bags.

Why was he here? Who was he? What was going on?

'Ca- could I speak to you mother please?'

Sherlock scowled.

What did that weirdo want with his Mummy? And what was wrong with just talking to him? That was so unfair! The first interesting thing to happen around here, ever, and it wanted to talk to Mummy! Not fair at all.

Squaring his narrow shoulders resolutely, Sherlock decided to handle the situation the way he did all other times people were determined to be unbearable, that is to say, he decided to be absolutely as difficult as possible.

Crossing his arms over his puffed out chest, he slowly, slyly replied, 'Well, that all depends, doesn't it?'

The boy frowned.

Sherlock grinned.

Point One, to him.

'I'm sorry,' the boy said, 'Depends on what?'

'Whether I think you should see her or not,' Sherlock replied, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. 'I'm the Man of the House you see. Mummy said so herself. That means it's my job to protect her and it. What if you're dangerous, huh? I wouldn't be doing my job, would I? If I just let you walk in without being sure you're alright.'

'Yes, well – I assure you that I'm not dangerous,' the boy replied distracted.

Sherlock's scowl returned. The git was looking over the top of his head.

Well, he would be having none of that, thank you very much. Stepping out onto the porch, forcing the boy to stumble back a couple of paces so as to not have Sherlock run into him, he slammed the front door shut (with a really quite satisfyingly loud bang) and returned his attention back to the problem at hand.

'We don't want you getting too distracted,' he drawled, leaning against the polished timber.

The boy sighed.

'Can you please let me in?' he grumbled. 'I'm not dangerous.'

'Am I supposed to just take your word for it?' Sherlock scoffed.

'Look, I am really not in the mood.'

'I don't care,' Sherlock retorted with a small shrug.

'Clearly,' the boy muttered.

'Let's start from the top, shall we? What's your name?'

'For goodness sake.'

'Is that your Christian name or surname?'

'Are you this rude to everybody, or is it just me?'

'Please,' Sherlock scoffed. 'Don't flatter yourself. I do this to everyone.'

'Good to know.'

'Stop stalling and tell me your name!'

The boy sighed.

'Can you just let me in, please?'

'Can you just tell me who you are?!' Sherlock snapped. 'And tell me what you want with my Mummy!'

However, before either the boy could reply or Sherlock could put more questions to him, the door swung open behind him and Mummy stepped out herself.

'Sherlock,' she scolded, taking his hand and pulling him back inside the house. 'What have I told you about being rude when you answer the door?'

Stuffing his hands into his pockets with a huff, Sherlock moodily replied, 'The same thing you said about being rude answering the phone and talking to people in shops.'

'And that was?'

Sherlock sighed.

'Don't be,' he muttered bitterly.

'Good boy,' she replied, ruffling his hair fondly. 'Now go sit on the stairs whilst I see to this young man, oh, come in Sweetie.'

Dragging his feet to showcase just how unimpressed he was with the turn the situation had taken, Sherlock grudgingly did as he was told, dropping down onto the bottom step with a huff.

'Thank you,' Mummy laughed, a kind smile spread across her pretty face (but that trick wouldn't work on him this time. Sherlock was determined to be angry).

He had half a mind to poke out his tongue, to make his opinion on the matter absolutely clear, but decided against it.

Little good it would have done anyway, as Mummy had, by that point, already turned her attention back to the other boy (whom Sherlock had officially decided was incredibly dull, in spite of all of his potential).

'I'm so sorry about him,' she said, smiling at the idiot. 'He's a little too outspoken for his own good sometimes I'm afraid.'

'Yes, I can see that,' the boy said, or rather, croaked.

Sherlock frowned and leaned to the side to get a better look at him.

He'd gone pale and Sherlock could see his hands shaking as they clutched at some official looking papers, as if they were a lifeline. Had he had those before? How'd he not noticed them? What were they? More importantly, why was he so nervous?

Mummy seemed to be curious about that too.

'Are you alright, dear?' she asked. 'You look a little unwell.'

The boy cleared his throat, opened his mouth to reply, only to clear his throat again when nothing came out.

'I'm fine,' he eventually managed to rasp. 'Thank you, but I'm just… well, a little nervous, truth be told.'

'Why's that dear?' Mummy asked.

Sherlock was quite interested himself.

The boy did the throat clearing thing again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Mummy, however, took pity on him.

'Take your time darling, it's alright,' she said, her voice soothingly quiet. 'Are those papers for me?'

The boy nodded shakily, and handed them over.

Mummy smiled, took them and began to read them through.

A second later, she gasped so loud that Sherlock almost fell of his step with alarm.

'What is it?!' he cried, leaping to the ground and running over to the pair, ready to kick the idiot for upsetting her. 'What's wrong?!'

Mummy was still clutching the papers so tight the paper was beginning to crumple, when she looked up at the boy, who was chewing nervously at his lip.

'Is this true?' she asked, her voice gone hoarse.

The boy nodded, not even attempting to speak anymore.

'Mycroft?' Mummy whispered, reaching up and stroking the boy's cheek like she always did Sherlock's. 'Baby, is that you?'

Baby? What? What was she calling him that for?

Sherlock was terribly confused.

And things just kept getting all the more confusing when the boy promptly squeezed his eyes shut and nodded again.

Mummy promptly attacked him, hugging him, kissing his forehead and cheeks, all the while crying, 'My baby, my baby' over and over again.

Sherlock stood and watched the display before him with wide eyes.

What the hell was going on here?!

The boy was hugging Mummy back, blubbering something into her shoulder.

Finally, after almost five hundred years of hugs and kisses, they broke apart.

Sherlock's spirits lifted. Maybe he was going to leave. And about time too, he had to have a word with his mother about hugging complete strangers like that; those hugs were only for him.

Wiping her eyes (he had upset her!) Mummy held out her hand for Sherlock, who, glaring up at the boy the whole time, took it and tucked himself against her side.

'Sherlock, honey,' she whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple, 'I want you to meet someone.'

Sherlock frowned.

'Baby, this is your big brother – Mycroft. Mycroft, sweetheart, this is your baby brother – Sherlock.'

Brother? Oh hell… this was not good.

'And I was having such a lovely day,' Sherlock sighed the second Mycroft walked through the door of 221B, melodramatic as ever.

'Lovely to see you as well, Sherlock,' Mycroft retorted with a tight smile, the professional one and all… oh dear, he was here on business.

'I won't do it,' he announced, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring balefully up at his guest. 'I absolutely refuse.'

Mycroft sighed. He looked tired, more so than usual.

But Sherlock didn't care.

'I've not even told you what it is yet,' he calmly replied, dropping down into John's vacant armchair with a long sigh. 'It's not as if you have a case to occupy your time with.'

'I'm sure there's something,' Sherlock sniped. 'The answer is still no.'

'This is important, Brother,' Mycroft insisted.

'It always is.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

'Sherlock, please, try to act you age, just this once.'

'Try though I may, I'm afraid my answer remains the same,' Sherlock quipped, a smug smirk spreading across his face.

Mycroft's brows arched with disbelief, but he said no more.

Sherlock grinned triumphantly.

'Check and mate I'd say,' he murmured, plucking imaginary lint off his cuffs.

'Would you really?' Mycroft scoffed.

'Get out, Mycroft. I have no business with you.'

'Actually,' Mycroft murmured, his brow arching further, 'I think you'll find that, just this once, you're quite mistaken.'

Sherlock scoffed.

'I sincerely doubt tha-'

'Aunt Agnolia is dead, Sherlock.'

Sherlock's words died in his throat.

That was… unexpected. By all rights, it shouldn't have been, but it was.

He sighed.

Though he and his aunt had often butted heads whenever they were together (Mummy often said they were too similar), the news did sadden him considerably. Mummy would be devastated.

'She passed away this morning,' Mycroft explained, rubbing tiredly at his face. 'In the early hours. Mummy called.'

Sherlock frowned.

'She didn't call me,' he murmured.

'She was distraught,' Mycroft sighed. 'She tried to, but you were out of reach.'

'I was on a case,' Sherlock recalled.

'Yes. I said as much,' Mycroft sighed. 'She asked me to tell you. She was just too distressed to break the news a second time herself.'

Sherlock nodded.

'Well now I know. You can leave not,' he muttered bitterly, rooting for his mobile. 'I'm going to call her myself. See if she's calmed down.'

'Her sister has just died, Sherlock,' he warned. 'Be delicate.'

Sherlock decided against dignifying that instruction with a response. He needn't have either way, the glare he fixed his brother with spoke for itself.'

'Of course, you knew that already,' Mycroft conceded, with a put upon sigh.

'Get out,' Sherlock hissed; he had had more than enough of his brother for one day.

'I will,' Mycroft insisted. 'But I have just one more thing to add.'

'Then do it quickly and leave,' Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft hesitated for a moment longer, before slowly replying, 'Mummy doesn't think she can attend the funeral. She'll visit Auntie's grave once she feels ready to, but for not… she wants us to attend on her behalf. Both of us.'

Sherlock froze.

'I tried to reason with her, Sherlock,' Mycroft sighed. 'But she was adamant. She says that it would overwhelm her and she's afraid of making a fool of herself in front of everybody; her words, not mine, before you attack me for them.'

Sherlock's mouth snapped shut with an audible click; however the scowl remained in place.

'I think it would be best, if he honoured her wishes,' Mycroft slowly announced, meeting his brother's disapproving glare. 'She really was quite distressed, Brother.'

'Are you sure that it wasn't simply talking to you that was distressing her so much?' Sherlock sneered, allowing his darkening mood to flare at his brother's expense.

Mycroft merely rolled his eyes.

'No you're right,' he drawled. 'Her beloved little sister succumbing to Cancer probably had nothing to do with it, now I think about it.'

'Oh, shut up, Mycroft!' Sherlock snapped, huffing moodily.

Mycroft allowed himself an unimpressed sniff in reply.

'You can handle it on your own,' Sherlock muttered, a tad sulkily. 'I shouldn't have to be there. Auntie never really liked me all that much anyway.'

'Are you really that selfish?' Mycroft hissed, eyes narrowed. 'Mummy wants us both there, representing her so she can cope with her loss privately without causing too many waves within the family. She asks so little of us. I'm sure even you can manage this small favour.'

Sherlock scowled.

'I don't need your lectures in regards to what's best for our Mother, Mycroft,' he hissed, before a malicious smirk spreading slowly across his face. 'I know her far better than you after all. Remember?'

It was perhaps a cruel thing to say, but Sherlock was angry. Once again, his stupid brother had gone and made arrangements for him without so much as thinking about consulting him first, and then had the nerve to act like Sherlock was the one who was out of line, for not obediently toddling around after him, like one of his trained monkeys.

So yes, perhaps it was cruel to pick on Mycroft's mysterious childhood absence, but Sherlock was not in a particularly merciful mood.

Mycroft's grip upon the handle of his umbrella was so tight his knuckles were practically luminescent.

'Well then,' he replied in a gratifyingly stiff manner. 'I needn't have been concerned.'

'No,' Sherlock sniffed. 'You needn't have been.'

'I'll have a car around for you tomorrow then. Be ready by nine.'

'What?' Sherlock snarled.

'You'll, of course, be accompanying me to Vernet Manor,' Mycroft sternly replied, standing up from the armchair. 'As it means so much to Mummy, something you must, of course, have already known. You know her so much better than I do after all.'

If looks could kill the Holmes family would be suffering from the loss of another member, for the glare Sherlock had fixed Mycroft with was nothing if not poisonous. Sliding his mobile open with a snap, Sherlock hissed once more, 'Get. Out.'

'You'll be ready by nine?' Mycroft asked.

'We'll see,' Sherlock snapped. 'Now get out.'

'Sherlock. We need to do this together,' Mycroft implored. 'Can't you just put this pettiness aside for once?'

Eye narrowed into slits, Sherlock heatedly replied, 'I'll call Mummy and assess the situation for myself-'

'Sherlock-'

'And if I deem it necessary, then yes, I will attend on her behalf. And if you choose to do so as well – then it really doesn't make the slightest difference to me.'

Mycroft sighed.

'Now, the doors right over there Brother-Mine. Kindly deposit your considerable mass someplace outside of it whilst I sort matters out with Mummy.'

'Don't upset her Sherlock.'

'I won't,' Sherlock replied, smirking. 'I know how to handle these things properly, unlike you. I know her better after all.'