Mummy had invited them for Christmas once more, and who was he to turn her down?

There he was now, in a room that was a tad too crowded for his likings. Sherlock had decided to bring all of his friends this time around – not only the Watsons, but Mrs Hudson and Molly Hooper as well. And then there was Greg, of course.

He smiled politely when Mummy and Mrs Hudson started to exchange stories about Sherlock's impossible behaviour, and quietly sneaked out to the back garden. Some silence was more to the point, as was a cigarette for that matter.

Not the way he intended to spend this day, but it would have to do all the same.

It took him a moment to notice when Father materialized at his elbow. "Too much noise," he said, and Mycroft smirked in amusement.

"That's what people like, or so I've been told."

"Sherlock surely loves it. As does your mother."

He watched the smoke as it curled in the crisp winter air. "They're two of a kind. Always have been."

"I suppose they are. A force of nature, both of them. You, on the other hand – you're more like a quiet storm."

Mummy might be a genius, but Father was smarter in ways people didn't expect. It had taken some time for Mycroft to realize it, back in the days of his teenage musings.

"Am I?" he quipped back, staring at his smouldering cigarette.

"Sherlock is the thunderstorm. Wreaks havoc all around, but in the end it's just window dressing. You're the East Wind – sweeping all over the moor, howling through its crevices."

"You remember that story then."

Father smiled, his eyes sparkling with something akin to mischief. "Of course I do. Your brother loved it, even if it scared him to death. He never really understood, you know."

He frowned ever so slightly, and Father went on. "The East Wind was never his enemy. Neither were you."

"Sherlock is a drama queen. He'll never outgrow that."

"He's still grateful for everything you've done," Father said gravely. "He's just unwilling to admit it."

Mycroft dropped the cigarette, treading it out carefully. "It mustn't have been easy for you, all these years. Dealing with the lot of us must be the closest to a nightmare I can imagine."

"There have been difficult times, as is to be expected. But love makes it easier, no matter how much you scoff at the sentiment."

"I wouldn't dare," he replied matter-of-factly. Their eyes met, and Father nodded slowly.

"I see. Why don't you tell your mother?"

"I'm sorry?"

Father didn't buy it, just buried his hands in his pockets and offered him a tired smile. "I'm not here to judge, Mike. He seems a nice guy, and I'm happy for you."

Mycroft chuckled, couldn't help it. "How long have you known?"

"Ever since our last visit to London."

"Well, that's before Sherlock worked it out himself. And he lives in London."

"I'm not a complete moron, you know. I do pay attention, even after my own fashion."

He stared in the distance, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "Greg will be pleased when I tell him."

"I bet he's as smart as you are."

"Very nearly, yes. And he's also – unbelievably hot."

Both of them laughed quietly, like schoolboys behind their teacher's back. This was their standing joke, the one secret they'd managed to keep from Sherlock and Mummy.

Because Mummy was smart, but Father always knew best.