For Mycroft, Christmas had always meant going home. From School, from University, from whichever Government he happened to be running at the time. It was very important to go home for Christmas. For Mycroft it was the most important pilgrimage, going home.
And for a very brief few years, it had meant going home with Nicholas.
Nicholas Garrideb. Mycroft's best friend.
Nicholas, like Mycroft and Sherlock, was very clever. But unlike the Holmes boys, from an early age he seemed to have decided not to let that intelligence get in the way of having fun. Nicholas was always smiling. Even when Mycroft had walked into him and knocked him to the floor the first time they met, aged ten at prep school. Mycroft apologised half heartedly, thinking he really had better things to do and then had been stopped in his tracks by the smiling boy who was sat on the floor surrounded by his spilled books and a quantity of Liquorice Allsorts.
He was the most beautiful boy Mycroft had ever seen. He was small, and slightly chubby with angelic strawberry blond curls, and bright green eyes. Had Mycroft been older he would have understood the strange tingling feeling as he held out his hand to help the boy up. The boy didn't seem to be in the slightest bit annoyed that he and his sweets had been knocked flying.
"Well I would offer you a Liquorice Allsort but..." And they had both burst out laughing. Mycroft had presented Nicholas with a large bag of sweets every Christmas as a reminder.
And when Nicholas had mentioned that his parents were overseas and he would have to stay at school for the Holidays, Mycroft had insisted he come home with him. They had five Christmases together. Just five. But Mycroft remembered every single one.
The first one when Nicholas had met Sherlock and Sherlock had been so taken aback by Nicholas holding a conversation with him he had forgotten to be obnoxious. And they had spent two weeks laughing and playing and generally having fun.
The second one when Sherlock had been sent to his room for some unforgivable outrage on Christmas Morning and it was Nicholas who had managed to get him calmed down enough to sit at the table and not ruin Christmas dinner for everyone. He'd earned Mummy's eternal gratitude that year.
The third one, when Mycroft had broken his arm sliding down the stairs on a tea tray and Nicholas had hugged him all the way to the hospital in the back of the car. And then told everyone at school Mycroft broke his arm heroically defending Nicholas from a gang of robbers. And somehow everyone at school had believed him.
The fourth Christmas when they spent all day making a giant Easter Island Snowman in the gardens for Sherlock, because he had mumps and wasn't allowed to play outside. And they had held hands in the garden when they thought no one was watching.
And the last Christmas. They hadn't known it was going to be the last one. They were both fifteen. Becoming painfully aware of an attraction for each other that was more than just being best friends, and late at night, in Mycroft's room Nicholas had kissed him. And then they had taken their pyjamas off and lay next to one another, naked, because they had no idea what else to do.
And then there had been no more Christmases. Just half a summer that had ended with the funeral of a Sixteen year old boy.
Mycroft always went home for Christmas. And he always took a bag of Liquorice Allsorts with him. And on Christmas night he would lay naked in the bed in his childhood bedroom and close his eyes and wish that Nicholas was still alive. And sometimes, just sometimes he thought he could feel the ghost of those past Christmases lying next to him.