There were reasons Mycroft didn't like Christmas.
Or rather there was a reason.
When Mycroft was thirteen and Sherlock had just turned six, the younger Holmes got a chemistry set for Christmas. It was the same year Mummy had some colleagues over for a nice little holiday get together. The results had been – predictable. Being confined to a small room for several hours with a very smelly Sherlock to make sure he wouldn't get himself into even more trouble wasn't exactly Mycroft's idea of a good or festive time.
When Sherlock was eight he outed his older brother over Christmas pudding because he was bored. Not that Mummy and Dad hadn't been accepting and supportive but for a fifteen year old Mycroft this was almost as bad. Sherlock had laughed for months afterward whenever he thought of oh-so-composed Mycroft squirming in his seat while their mother talked about condoms.
Christmas with a ten year old Sherlock had been quiet but in no way peaceful. It was in the middle of their first big row. The youngest Holmes had always tended towards the dramatic and with seventeen Mycroft had undergone an extremely adolescent phase which lead to him stubbornly pouting (although to this day he would never admit it) instead of calming his brother's ruffled feathers. The two of them didn't speak with each other for three weeks. Mycroft still remembers the unusually quiet Christmas dinner and his mother's silently pleading eyes.
When Mycroft was eighteen he was left in charge of Sherlock over the holidays while his mother visited their dad in the hospital. In the end everything had turned out alright after the operation but for a while dad had them all worried. And a worried eleven year old Sherlock Holmes wasn't exactly easy to deal with. So there really wasn't much of a Christmas that year.
Twenty year old Mycroft spent most of his holidays trying to get his baby brother to leave his bed and his room. But it really wasn't easy to console a thirteen year old whose dog had just died.
When fourteen year old Sherlock was caught with a cigarette on his last school day of the year, Mycroft decided that his little brother very consciously boycotted the family peace and holiday spirit. And for some reason it was his fault that Sherlock had started smoking at least according to Mummy's reproachful looks.
Growing up (and living) with Sherlock was never easy – the guinea pig discussion, Carl Powers and the drugs – neither of those had anything to with Christmas. But the holiday season seemed to bring out Sherlock's worst side. This year really was no exception.
