He was six when he first read The Little Prince, and he instantly took a liking to the lonely boy with the golden hair. He was kind of lonely himself, and he wished he could leave home and explore the rest of the universe as well.

The little prince's deceptively innocent remarks about the strange people he met on his journey showed that he was cleverer than the lot of them; the young boy was eager to get to know and understand the world, just like Mycroft had been ever since he could remember.

The only thing he couldn't really figure out was the boy's infatuation for a rose. Flowers were dull, as were animals – sheep and foxes and snakes alike.

No need to get sentimental over any of those creatures, that was what he thought.

Then his little brother was born, and he finally realized how mistaken he'd been. There was nothing Mycroft wouldn't do to protect his baby brother, no matter how irritating and selfish Sherlock could be at times.

He even got him a sheep – or at least seconded his brother's efforts to get himself one – when he didn't chase away John Watson as his first instincts would have prompted him to do. For sheep could be dangerous to roses, if allowed too close to them.

Sherlock was his rose, then one who had tamed him. It is the time you have lost for your rose that makes your rose so important, that was one of the truths the little prince had learned on his journey.

His little brother would always matter the most to him, in spite of all the caustic remarks Sherlock used to throw at him. Greg Lestrade had eventually taught him so, the good fox that had let himself be tamed by the shy little boy that still dwelled inside the British government's shining armour.

Had their roles been reversed in the Jim Moriarty affair, Mycroft wouldn't have thought twice before jumping to his death in order to save his baby brother. Just like the little prince had willingly allowed the snake to bite him in order to be reunited with his rose.