So this is what Christmas had become.
Mycroft sat by his enormous fireplace, staring into the flames. On Christmas Eve. Alone.
Christmas, which was his favorite holiday when he was growing up. Every morning, he'd run down the stairs, full of excitement. He'd sit, perched just next to the tree, watching his family open the presents he'd gotten for them. His parents were always appreciative, naturally, of whatever he gave them and it was Sherlock who was hard to please. But Mycroft would always remember the small smile on his younger brother's face when Sherlock opened the pirate ship model he'd been eyeing for months. Mycroft had spent his year's allowance on it, not that he'd ever admit to it. And Sherlock would never own up to all of the hours he had spend playing with the gift from his brother.
Now they were hardly speaking. The tension, the animosity between them had spiraled out of control. What had started out as a childish feud had broken them apart.
So now it was just him, just Mycroft, sitting in front of the fire. Alone. Mycroft always told Sherlock that caring was not an advantage, that being alone was safer, but the words tasted like lies in his mouth. Sitting in front of the warm flames, it was all he could do to try and keep his sanity.
His phone rang. He looked down at it hesitantly. Sherlock was calling.
A small part of him wanted to leave the phone lying exactly where it was out of spite and resentment.
Another wanted to pick it up, just to hear Sherlock's voice, so he could pretend that nothing had changed.
The second part won out.
Mycroft picked up the phone and made sure his voice retained a certain air of boredom. Sherlock told him about his suspicions, that Irene Adler was about to be found dead and that they should meet at the morgue. Mycroft agreed and hung up promptly.
So this is what Christmas had become. Late night trips to St. Bart's to inspect a dead body with his little brother. Mycroft Holmes wouldn't have it any other way.
Haven't posted anything in a while! This was inspired by a post I saw on Tumblr about the scene in A Scandal in Belgravia where Mycroft is sitting in front of the fire, alone on Christmas Eve. The more I thought about it, the sadder it made me feel.
Thanks for reading! :)
