Mycroft was alone at Christmas. His parents had passed that year, one of a heart attack, and one of a broken heart. Sherlock was ignoring his phone calls, and so Mycroft woke on the morning of Christmas Day, rolled over, and stared at the ceiling.
It was almost an hour till he got out of bed, moving mechanically into the kitchen. He made a cup of coffee, drank it staring at the hallway that led to the bathroom. He stayed there longer than was strictly needed, because somehow, he maintained some pathetic hope that when he moved into the living area, there would be a tree, presents.
There was nothing. Mycroft stood before the fireplace, mug in hand, and considered the time he'd told Sherlock about Father Christmas, and about how angry the little boy had been when he found out he wasn't real.
He sighed, and fetched the paper from his stoop. He poured more coffee and drank it while he read the paper, because that was what he did every morning, and not because he wanted to see the Christmas news. He burned the paper when he was finished.
The man spent a long time staring at the opposite wall, lost in thought, refusing to allow himself to wallow in self-pity. When the bell in the hall tolled, he moved into the kitchen and ordered a goose to be sent to his house, pre-cooked. The man on the line asked if he'd like dressing and sides, and, well, why not?
Anthea had handed him a bottle of eggnog the day before, as he left work, and he fetched it from his refrigerator, poured himself a glass. One glass turned into two, then three, and when he finished the bottle, Mycroft had lost the ability to care that he was alone.
He woke up at the kitchen table to the doorbell ringing, and went to take his food from the delivery service. He brought it in and put it in the oven, turned it on low to keep it warm. Then he went to sample the brandy in the decanter on the sideboard.
By six o'clock, his stomach was rumbling, and he managed to get the food out of the oven and onto the dining room table without burning himself or spilling it on the floor.
By six thirty, Mycroft had dressed himself in a suit, because it seemed the thing to do, and lit a fire in the hearth.
He sat alone, fire warming his back and brandy glass beside his hand, and stared at the spread, knife at the ready to carve the goose. He stared for a long time, and probably would have sat longer, except his stomach growled again, reminding him that he'd only had a poisonous mixture of caffeine and alcohol all day.
He carved the goose, filled a plate and ate mechanically, fork moving from his plate to his mouth and back again. And then he was done, and turned his chair to face the fireplace, contemplative and more than a bit sad.
The food went into his refrigerator, the fullest it had been in awhile, and he took a shower. Mycroft suspected that there was probably goose grease all down the front of his clothes.
At nine o'clock, he climbed into bed and slipped beneath the sheets, staring for a long time at the ceiling. When the clock chimed half past, he rolled over onto his front, arms and legs spread across the huge bed, taking up room. It was too empty.
By the time he fell asleep, he was so far under the influence that if a few tears slid down his cheeks and onto the pillow, well. No one was there to know, anyways.