Prepared To Do Anything

So I'm attempting a new Sherlock story, opposed to the one on my old account. I've read a lot on here discussing Sherlock's child, but not many Mycroft. I thought I'd give it a go to see what Mycroft Holmes's parenting skills would amount to. I'm not sure where this will go, hopefully it won't be too pointless. These are set just after the Reichnebach Fall, as well as some taking place in the past.

The hand grasping the umbrella tightened in annoyance, as Mycroft Holmes walked past the orderly who had just informed him someone was awaiting him in the office and refused to leave. The umbrella patted along the floor in a muffled thump, like a third heel as he strode along the carpet.

His first instincts concluded to Dr. John Watson being in his office, having yet again found a mention of his dear brother's name in some obscure tabloid, revoking an acidic temper from the usually calm doctor. His hand clasped the smooth rounded handle and his face turned into a frown. His instincts changed. If Dr. Watson was awaiting him, surely he would hear the usual agitated pacing footsteps or muffled sighs of despair. But there was nearly silence.

The handle turned and Mycroft entered casually, striding around his desk as to gain a view of his guest. He was not easily shocked, but the unannounced arrival of this individual certainly took him by surprise. He sighed through his nose and picked up a decanter from the silver polished tray, and removed the ornate glass stopper.

"Would you care for something?" He asked as he poured himself a drink. Hospitality seemed key in this role.

"Hardly my sort of drink." The boy sat in the leather seat spoke. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his son, having clearly not meaning alcohol due to his age, and replaced the stopper and sat at the desk.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this?" He asked, his breath clouding the glass of amber liquid as he lifted it to his lips. "It's unlike you to drop in unexpected, or at all, Marlow."

The person before him, no more than an overstretched boy, scrunched up his nose in distaste of the name, but did not react verbally. Instead he unfolded a heavily creased newspaper from his lap and allowed his father to read the headlines.

SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS.

His son refolded the newspaper and threw it at the desk. The alcohol within the decanter stirred. "Were you planning on telling me about this?"

"I assumed you'd find out for yourself, but I never expected for you to come seek me out. I believed it would take more than a family bereavement for you to come back."

"You didn't think I'd try and speak to you when I read my uncle was an apparent fake and killed himself? Wow you really are cold."

"Really, Marlow, don't get petty-"

"Call me Marlow again and we'll see who's petty." The boy grumbled. Despite being of age seventeen, the boy still refused to mature in some departments. Mycroft sighed through his nose and stretched his face into a grin that he son had concluded long ago to be patronising.

"Yes, I've heard you prefer your middle name these days. Even that is shortened, is it not?"

"Well Arthur doesn't suit me anymore than Marlow, so Art is the best ticket I've got." Art said, running and hand through his hair. It claimed the same dark copper colouring as his fathers, but remained uncut and unruly in curls. His face was pale and his clothes a stark contrast to his father's cream suit: consisting of a pair of frayed and ripped jeans, trainers, blue shirt and grey coat. The boy had deliberately decided against wearing his school uniform. It would make them look too alike.

Mycroft took another sip.

"Well?" Art snapped, beginning to wish he had accepted the drink. Or at least prepared before he walked into the lions den.

"Well what?" Mycroft claimed ignorance. Art rolled his eyes which gained a compulsive tut.

"Why? What has gone on that led to, well, that?" He pointed at the folded paper, where a deerstalker was visible.

"It's complicated. Something I'm sure you don't have time to hear. You are getting on the first train back to school. We will post-pone this conversation, shall we?" Mycroft said, resting his hands on the arms of his seat. The hint of possible security observation didn't faze Art in the slightest.

"I've got all day, I told my professors of Sherlock's death - they gave me authorised absence. But I should have known I'd get nowhere. Isn't that always the case?" Art grumbled, stuffing his hands into his pockets, slouching in his seat.

"Sit up properly, you'll ruin your posture. And if you only came to speak to me, for the first time in nearly a year, I might add, to re-establish old grudges, I don't have time for this."

"You never have time for anything." Art said. "And if you don't have time to talk to me why my uncle, your brother I might add, committed suicide, then you're more of an ice-cold bastard than I ever thought possible."

Mycroft remained perfectly stationary as his son let out an agitated sigh and got to his feet. But as he reached the door, a hand forced it back into the frame. Art met his father's eyes, now of them standing at the same height. He was no longer intimidating as he was when still in early childhood. Art had long since established his own life and would not let Mycroft Holmes be the puppeteer of his life anymore.

"You will not speak to me like that again Marlow. You know how I feel of you using that language." Mycroft remained calm in his voice, as not to allow the youth to become more agitated than he already was. Again the eyes rolled and Art wandered around the seat of which he had been sitting.

"You still try and control my life – what I say, what I know, what I don't know. Why did Sherlock..." he couldn't phrase the words of his uncle's actions. He had looked up to Sherlock, even if Sherlock had never overly been involved in his life. Being locked in boarding school has its limitations.

"It is complicated. As I already said."

"I've got all day." Art allowed his flaring temper to cool and he returned to his seat. Mycroft rubbed his eyes for a moment to savour the darkness behind closed lids. But eventually he too returned to his seat and explained in as little detail as possible. As he spoke, he removed a paper from the desk draw. It added to the collection piling up on the mahogany surface. It showed the after affects of the verdict of James Moriarty.

"Moriarty certainly was cunning. But insane, to say the least." Mycroft trailed off as his son picked up the paper and examined the ink.

Art leaned back in his seat, slightly deflated. "The whole world thinks he's a fake..." he whispered.

"You assume I am allowing this," Mycroft pointed at the paper. "to remain? I have people going back as far as they possibly can. James Moriarty will soon come back to light, despite being deceased, and Sherlock's name will be untarnished."

Art slowly nodded his head, at least consciously aware Mycroft could do some good once in his life.

"When's the funeral?" He asked, not meeting Mycroft's eye.

"The service and the burial have been done. You were not required." Art slowly raised his head. Mycroft knew what was coming.

"You-"

"I told you I will not tolerate the language." Mycroft cut in, fully aware to the extend of his son's vocabulary. "The service was small and fairly private. There is no use whining about it now."

"I'll do more than bloody whine!" Art snapped and jumped to his feet. "You really are empty inside aren't you?"

"If your referring to my supposed lack of empathy, dear son. I can assure you that is not entirely true." Art resisted the urge to scoff. "What I have done, has always been for your well being."

"My well being?" Art stammered. He was full aware of Mycroft Holmes's dry humour, but the look on the older man's face simply remained still and serious. "Locking me up in boarding school from five years old is for my well being? Never being around, preferring work to home is for my well being? All the missed birthdays, Christmases, you know, normal family interaction. That is for my well being?"

Art felt years of emotion swelling dangerously close to the surface. The tide was coming in and drowning seemed invertible. Mycroft pulled himself to his feet and stared across the desk at his son.

"I worked to keep this country thriving and functional," Said Mycroft, himself teetering on the edge as he son glared back with equal determination in his eyes.

"That is a life-time commitment. I have given you the best possible education the country, which you should be currently attending. Because of which you will most likely attended a prestigious university Yet despite all I have given you, you refuse to accept it, remain ungrateful and retain a childish and petty attitude." Mycroft finished, panting slightly internally.

"I never wanted that!" Art cried out.

"Then what did you want? You returned to school and never spoke to me again, you have to tell me what you want from me, Marlow!"

"I want a father!" Art banged his fist on the desk. The decanter wobbled. "You were never there! You're not there now! I spend summers either at school, or with friends, wishing I was actually apart of their family rather than a guest. You never cared! And you still don't!"

"What is it I've heard you say?" Art said. The tide was here and the flood were following a storm. "Caring is not an advantage? No, it's not. It's human nature. It's what we're supposed to do. Yet you seem to lack it most of all."

Art removed his clenched fists from the desk and left. The door banged shut, Mycroft not rising to stop it. He remained in his seat and heard his son yell something most undignified. Had this been a normal situation, he would have been appalled at the use of words in a place such as the Diogenes Club. But now he could not fathom anything outside of the room.

What was it Jim Moriarty supposedly nicknamed him?

The Ice-Man

When Irene Adler had first titled him that, Marlow had instantly come to his mind. It had been the boys code word with nanny's and butlers and friends to refer to his father.

"Is the Ice-Man coming home tonight?" He had once heard a child speak through a closed door.

He had not been empty that day. He had called every member of his security team that night to ensure his son had not come into any contact with Jim Moriarty. But the boy had no contact with the consulting criminal.

Mycroft leaded forwards and poured himself another drink from the decanter.

So I'm thinking of making this a collection of one-shots that sort of tie in together. I'm looking at writing maybe five pieces, but only if people actually seem to like the idea of this. Reviews are really, really appreciated. So please let me know if you enjoyed it and what you thought of it. And hopefully I can look at writing another piece with Marlow Arthur Holmes.