A/N: After reading the brilliant story 'Flying the Flag' by the ever amazing Johnsarmylady, I left a review saying that I could just imagine how the meeting between Mycroft and Mummy Holmes would go. JAL very kindly gave me permission to use her original idea to write this story. I appreciate that each and every one of you lovely readers will have your own ideas on how the scene would play out, this is only my interpretation, I mean no offence to anyone else's ideas. I hope I have done it justice. Please enjoy and let me know what you think. :-)

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, not even the original idea which, as stated above, is by kind permission of Johnsarmylady. (Read her stories, they're brilliant!)

As the black car pulled quickly into traffic, Mycroft took his mobile from his jacket's inside pocket and dialled his assistant's number. Connecting almost instantaneously, he relayed his urgent request for a helicopter to meet him at the London Heliport in Battersea. He didn't have a moment to lose if he was going to prevent an embarrassing encounter.

Some time later, Mycroft stepped down from the helicopter. Walking across the field to his parent's cottage, he took a moment to straighten his suit and smooth down his auburn hair. Giving his silk tie a final tweak, he opened the gate and walked smartly up the path to the front door, the steel tip of his umbrella tapping on the ground with each step. As he reached the door, it opened to reveal his mother standing in the doorway.

Leaning down, Mycroft placed the expected kiss on the older woman's raised cheek before straightening up. His sharp gaze swept over his mother as he attempted to deduce her mood, knowing as he did that he had never yet managed to do so with any degree of accuracy.

'Mikey darling, you're early. I've only just put the vegetables on. Never mind, it will give us some time to have a nice little chat, come along.' Mrs. Holmes said with a smile as she stepped to the side and walked back into the hallway towards the kitchen.

Mycroft gave a long sigh as he replied, 'Mycroft mummy, not Mikey, please try to remember.' He rolled his eyes when his mother turned away, before following her into the cottage.

Entering the kitchen, Mycroft took his usual seat at the table and glanced around, searching as unobtrusively as possible for the gift Sherlock had sent to their parents. Taking note of various saucepans and mixing bowls scattered around and recognising where his younger brother inherited his chaotic need to spread his belongings onto every available surface, he breathed a small sigh of relief when he realised there was no wrapped parcel in sight that could possibly have come from Sherlock.

'Your brother's gift is in the other room, darling. Father and I were waiting for you to arrive, Sherlock's note said to be certain to open it only after you got here. As you are earlier than we were expecting, I thought we could have some tea first.' Mrs. Holmes said having noticed her older son's searching gaze as she bustled around the kitchen preparing a pot of tea. 'Such a shame that he and John couldn't join us this year. I thought, maybe this year, you may be bringing a special someone? You have never brought any of your little friends around, not even when you came home from school for the holidays.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he ground his teeth while he contemplated all of the many and varied ways he could possibly exact his revenge on his little brother. Dredging up a smile so tight that his facial muscles barely moved, Mycroft thanked his mother for the cup of tea she placed in front of him.

'You know mummy, it may be better if you didn't take a look at Sherlock's gift. It's probably a photograph of a particularly gruesome crime scene that he sent by mistake. You know what he's like when he's on a case. I'll just take it with me and dispose of it. I wouldn't want you or father to have to witness the less salubrious side of life mummy' stated Mycroft, desperately trying to think of a good excuse to prevent either of his parents seeing Harry's painting.

'Nonsense dear, it would hardly be the first time father and I have had to deal with gruesome things. All those experiments your brother carried out when he was younger, who do you think tidied them all up?' replied Mrs. Holmes as she sipped delicately on her tea. 'Now tell me all about what's been happening at work, any nice young men on the horizon darling?'

Mycroft groaned as he decided whether it would be better to bash his head against the kitchen table now, or wait until after his parents had opened Sherlock's gift. Both options had some merit as far as he could see.

Finishing her cup, Mrs. Holmes placed it carefully on the table before standing up and walking over to the door into the hallway that led to the rest of the cottage. Realising that her older son was still in his chair, she said in an imperious manner, 'Come along Mikey, we have a little time before dinner is ready. I wish to see what my little boy has sent.'

Knowing that he can no longer put off the inevitable, Mycroft got to his feet, brushed out the creases in his trousers and straightened his shoulders. Taking a deep breath, he followed mummy into one of the other rooms. The painting, which was covered in a rather tasteful pastel blue wrapping, was resting on an easel (a relic from one of Mrs. Holmes' earlier attempts to find a very young Sherlock a pastime that would stave off the worst of his boredom) in the centre of the room.

Having called to her husband as she walked through the cottage, telling him they were going to open Sherlock's present, Mrs. Holmes waited until he had joined them before she walked up to the easel. Smiling, she began pulling on the wrapping. As the paper came away from the painting, Mrs. Holmes' eyebrows moved higher, her eyes widening in surprise as her gaze slid across the picture of her elder son forever immortalised in oils.

'Well that's a sight I haven't seen in quite some time, isn't it darling?' Mrs. Holmes turned to her husband as he stepped up to get a closer look at the painting.

Squinting closely, Mr. Holmes took in the sight of his older son draped in the flag of St. George, then smiling slightly he replied, 'Ah yes, I remember you changing those nappies dear. Though the tattoo appears to be something of a recent addition.'

'Tattoo? Oh darling, I didn't notice that.' Leaning in to get a closer look, Mrs. Holmes smiled widely before continuing, 'Oh isn't that delightful, and so patriotic. Oh you precious boy. It's perfect. It's a little like the one father thought about having, isn't it dear?

'Yes dear, though I'm afraid I rather lost my nerve before I could go through with it. A bit of difficulty with needles, I'm ashamed to say.'

Mycroft froze, his jaw dropping slightly, as his mind began whirling at a million miles per hour as he attempted to piece together the reality of the moment with his own thoughts. He had expected his parents and in particular his mother to be disgusted. They were elderly and rather set in their ways, he had always thought, though not as set as he had imagined apparently.

Glancing across at her older son, a look of pity flashed briefly in Mrs. Holmes' ice blue eyes, 'Close your mouth darling, you're beginning to resemble that goldfish that father won at the fair when you were ten. Do you remember dear? You were so fascinated with it, until Sherlock decided that he wanted to understand why it needed to be in water to live. Always so inquisitive, even at the age of three.' She said with a soft smile as she reminisced fondly about her youngest son's penchant for experiments.

Mycroft's jaw closed with an audible click as his teeth clashed together. His brow furrowing briefly in confusion as he forced his brain to catch up with the words his parents had uttered so casually. Mummy was not disgusted, and Father had almost had a tattoo? Hovering very close to complete melt-down, Mycroft blinked several times before ruthlessly pushing the thought of his father choosing a tattoo design, from his brain.

Watching the various emotions play across her son's face, Mrs. Holmes sighed before saying in a soft, almost gentle voice quite unlike her usual striking tone, 'Oh darling, your father and I were people before we ever became parents, you know. Much as we both adore you both, and would quite cheerfully destroy anyone who tried to harm either of our boys, we haven't always been mummy and daddy.'

Mycroft straightened up with a slight twitch of his head and took a deep breath, as he replied, 'Yes, of course, mummy. Dinner should be ready now, don't you think?' Striding forward Mycroft quickly left the room.

'Oh dear, I think we may have broken him darling.' Mrs. Holmes said with a soft sigh, 'I wish he had someone special, he needs someone so he won't be lonely any more.'

Mr. Holmes walked up to his wife and placed an arm gently across her shoulders as he hugged her to him, 'Maybe your wish will come true, did you notice the signature of the artist? Young Dunstan, Rutherland's youngest boy?'

Mrs. Holmes smiled widely as she looked up at her husband reaching up to place a kiss on his sharp cheekbones, a genetic trait along with his height that he had passed down to his youngest son, before pulling away to walk out of the room to check on the progress of the dinner.

A/N: I have absolutely no idea whether the incredibly talented Timothy Carlton has a tattoo, or has ever even considered having a tattoo. I just thought it was a fun idea to play with. I mean no offence whatsoever.