Title: Just an Umbrella

Series: The Smaller Deductions

Rating: PG-13 (for mentioned drug use)

Characters: Mycroft, Sherlock

Word Count: 1,124

Summary: Mycroft deals with two growing emotions: his concern for his brother and his fondness for an umbrella. Some things between brothers will never need saying.

Notes: My origin story for Mycroft's umbrella. Thought about going the crack!route with this. Ended up writing an angsty brotherhood!fic instead. Because caring!Mycroft will always be my spirit animal.

He just liked it.

Why did no one ever believe that?

It had started off as an issue of practicality. Mycroft Holmes had always prided himself on being an exceptionally, if not overly, pragmatic man. The weather in England was unpredictable at best, and it would hardly do to find oneself attending a meeting with the Romanian ambassador dripping from his cuffs. Certainly not. So he found himself a sturdy, plain umbrella with which to travel. It wasn't a gift from the Prime Minister of Israel, it did not contain a concealed weapon, nor was it a means of transporting files and technology. No, he had simply asked his assistant one day to purchase him one. Something sensible that would suit him. He hadn't even chosen it himself.

But he liked the feel of it. The way the handle slipped smoothly into his hand. How it left his arm at just the right height when he placed the tip on the ground. The way it rolled in his hand when he swung it steadily. How it supported his weight firmly if he chose to balance on it. It worked so well he started carrying it more, using it as a walking stick. It became more of a habit and a comfort.

Besides, though there are few he would admit it to, Mycroft always had a flair for the dramatic, and there was something a tad intimidating about the umbrella. It's black presence lent him a bit of authority, he thought. It complemented his presence.

So, naturally, he had it with him when he finally caught up with Sherlock three years ago. The first time, he found him in his new flat, if you could call it that. It was tiny, peeling, and it in was little more than a mattress and a stack of books. Still, it was better than nowhere, which, going by Sherlock's latest behavioral patterns and Mycroft's inability to locate him, seemed to be where had previously lived. When Mycroft threw open the door, Sherlock had been hunched on the mattress in a white t-shirt and jeans that had seen better days, his red eyes moving slowly over the pages of one of the books. He looked up at his brother.

"Mycroft," he said quietly.

Mycroft opened his mouth to respond but didn't know what to say. Should he be pleased that he found his brother at last, alive? Should he be angry with him for disappearing like that? Disappointed in his (apparently very current) drug use? But words continued to fail him, and in comfort, he gripped the handle of his umbrella tightly.

Sherlock continued to stare at him, and for a moment, they simply looked at one another, letting what needed saying float silently between them.

"What're you carrying an umbrella for?" asked Sherlock, interrupting the silence.

"What?"

"It's not raining," continued Sherlock, adjusting himself. "Nor is your umbrella damp. Why do you have it?"

Mycroft gazed at him carefully, the corners of his mouth twisting ever so slightly.

"Can't you tell, brother?" Sherlock said nothing. "Go on then. Deduce my reasons." Sherlock looked back down at his book.

"Perhaps," murmured Mycroft gently, "if your brain were not riddled with chemicals, if you weren't damaging your own mind so, you would know. Until then, brother." He took a backward step toward the door. "And if you do decide to…change your address again, do let me know this time," he said firmly before leaving. His assistant was outside in a car waiting for him. She glanced up when he climbed in.

"So he was there?"

Mycroft looked out the window and back at the building, patting the umbrella in his lap absentmindedly. "I suppose," he said.

Three days later he received a text.

You were about to go abroad, somewhere it was raining. –SH

Mycroft sighed, brushing aside the sensations of relief at seeing his brother's initials.

No. –MH

Another two days after.

It was a gift from a politician you were off to meet. –SH

Mycroft glanced down at the umbrella, leaning against his desk.

No. –MH

And another, two more days after that.

You brought it just to screw with me. -SH

Mycroft actually smiled at that one.

Not at all. –MH

It was almost a week before he finally received another text. When his phone buzzed at last, Mycroft actually let out a quiet sigh of relief.

Help me. –SH

There was nothing more. Mycroft got up quickly from his desk and called for his assistance, grabbing the old umbrella on his way out.

Mycroft was seated beside the bed in the arranged private room, the umbrella resting against the wall, when Sherlock woke up in the hospital the next day. His overdose had been a close call, but he would be okay. Sherlock blinked then looked up at his brother carefully. Mycroft returned the gaze.

Nothing needed to be said. Mycroft had come. Mycroft was there now.

After a few hours and a hushed conversation, Sherlock agreed to take some time off from working cases with Scotland Yard. To go away with Mycroft. To end this.

It hadn't rained much during those painful months in the family cottage in the Sussex Downs, but the umbrella was ever present.

That Christmas, Sherlock agreed to put up slightly less of a fight when Mycroft dragged him back to Father and Mummy's for Christmas dinner. Mycroft had been rather surprised at how little fight he had put up, so much so that he suspected had picked up his habits again if he was going to be that well-mannered about it. He was even more surprised to have received a gift from his younger brother. He had quietly opened the packaged, a long thin box.

Inside was a tie. A simple if clichéd gift, thought Mycroft, until he examined it more closely.

Across the tie was a pattern of miniscule umbrellas. He looked up across the room at his brother, who was currently being pestered by Mummy, but he met his brother's gaze. Again, nothing needed saying. Both knew what it meant.

So much so that when Mycroft arrived at Sherlock latest residence, 221B Baker Street some years later the morning after an explosion, the morning Mycroft had heard reports of dangerous movements across the city, and Sherlock saw the tie he had chosen to wear, as he watched his older brother twirl the umbrella slowly in his hand, he understood, and Mycroft did not have to say anymore than the facts of the case. He knew Sherlock would know what he meant.

He walked out after Dr. John Watson, Sherlock's new flatmate, arrived, gripping the black umbrella firmly.

It was just an umbrella. Nothing more. But he liked it.