A/N: So, I thought I was going to take a bit of a break from Holmes fic after Hades' December Calendar of Awesomeness (which more than lived up to its name). But my Holmes muse won't keep quiet. So here's my first big fic of 2015 *confetti*

December 1880

Mycroft Holmes tried to keep an eye on his younger brother as much as possible, largely because he'd promised their mother he would. He was, however, finding this much more difficult to do than he'd initially thought. Partly because Sherlock was always so infernally unpredictable. Mycroft never varied his routine; his days ran comfortably in the same direction: breakfast, the office, the Diogenes, and finally home. One never knew if Sherlock had even left his rooms, or if he was spending the day in disguise down at the docks. There was never any telling when Sherlock would decide to let his brother know he was still among the living. At least, that had been the case until this month.

"Sherlock, I really cannot have you disturbing my club at all hours," Mycroft said patiently as his younger brother entered the Diogenes club for the third time that week. He never even bothered to give Mycroft warning that he was coming.

"Forgive me, Mycroft, but you have no idea the conditions at my Montague Street rooms. Not only must I smell all variations of unpleasant odors, but my neighbors are a most noisy group. It is impossible to get any sleep or private time for research," Sherlock Holmes helped himself to some of the dinner that had been laid out for Mycroft, who sighed patiently.

"I seem to remember that you are not the quietest of residents either, dear brother. I distinctly recall waking up to your violin serenades at the ungodly hour of three in the morning, and I shall not even mention the odors derived from your chemical experiments." There was a reason the Holmes brothers had not shared living quarters since Mycroft had left home at the age of sixteen.

The younger Holmes smiled sheepishly, "Perhaps you're right, Mycroft. But the situation is quickly becoming intolerable. No clients wish to engage a detective whose address is so low as mine. Lestrade says he dislikes coming there himself to tell me of crimes."

Mycroft made a mental note to call for Lestrade and ask how his brother's rooms looked. Sherlock looked almost unhealthily thin. "Money troubles, Sherlock?"

"I have had no clients! I simply must have a better address but I cannot afford it myself," Sherlock sighed, throwing himself morosely back in the armchair. "I have all the knowledge necessary to rise to the top of the field of detection if only I am given the chance."

Mycroft waited patiently until his brother's theatrics were over. He never responded to Sherlock's more doom-and-gloom moods, and soon enough, the younger Holmes sat up straighter and looked his brother in the eye. "I have run through the funds left to me by the sale of the estate, are you certain you could not lend me some money just to acquire decent rooms?"

Mycroft gave his brother a knowing look, "You know that I take a salary of no more than 400 pounds, and most of it is tied up in my club membership and my Pall Mall rooms. I could not lend you the money even if I wanted to." His expression was not unsympathetic. The Holmes brothers were two unusual fellows in a world that tolerated only certain standards. Carving out their own niches had been difficult. "Many people find someone to share the rooms if they cannot afford them alone." He knew suggesting the idea would be more than a little hypocritical; sharing rooms with someone else would have been his own worst nightmare, but then, he had never been in such financial difficulties.

Predictably, the look Sherlock gave him could wither stone, "Truly, Mycroft, that is low even for you. I have no wish to share rooms with anyone; I am formed for the solitary life."

"On your own head be it then, when you must take even worse rooms," Mycroft said with a shrug. He and Sherlock, while united by blood and certain traits common to their family, were no more sentimental than obligation required. If his younger brother wanted to ruin his life and his career because of his refusal to share rooms, that was his own fault. "You must choose what you value more, Sherlock. Your solitude, in rooms which you had already admitted are hardly solitary and are ill-suited for your purposes. Or the advancement of your career, which must depend on the help of a partner to pay the rent."

"Well, when you put it that way," Sherlock said, looking highly resentful of Mycroft's impeccable logic. "Where the deuce am I going to find someone who won't mind occasional gunfire indoors and midnight violin solos?"

Mycroft privately held that his brother's "solos" could hardly be counted as music, but he smiled and said, "I cannot guess, but good luck to the man, whoever he is. I know all too well what you are like as a companion."

Sherlock did not dignify this with a response, merely glared at his brother and stalked out of the Diogenes Club.

February 1881

He did not return for some weeks, during which time Mycroft found himself almost perturbed at Sherlock's lack of appearance. He was about to send for Lestrade to ask if his brother had disappeared on a case when the younger Holmes himself appeared, looking harried but flushed with excitement. "Ah, Mycroft! I was just coming to see you and give you my new address." He held out a slip of paper with the words 221b Baker Street, London, written on it. Mycroft's eyebrows rose, impressed.

"This is a very central address. No doubt it will be of great use to you in your career. I take it you took my advice?"

Sherlock scowled, "Yes, I found a fellow to share the rooms with. His name is Dr. John H. Watson, and he is an Army Doctor, recently returned from Afghanistan with an injured shoulder."

"Hmm," Mycroft said. He would have to look up this Dr. Watson later. "Mind you don't scare him off, Sherlock. If the poor man just returned from Afghanistan, he's likely looking for some quiet time to recover."

"I am aware of that, Mycroft. I assure you, I have been most considerate. The fellow hardly seems to mind my presence. In fact, he often seems glad that I am there. I have noticed no visitors for him, nor any correspondence, so no doubt he welcomes even my presence. As for myself, I find him pleasant enough company, if one must share one's rooms."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose in surprise a second time. Sherlock counted no one as simply "pleasant company." In fact, he spent most of his time trying to avoid anyone who could not lead him to some ghastly crime or another. "How long have you been living together?"

"Almost a month," Sherlock answered. He started to laugh in that silent way he had. "Dr. Watson seems most interested in me; I often see him looking as if to guess what it is I do for a living. He was most impressed that I deduced the nature of his military service the moment I met him."

"Perhaps you should take him into your confidence. After all, if you are going to gain a reputation, and no doubt you are, you are likely to make enemies that will put Dr. Watson's life in danger as well," Mycroft said.

Sherlock laughed harder, "Oh, Mycroft, we will not be sharing for that amount of time. Upon my word, as soon as I establish myself, which is already becoming easier in my new rooms, and he opens a medical practice as he intends to, I am sure we will go our separate ways."

Mycroft was no expert on human relationships, but he did know his younger brother, and he had fully expected Sherlock to be at the end of his rope after sharing rooms with another for close to a month. The fact that he wasn't was the most interesting sign of all.