To the observer, the elderly gentleman reading the newspaper in this very well-established club was one of the ubiquitous landed gentry: well bread, silver spoon, a typical "gentleman farmer."

And that was exactly what Mycroft Holmes wanted you to see.

If you looked closer, and truly observed, you could tell that this thin man had once been quite large: the lose skin, drooping eyes, and thick lips. You would see that he wore a wedding ring, yet the Diogenes Club catered to single men. You would note that he was reading the entire paper; every line, every word was being catalogued. And you would see the thick stack of English, French, German, and Russian papers next to him that had clearly already been read.

It was 1914. The Great War had started, the one that he and his brother had always known was coming. He had discussed it at length with Sherlock before he had died; they both agreed it would start in the East and spread West: the East had been neglected for hundreds of years. Mycroft could only try to prepare Britain for the worst, but the world was changing faster than he could observe from his comfortable chair. Oh how he missed his brother.

At 83, he had guided Britain through many conflicts, obverting one disaster after another. He had won his bet with Sherlock over the timing of his death many times over. But 83 was extremely uncomfortable. Goodness, 70 had been extremely uncomfortable, for someone who had been heavy nearly his entire life. But he was stubborn. He would not leave Britain without finding another protector, someone to take his place in collecting the information needed to foresee the unforeseeable.

He had single-handedly created MI6 out of the need to collect data faster, as the world grew larger. But he had still needed a point man, someone that would receive the newest intelligence from around the world and be able to put it all together. To see the patterns. To be Britain's brain.

Mycroft folded his newspaper and set it aside, and picked up an unassuming folder. There had been several candidates he had carefully watched over the last few decades, but they had in turn proven to be disappointments. Except for one.

He had met Sir Anthony Strallan quite by accident, actually, while visiting Eton over 20 years ago, looking in on a completely different young man as a possible protégé. Walking across the courtyard, he had observed the young man sitting on a side bench, watching a group of his fellow classmates talk and joke with each other. It was clear that the young man was watching the group as a whole, not simply individuals.

He did something he rarely ever did: he diverged from his plan of action and walked over to the bench.

"Might I sit down?" he asked politely. Blue eyes took him in curiously.

"Of course, sir, would you like me to leave?" Anthony responded with deference. It was clear the young man could tell Mycroft was no ordinary gentleman.

"No. I would like to know what you think about the group there," he asked. Anthony looked at him thoughtfully, and then looked back at the group.

"They're trying to determine if they can trust each other enough to start a cheating ring." Anthony said simply.

"Quite. But how do you know that?" Mycroft prodded.

Anthony paused. "It's hard to explain," he began. Mycroft nodded for him to continue. "The way they fake laugh, almost rubbing elbows, talk about smoking, feeling out how far each of them will go. The dynamic of having more than three people helps make them comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time. It's… a cultural connection, that they're using to manipulate each other into doing what they all really want to do, but no one's willing to make the first move. Not yet, anyway."

It was enough. Mycroft was actually excited for the first time in many years. But his next question was crucial. "And why are you here instead of telling the headmaster?"

Anthony looked at him squarely. "Two of them are the son's of Dukes, one son of a Marquees, and two sons of Earls. The title of a Baronet would not stop be from being beaten nightly if I did so." He looked back over to the group. "And to be honest, one should never show one's entire hand early in the game."

"And yet, I am going to do just that. Would you like to come and work for me?" he asked bluntly.

Anthony looked back at him. "Yes, I think so," he said. "But I have responsibilities. To my family, to my estate. And I am already engaged to be married."

"I will work around those conditions," Mycroft agreed. "Your father is dead, I presume?"

"Yes." They both knew why Mycroft knew that: Anthony wouldn't hold the Baronet title if his father was still living.

"Then there are fewer… complications. I will send you more details soon." He stood. Anthony stood. Mycroft put out his hand.

"Mycroft Holmes." Anthony took that in. Many things clicked into place. The brother of the famous detective. It made sense.

"Anthony Strallan."

He had sent Strallan to Oxford to read on Technology, an area he himself lacked knowledge of. Anthony had married and started his life as a simple, well-educated baronet, who came off as rather dull for knowing three languages and many other things about farming and industrial equipment, and having traveled extensively.

It was a cover that Mycroft felt would work well, given the changing world. He had long been able to hide behind the façade of a "minor government official." But that story wasn't going to fly anymore in a world that was increasingly full of people that didn't know how to mind their own business. Creating MI6 was a start. But having an insider that everyone thought was an outsider… Mycroft had struck gold.

When Maud died, Mycroft used the tragedy to Britain's advantage, sending Strallan to faraway places under the guise of mourning his wife. Anthony accepted the assignments, and the need for deception; though he had loved Maud well, he knew danger loomed.

But Anthony missed Maud dreadfully. She was the only person he fully shared his work with; she had an understanding of individuals that Anthony lacked. His reports to Mycroft always benefitted from Maud's insights. When Anthony had detected that Germany was building a submarine system, it was Maud that noted that the old Queen would not approve of such subterfuge. And she had been right, which had allowed Mycroft to craft a response that appeased Her Majesty and allowed the program to continue.

Shaking his head of the cobwebs of yesteryear, Mycroft Holmes studied the contents of the folder in front of him. Lady Edith Crawley, middle daughter of the Earl of Grantham. Considered the brains of the family, according to his contacts, she was a great reader, and had borrowing privileges in libraries at many of the noble estates in Yorkshire. Yet she was neglected by the family, being rather retiring in nature, and unconventional in looks. Mycroft approved. She would be an asset to Strallan, and to Britain. He gave no thought to what would have been done if she had proved to be unreliable, as Maud had been.

AN: I am using the canon of the current TV show Sherlock as established by the Christmas episode. Hope that clarified things.