Mycroft finished the last page and stretched, his muscles stiff with hours of reading.

He breathed in deeply, savouring the smell of wood and old books.

The library was Mycroft's favourite place, he would spend the vast majority of his free time among its walls. It was particularly thrilling for him to find, invitingly displayed on the shelves, titles he had been forbidden to read. Now they were at his disposal, with no threat of punishment.

And if there were any books that the school forbade, but that perked the youth's curiosity... Well, Mycroft had spotted a couple of members of staff he was sure would be easily corrupted, should the need arise...

He closed the book and placed it on the pile to his left. A fast reader, he had soon developed a tendency to gather books in piles, so as to save time going back and forth among the shelves: to his right he placed some he had yet to read, to his left the ones he'd just finished.

Mycroft picked a new book.

It had been a few months since he started at Eton, and he had taken it in his stride.

After the restrictions and discipline his father had enforced, the Boarding school rules were practically negligible. However, the life he led at home had taken enough hold on Mycroft for him to maintain many of the rituals the youth had become accustomed to, so for the teachers at Eton he swiftly became a paragon of discipline and rectitude, an example for all to follow. Academically, he was heads and shoulders above his peers, further elevating his status as a "golden boy".

All of this did nothing to help Mycroft make friends.

Not that he wanted any.

Because he didn't.

On occasion a few young chaps had tried to strike a conversation with him, usually about some risible tripe, but their topics were so asinine his demeanour never invited any more contact than was necessary, and often his attitude was interpreted as a sign of pride and arrogance. Soon nobody would approach him.

Mycroft would sometimes hear what others said of him when they thought he wasn't around.

Although a part or him was aware that he should feel something, their words neither hurt nor offended him. Quite simply, he didn't care.

His father would have been proud...

Mycroft had started a new book, but suddenly he looked up.

A boy, slightly younger than him, was standing in front of the table, looking at him.

He had seen this fellow before; always on his own, he was rather small for his age and seemed to be either too shy or too frail-looking to make friends. Mycroft had classed him as a probable future target for bullies to play with.

The youth was completely silent, clutching in his hands a book and looking at Mycroft who impassively stared back.

Finally, the boy presented the book to him.

The title read "The Catcher in the Rye"

Mycroft took it and placed it on the pile to his left. He had already read it.

The boy walked away, only to return with another book. This time it was "The lord of the flies."

Mycroft looked at it. He hadn't read that one! He took it and placed it on the pile to his right.

The young lad smiled and put his hand on the left pile as a silent request. When Mycroft nodded, the boy inspected the titles and picked "The count of Monte Cristo". He then walked to his own table and they read in silence for the rest of their free time.

The next day, Mycroft returned to the library and saw the boy, completely engrossed in his book. He was sitting at the best table, a quiet, isolated one by the window.

At first Mycroft intended to find another place to sit, further away, but then, for no reason at all, he thoughtfully looked at the lad's own little pile, then went to the shelves to pick a title that seemed to fit with what the fellow had been reading recently. Without saying a word, Mycroft walked up to him. When the boy looked up, he presented him with "The portrait of Dorian Gray", which was accepted. Mycroft then silently picked something from the lad's pile. He was about to walk away when the boy pushed a chair slighly, inviting him to stay...Which he did.

This little exchange quickly became habitual. They would share the table, swap titles in unbroken silence, recommending books by simply handing them over, and then enjoy each other's mute company.

Weeks flew by in this fashion, and Mycroft found himself genuinely looking forward to those quiet hours of shared peace.

One day another boy approached the two, clasping a book he hadn't finished.

He was about to open his mouth to speak, but Mycroft's reading companion glanced at him warningly and the boy's lips remained sealed.

Mycroft didn't look up.

Fine. As long as he didn't speak, he would be allowed to stay.

The new boy hesitantly sat down at the table, breathed a sigh of relief when he found himself unchallenged, and began to read.

A few minutes later, Mycroft reached for a new book. As he opened it, he found a small note from his reading partner. In very neat handwriting, it simply said:

"Club!"

Mycroft didn't say anything and started reading, but those who knew him would notice, dancing at the corners of his lips, a small hint of a smile where there wasn't one before.

"Mycroft, there is someone on the phone for you. A certain Mr. Hobbes."

"Hobbes! What a surprise! I wasn't expecting an update till tomorrow."

"Good afternoon, Mycroft..."

"Is Sherlock all right, Hobbes?"

"Yes, he's fine. I've left 5 new bottles of emergency water and I've hidden some of your old books in the shed, behind the potassium chloride for the water softener."

"Well done, Hobbes. Next week is Sherlock's birthday, I suspect my father might have something planned for him, so could you please replenish the supply of..."

"I won't be there, Mycroft."

"What?"

"Your father fired me this morning. I can't help you kids out anymore. I...I'm sorry."

Hobbes, Mycroft's eyes and ears at home, hung up.

Somewhere at Eton, a boy stood in frozen silence for a very long time before shakily putting down the phone.