Mycroft was busying himself at his computer, never glancing up, despite being aware of the pair of eyes watching him intently. He immersed himself in dealing with the aftershocks of the latest debacle to reach his desk, something about the indiscretions of a British politician, which had sparked an incident with the authorities in Sweden, and also involved a Bolivian diplomat, who had ties to the Mexican government, who blamed the Americans for instigation of the incident, while the Americans claimed that the Cubans were at fault.

It was the perfect foil for his mood. An intense, involved task, that would engage all of his brainpower, and leave him no time to ponder over other matters. If only Anthea would learn when to leave him alone.

"Sir," came the familiar call, the voice firm and assertive. "I need to know how to proceed with the project."

"I trust you to make your own decision," he smiled politely, although his voice had a very sharp edge.

"This was never under my domain," she said softly.

"I believe you are familiar enough with my usual MO to use your own judgement in this," he said, trying to lighten his tone.

"Then I'll just put in the regular procedures, and contact the tech team for the most updated security installations."

"That's a good girl," he answered, a trace of mockery in his voice.

She smiled without taking offence. "Budget?"

"Whatever it takes," he replied, looking at her earnestly.

Anthea hurried off to complete her tasks, while Mycroft paused in his work, staring blankly at the screen. He was doing well by his brother, or at least as well as he could for a brother he couldn't remember. Nevertheless, he wasn't one to shirk from duty. And family was duty.

Sherlock, as they said his brother was called, was now residing in temporary accommodations, as his flat was being redone. Mycroft had ensured that the renovations would have enough funds, and that the best security system was being installed. He supposed Mummy would be happy. His brother might, or might not. He didn't really know. He didn't remember anything about his brother's personality, or their relationship. Not that he imagined they had a close relationship. Whatever he had forgotten, Mycroft still knew what he was. Icemen didn't do brotherly relationships.

"Sir," Anthea called again. "It's your parents. They want to see you."

Mycroft sighed deeply. "Alright, bring o the firing squad. I suppose there's no sense in delaying the inevitable, is there?"

His parents were ushered in, and Mummy rushed at him, even more emotional than usual. "Mikey, oh my goodness, what has she done to you?" She gently moved his chin so that he was looking into her eyes. "Are you alright? Tell me this isn't true. You do remember who I am, right?"

Dad was standing right behind her, his mouth turning up in amusement, as he winked at Mycroft. "If I didn't know who you are," Mycroft answered in his most surly tone, "do you believe I would have let you barge in like this and attack me?"

Mummy chuckled, relief apparent in her eyes. "Oh, Mikey, this is definitely you. So what's all this nonsense we've heard about you and Sherlock? Because I don't believe for a minute that my brilliant boy can just forget about something as important as his own family. So why don't you tell me what game you're playing, hmmm?" Mommy's voice had turned very sharp suddenly.

"I am not playing any games!" Mycroft retorted, reverting instantly to teenagehood. "Why is it that you never believe anything I say?"

Mummy sucked in a deep breath. "Now, listen here, young man. You don't talk to me about believing you! You've been playing games with us for years, haven't you?" She gave him a look that could have frozen the Sahara desert. "You've lied to us about our daughter. We mourned her for years, and you never once said anything. You've kept her locked up, isolated, without even a single visit from her own parents. Now you expect me to believe that you've suddenly forgotten about another sibling. Why wouldn't I be suspicious?"

Mycroft couldn't look his mother in the eye. "But, Mummy, why would I lie about that? What would I gain by pretending?" He tried to plead, his very dry mouth barely capable of forming the words.

"You tell me! Perhaps you're trying to play on our sympathies, now that you've been found out. Or maybe you've decided that our family is not good enough for you anymore, and you're trying to rid yourself of responsibility by playing silly games. What do you think, Mycroft?" Mommy's voice contained enough venom to kill a grown man.

"Dad," Mycroft turned a pleading gaze to his father. William Holmes looked at him sympathetically. "I understand you've just undergone some major...things, Mycroft, and that has shaken you up a bit. I want you to know that we're here for you. You don't have to pretend in order to gain our attention."

"You don't believe me, either," Mycroft whispered thickly.

"Mycroft, I didn't say that. Only, it's Sherlock. You know, your little brother, the one always annoying you? Look at me, Mycroft," he waited patiently until Mycroft had forced himself to meet his gaze. "You were always complaining about him. About his drug use, and his tendency to take your stuff, and how he would always get away with things we never let you get away with..." The senior Holmes trailed off as he watched his son look at him in desperate confusion.

"I don't know," Mycroft said, his voice rising slightly. "Really, I don't see how that matters so much. We can't have been very close, either way. I understand, he's your son, but it looks like he just wasn't that much in my thoughts if I managed to erase his existence."

The elder couple froze. "How could you!" Mummy exclaimed, once her shock had worn off. " How could you!" She repeated, hurt and anger oozing from her tone. "I always knew you had some jealousy towards Sherlock, but I never knew what you really thought of him. It doesn't matter, you say? Well, you idiot boy, it matters to us. We won't be speaking to you unless you stop playing these childish games. Come, William," she turned to her husband, looking him to follow, as she stalked to the door.

Dad looked at Mycroft sadly. "I don't know what to believe anymore, but you shouldn't have said that. He's your brother, Mycroft! Please do think about what you're doing to the family, now," he admonished, before he left, himself.

Mycroft laid his head down on his desk, his temples burning. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," he muttered to himself, the name rolling around on his tongue in an unfamiliar way. "Why is everyoned throwing that name at my face all the time?"

He tired to picture the young man he had met at the hospital. Slowly, and image formed in his mind, ridiculously curly hair with Dad's razor sharp cheekbones, shockingly wide blue eyes, looking at him, penetrating him with their magnetic gaze, the gaze turning suddenly murky and lost ... Mycroft, help... need you... I'm dying...

Mycroft jolted up in shock. Something had surfaced, most probably a memory. A sudden anxiety welled up inside him. "No, that's not good. That's dangerous... " You need to forget, brother, or things won't end well. Mycroft heard the voice overwhelming his mind. Forget, protect, forget in order to protect, don't remember, don't recall...

As Mycroft's mind was awhirl in memories and voices, a haunting tune began playing from somewhere inside his mind. The same haunting tune that had woken him in the hospital. It soothed him, protected him, and put his mind at ease. Vague words were interspersed with the tune, like a refrain at the end of each stanza. Forget, protect, forget, protect.

"Sir?" he heard the voice which broke him out of his reverie. "Is everything alright?"

He shook his head, trying to shake off the last remains of what felt like lethargy, and straightened his shoulders. Now, where was he again? Oh, that mysterious brother called Sherlock. He couldn't understand all the fuss surrounding him. Well, he would make sure that he was taken care of, and that would get his parents off his back.

"Yes," he answered calmly. "Everything is alright."