After rather long holidays without any Internet access I am finally back. Sorry it took me so long – again!

Chapter 10: Love is a chemical defect

"He promised it, Mycroft. He will not mess this up any further. He told your mother."

Mycroft snorted "He would tell mother everything she wants to hear but at least she knows we are all only pretending."

"Mycroft, do not speak like that."

"There is no other way of speaking, father. But if it makes you happy... happier I will pretend I believe my brother's silly lies."

It was later in the evening and against his better judgement Mycroft was still at his parent's house. Stay out of the line of fire, Anthea had told him. Only for a few days until everyone has calmed down. None the less he had been on the phone all day, confirming appointments, threatening employees to shut up, stopping the police from further investigations until he had any idea how to sort this out. It was a risky step, but it would buy his brother time. Only a few days, maybe a month. But what was even more important: It would buy Mary time to do whatever she needed to do. Part of him desperately wanted to know what she was up to, the other, the rational one, was aware better not to interfere. He had risked enough already, any step further could rob him of the last bit of influence he still held. His influence was everything that kept his brother from certain death.

"Mycroft?"

"I beg your pardon, father. I was thinking."

They both sat in the living room in front of the fire, the Christmas decoration still a fateful reminder of a few happy hours. He never had liked Christmas. Too much fuss, too much happy, peaceful tralalala. These overwhelming declarations of love in many cases were only well placed lies to keep families – long broken apart – stable a little longer. Not with his parents. Not with his family. Perhaps as a little child he had enjoyed it, this Christmas thing, but not since Sherlock had been born. Christmas had always been too much: The noise, the smell, too many people and this daft singing of Christmas carols... never ever would he admit that since he could remember he had been afraid of Santa Clause. He still thought him to be a creepy old man. Sometimes he began to think he was like a twisted Father Christmas himself: Solemn and well mannered to the outside – without this creepy smile – but dark and frightening on the inside.

But this year, this year... after all these terrible ups and downs... after everything... he had finally felt nearly at ease for once. For once.

How careless. How utterly careless. How had he not seen? All this scheming, all this planning... he should have seen.

Love is a chemical defect... the last months of Sherlock's undercover operation had brought the brothers closer than they had been for a very long time. After all their brotherly quarrels they had finally come to an understanding. Working together was more important than their little feuds and mind games. It had not changed much after Sherlock's miracle comeback from the land of the dead. They spoke far more often and with less vigour, fewer snide remarks. The drugs had nearly been a turning point, a blow to brotherly affection. But then Sherlock had been shot. And the world stood still. Like now. Like always when Sherlock...

Mycroft bit his lip. He should have stopped this nonsense far earlier, he should have stopped this silly attachment his brother had formed for the doctor. Not that John was a bad choice for a friend – the contrary – but affection had made his brother lose it. How careless. How stupid. Why had Sherlock not seen what had been right in front of his own eyes: There was no chance to beat Magnussen without causing harm. That is why Mycroft had never stood up against him even as Magnussen started to play with politicians and power. Mycroft had waited. So long. He had tried to lure him with false safety, carefully laid out trap after trap. One day Magnussen would have stumbled and all his well collected information would have been useless.

But Sherlock... God, what an idiot! Not his brother, he himself. He knew that Magnussen had always seen him as what he was: the most dangerous enemy anyone could make. But both men had made a truce: As long as Magnussen accepted certain boundaries, Mycroft would not make a move against him. Even when investigations were made against Magnussen, Mycroft had held certain information back. He had always feared what Magnussen might otherwise reveal about England's upper class. A devastating blow to society.

But Mycroft should have realised that it all had been a lie, a far too dangerous game for anyone to play. Magnussen had spun his web without Mycroft realizing until it was too late and Sherlock trapped.

It had never been a move against Mary Morstan, never against John Watson or Sherlock Holmes. It had been Mycroft Magnussen had been after. Play the little brother, get the mighty one.

Mycroft rubbed his temples, he still had headaches from last night's stunt and thinking did not make it better. How long had he been sitting here?

It was dark already and sometime during his thinking his father had left, he could now hear his parents softly speaking in the kitchen, something was roasting in the oven. Food had always been a comforter for parts of the family. Mycroft ate too many sweets when under pressure and his mother always fled to the kitchen to clear her mind. There had always been extraordinary nice food in this house during their childhood – no wonder Sherlock had an aversion to anything else that tasted not according to the standards he had learned to love at home. Apart from Chinese take away food Sherlock seemed to be so fond of nowadays.

His telephone rang. Tired of the constant interruptions of his life he fished it from his breast pocket.

"Yes."

"Sir, you wanted me to secretly track Mrs. Watson's move."

"Yes, Anthea. What about it?"

"She visited a certain individual we have in our database, a hacker and computer specialist with some involvement in the Moriarty drug cartel. Most likely only as a customer, but since he also has a record for cybercrime... do you want me to send you the file."

"Yes, but use a secure channel. I do not want anyone to know I am involved in any investigation at the moment. It can only harm Sherlock's already bad reputation if Mrs. Watson has contact to criminal circles."

"Of course, sir. Anything else?

"No."

"Sir?"

"I said: No. And stop sounding so anxious, it is not necessary. I am fine."

"Sure, sir."

He disconnected without saying goodbye. How rude.

Only minutes later he received the file on his phone. His computer had been confiscated for a security check. Not that he kept vital information on it. He had a mind palace of his own after all.

There was not much in the file, but enough to know in which direction Mrs. Watson was heading right now. And if Anthea could track her so easily who else could? If he figured out in minutes it could mean others would come to the same conclusion even if far later.

This was dangerous.

Mycroft had made many decisions in his life that might seem cruel to others. He had made people spy on each other, he had kept silent when others ordered torture, once did so himself. Hell yes, he had ordered to kill. But always to protect the country, always according to certain secret rules and always after long discussion in the highest circles of government. He had manipulated people to do what he thought right. But never, never, to fulfil his own needs or for his own ambitions. Always for others.

He could try to claim he did the same now. To save his brother. But it was a selfish thing to do none the less. Caring is not an advantage. Love is a chemical defect...

Two hours after Anthea's call an agent got new orders from highest circles never knowing who his mysterious employer was. Two hours after Anthea's call Mycroft ordered the murder of one Herbert Willcox – computer freak and minor thug.