John had assumed that when he came back downstairs from looking in on Rosie, he would have the sitting room to himself. Although he was both physically and mentally wiped out, he liked the idea of a few minutes on his own to clear his head; spending time with Sherlock and his family was like being caught in a hurricane that seemed to have no eye. He supposed that was probably Molly now, but she had spent the evening being either monopolised by Sherlock's parents (and no doubt by Sherlock now, too, although 'monopolised' likely wasn't the right term for what he was doing).

So when he walked into the room and saw Mycroft sitting in his father's chair, he nearly had a mild heart attack.

"I thought you'd gone to bed!" he exclaimed.

"Ditto," replied Mycroft, his smile a clear indicator of the pleasure he took from the element of bloody surprise.

"No, just, ah, just checking on Rosie," he replied. "You know, unfamiliar house, travel cot. Thought she might…never mind."

John could see there was little point in continuing with an explanation in which his audience clearly had no interest (he'd learned that lesson with the younger brother a long time ago).

"Quite," Mycroft replied. He held up the glass that was in his hand. "Care for a nightcap? I've opened the Avonside Glenlivet 1938. I believe it was a gift from Sherlock to my father, though he didn't pay a penny for it – a gesture of thanks from a grateful laird, I understand."

John hadn't been intending to have another drink (never a good idea when you have a child due to wake up in a few short hours), but he wasn't about to turn down a decent single malt. Picking up on this, Mycroft gestured towards the bottle on top of the drinks cabinet.

"I trust the new residence is working out?" Mycroft asked, as John took a seat at the end of the sofa.

"Uh, yeah, it's, ah, it's great," he replied, trying to find firm seating in piece of furniture that seemed to be trying to consume him. "It's just perfect for Rosie and me. Ideal. Thank you for organising all the work."

"Never let it be said that one doesn't repay one's debts," Mycroft replied, raising his glass a little. John started to wonder whether he was drinking the whisky, or just using it as a prop. It was also unclear as to what debts Mycroft was alluding to, but he knew Sherlock's brother was unlikely to elaborate.

"You should come by," John said. "See the work. I'm sure Mrs Hudson would find a plate of biscuits for you."

"I doubt your dear landlady would welcome me across the threshold. I rather think that I'm not her favourite person."

John took a sip from his glass. Jesus, that was good whisky.

"Mrs Hudson? She's just very protective of Sherlock," he replied. "But she's a forgiving soul. On the whole. I mean, I wouldn't get on the wrong side of her, as I strongly suspect she still has an address book full of her husband's old associates, but she knows the full story. And she's absolutely overjoyed to have Sherlock and Molly living there, not to mention yet another baby to ply with cuddly toys."

Mycroft gave a soft, wry laugh.

"Love conquers all?"

"Apparently," John replied, trying to banish any thought of Mary from his mind for the immediate moment (he would allow time for that later, in the privacy of his own room). "Certainly seems to be working for those two."

He nearly added something else, an implication about Mycroft and Lady Smallwood, but thought better of it for the moment. John realised that it had been many months since he'd been alone in a room with Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft had, it felt, been keeping his distance a little. Offers (or demands) of work for Sherlock had come to an abrupt halt after that horrible confrontation in Sherlock's flat with his parents, and John supposed that any other – non-work related - interaction between the brothers would be uncomfortable for them both. He had wondered, though, what all this had done to Mycroft – surely he couldn't be unaffected? Everything that happened at Sherrinford, the fallout with their parents, the transformation of his little brother's life…even The Ice Man couldn't really be that cold.

"Did you see this coming?" John asked eventually, nodding vaguely in the direction of upstairs.

"By 'this', I assume you're referring to my brother's state of domestic bliss?"

John nodded.

"I rather feared it might be on the cards when he returned from the dead."

"You feared?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied, carefully, drawing out the word. "I couldn't see any advantage to my brother forming a strong romantic attachment. Something so distracting, something with such power over him as to crush him if he failed. I was aware that Sherlock had certain inclinations towards Dr Hooper. Thankfully, by the time it had the potential to become problematic, there was a fiancé conveniently in the way."

John coughed as the mouthful of whisky seemed to catch in his throat. He looked up at his drinking companion.

"You're starting to think that your landlady was right about me," Mycroft continued, evenly. "That I'm an unfeeling monster?"

"Pretty sure she said reptile, but yeah, I'm beginning to see how she got that impression," John replied. "What about Sherlock's happiness? Didn't mean anything?"

"You have to understand something, Dr Watson," Mycroft began, gazing into his glass. "Hard as though it may be to believe, I have only ever acted in what I perceived as my brother's best interests. Did what I thought was best for him in the circumstances. Does he talk much about the years before he met you?"

John shrugged, shook his head. Sherlock's young adulthood was a mystery to him and John had been left to piece it together from hearsay and guesswork. Almost every attempt to enquire into his friend's past had been met with a curt response, a refusal to engage.

"As you can now well imagine, Sherlock was not the child he was after our sister's…interventions," Mycroft continued. "The playful, imaginative boy he had been was too fragile, too emotional to survive the loss a friend, a home and then, later, a sister. He became withdrawn, detached, hard for us all to reach. Then came the sullen, arrogant, socially-maladjusted adolescent who broke our parents' heart when he got himself dramatically expelled from school…and then came the drugs."

John nodded. He had wondered how early that had all started; now he knew the story of Sherlock's early childhood as well as he did, the pieces easily fell into place.

"Of course, our parents had no idea what to do, although to give them credit, they did try. A new school, home tutoring, attempts at counselling, a spell at an adolescent treatment facility. Somehow, my brother managed to graduate from university, but by that time his genius for applied chemistry was being 'applied', shall we say, for more recreational purposes."

Mycroft paused, placed his tumbler back on the side table. He gave a brief, tight smile.

"I became uncomfortably familiar with the drug dens of north London," he said. "He would always record what he had taken, but couldn't stop himself taking it. I had to…find another way to help him. Create the legend of Sherlock Holmes, as it were."

"What does that mean?" John asked, wondering what kind of story he was being spun, whether he could even trust a man who kept the nation's darkest secrets for a living.

"I helped him the only way I knew," Mycroft elaborated. "Taught him how I had survived it all."

John nodded, beginning to understand.

"By rejecting emotions, by developing a clinical, rational approach to the world," John said, feeling no need to pose his words as a question. "By convincing himself he was a bloody sociopath."

"That much was Sherlock's decision," Mycroft said. "Something of which he seemed to need to convince himself. I never applied the same…sobriquet to myself."

"It was a persona," John nodded.

"To a degree," Mycroft said carefully. "But you have to remember the role that extreme trauma played in his early life. His emotional development was halted in the most violent of ways; even before my intercession he was struggling with relationships, with human contact. I strove to demonstrate to Sherlock how could use that struggle to his advantage, as I did. The extraordinary mind that he was trying to dull with narcotics could instead be harnessed for a purpose."

"Your purpose," John said.

"I gave Sherlock the opportunity to use his brilliance for broadly good means," Mycroft replied. For a man with such disdain for politicians, he was certainly adept at sounding like one. "Besides, I would rather have my brother working for me than against me. Had I left it any longer, the Moriartys and Magnussens of this world would have surely made him a better offer."

The surprising thing was that this made some sort of sense; it was – however tragic – perfectly believable. It was hard to imagine, John reflected, that at the point he entered Sherlock's life – or Sherlock entered his – his friend was already over the worst.

"I hope…" Mycroft began again, perhaps picking up on John's discomfort. "…you realise that my position has changed? That…my view of sentiment and its role and influence in a person's life – my brother's life - has…shifted?"

John looked up in time to catch a look in Mycroft's eyes that he couldn't recall seeing before. He somehow looked…vulnerable. Was this repentance? John watched him place his well-manicured hand on top of his glass, as though contemplating his next words.

"Do you think my future sister-in-law will forgive me?" he enquired. His tone was changed, tentative.

John felt his features relax and, against his will, pull into a smile - Mycroft Holmes was scared of Molly Hooper!

"Molly is the most compassionate, patient and forgiving human being I know," John replied. "She is fierce when it comes to defending and protecting Sherlock, but I've never seen her bear a grudge."

He thought back to the couple of occasions when he knew he'd caused Molly to feel genuine anger towards him; when he had blamed Sherlock for Mary's death, when he had forced Molly to shut Sherlock out and kept him away from his goddaughter. When he'd beaten Sherlock to a pulp in that hospital morgue, when grief was still searing his heart. It had caused him real, lasting shame – after all, Molly Hooper had the forbearance of a saint, and didn't anger easily. But their friendship had survived the course, mostly thanks to Molly and her amazing capacity for forgiveness and understanding. And the fact that she was head over heels in love probably helped.

He reflected on Mycroft's words again.

"Wait, you said 'future sister-in-law'. Mycroft, do you know something I don't?"

"That would hardly be an unusual state of affairs now, would it?" he replied, with typical smugness. "But on this occasion am merely assuming – with a good degree of confidence – that my brother intends to marry Dr Hooper sooner rather than later."

"I thought maybe you were helping him engineer something," John muttered, wondering why he suddenly felt a sense of disappointment.

"Grand romantic gestures are not really my area," Mycroft said. "I'm afraid in that regard, my little brother is on his own."

John couldn't help but think to his own grand romantic gesture three years ago, all of the planning that went into it, and the fact that he ended up spending that evening in a caff with a dead man and a lot of questions. Just not the question he'd planned on asking that night.

"You know, this whole thing blindsided me completely," he heard himself saying, shaking his head. "I keep asking myself how I didn't see it, how I didn't know how Sherlock felt about Molly."

Mycroft gave another wry smile.

"In fairness to you, Dr Watson, I don't believe my brother really knew either – until our sister enlightened him."

It didn't take much to be back in that room again; the plywood coffin the centre, the live feed from Molly's home on the screen in front of them. The feeling of helplessness, particularly when Molly changed the game, turned the tables on Sherlock.

"As soon as he said it…" John said. "I couldn't see his face, but the way he said it…Sherlock's told a lot of lies in his time, and nobody lies like Sherlock, but I knew right away he was telling Molly the truth. That he meant it."

"Indeed," Mycroft replied. "Although it was hard to conceive at the time that any of us might survive to witness the consequences."

"And to be honest," John continued. "When he didn't immediately go to her when we got back, I thought that was it - all forgotten, everything forgiven, back to normal. 'Course I had no idea he was planning that whole ridiculous scheme."

"Hm?"

John looked at Mycroft's questioning expression, which confused him momentarily.

"The pregnancy," he continued, waiting for Mycroft's expression to change to one of recognition. "His plan to get Molly pregnant…aaannd you have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

He sighed. Jesus, the one time he appeared to have more information than Mycroft Holmes and he wished he'd never opened his bloody mouth.

"He thought it would make Molly happy," John sighed. May as well finish what he's started. "Except he didn't actually check with her first."

Mycroft made a humming sound.

"That sounds like the sort of terrible plan my brother would devise," he replied.

"You're not going to tell your parents, are you?"

It was hard to believe that he hadn't just handed Mycroft a very convenient hand-grenade to lob into a family gathering at the time of his choosing.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"I can't see any advantage in imparting that particular information," he answered, crossing one leg over the other. "Contrary to what you may think, John, I do have some investment in my family's happiness. As it is, my mother and father are perhaps seeing for the first time in Sherlock the son they always should have had. Who am I to deny them that?"

The unusually sincere tone of his words came as a huge relief - perhaps the secret was safe in Mycroft's hands. But it made John start to consider something else…

"And what about you?" he asked. "Can the same be said for their eldest son, too?"

Mycroft responded with one of his inscrutable smiles.

"I am afraid I am beyond redemption, Dr Watson."

John shook his head; he wasn't letting Mycroft get off that easily.

"I was there in that room at Sherrinford, Mycroft. When Eurus wanted to make Sherlock choose? You were prepared to sacrifice yourself."

Mycroft glanced across to where his hand was toying with the smooth lip of the whisky tumbler.

"I'm a pragmatic man, John. It was clear to me that in those circumstances, I had less to offer my brother than you did."

There was a pause. Mycroft pursed his lips, then released them again, his gaze still fixed somewhere on the side table.

"And of course I bore no small amount of responsibility for our situation," he added. "Sherlock believed he committed the crime of hubris when he failed to anticipate Vivienne Norbury's next move..."

John swallowed, felt his jaw clench. When he looked up, he realised that Mycroft was waiting for his permission to continue. The smallest of nods appeared to be enough.

"…And when I stood in that room, at the mercy of my sister - who had already shown she didn't know the meaning of the word – I knew exactly how he felt. All that time, I believed I was in control of the situation, that I had foreseen and planned for every possibly outcome. But it was pure arrogance – and there comes a point where arrogance becomes folly."

"You wanted to make it an easy choice for Sherlock."

Mycroft smiled.

"I'd like to think it wouldn't have been easy, per se, but I suppose I hoped I could influence his decision, yes," he said. "The magnitude of what I'd done…the corollary effect of every decision I'd ever made regarding my sister. I denied her that which I saw little value in myself, but which mattered immensely to Eurus – a place in a family."

"And the love of a brother who understood her," John finished, thinking about Sherlock's dogged determination to build a lasting dialogue with his damaged sister.

Mycroft dipped his head in a nod; his expression said precisely.

"Do your parents know what Eurus tried to do to Sherlock and Molly?" John asked. It was something he hadn't actually considered until that moment.

"I haven't told them," Mycroft replied. "They know about the governor and the Garrideb brothers; they know about the therapist she killed. But I left the rest to Sherlock, at his discretion. Given the way things have worked out, I hope that particular chapter can be water under the bridge. Like I said, I have no particular desire to cause unnecessary ructions in my family."

John glanced over at the clock on the mantelpiece; it really was late, and he'd be an idiot not to think about going to bed now. He set his glass on the table.

"Considering we all went through hell," he began. "A surprising number of positives seemed to have come out of it."

Mycroft looked up, acknowledging this thought with a brief nod.

"Who'd have thought I would become an uncle in less than a year?" he said with a wry smile. But John noted that Mycroft's attempts at cynicism were half-hearted at best; he wasn't fooling anyone.

John held out his hand for Mycroft's glass, intending to tidy up their mess before bed.

"Boy or girl?" he asked, grinning.

Mycroft handed over his tumbler, fixing John with a look.

"I know that my brother feels very strongly that we shall we welcoming a male heir to the Holmes name," he said. "Therefore, naturally, my money has to go on a girl."

"Mine, too," John said. "That's the generally consensus down at the Met as well. Anderson is running a book. Although I've also seen 'Vulcan', 'Timelord' and 'evil genius' given as alternative suggestions."

Mycroft snorted.

"Our mother and father won't care, as long as they can visit once a week and adorn it in ridiculous outfits."

John turned to head through the door to the kitchen.

"Yeah, judging by those photographs, they have a real eye for ridiculous outfits," he said. "That lederhosen is going to take a long time to scrub from my brain."

Mycroft stood up, cocking his head as though to concede that small victory to John. He checked his pocket watch before tucking it back into his waistcoat.

"You heading up?" John asked, pausing.

"Ah, in a short while," Mycroft replied, discreetly stretching his legs. "Thought I might try and catch Alicia before she turns in for the night."

John smiled to himself, noting the oddly shy expression on Mycroft's face in the aftermath of his words. He felt as though he had been entrusted with a state secret, and it felt strangely…good. He deposited the glasses in the dishwasher, stopping in the hallway to lean into the sitting room before he left.

"Okay, well…goodnight, Mycroft," John replied. "It's, ah…it's been good to…you know…thanks for the drink."

He started to head towards the stairs when he heard Mycroft clear his throat; instinctively, John knew it was a call for his attention.

"I, ah, I hope you don't consider yourself and your daughter to be guests here, John," he said, looking at the floor before apparently finding the ability to meet John's eye. "You will always be welcome in this home as family. You are Sherlock's brother, too, after all."

Say what you will about the Holmes brothers, John thought, but they always have the capacity to surprise.

"Thank you, Mycroft," he replied, their exchange of nods an acknowledgement of each other, like a handshake.

As John started up the stairs to his bedroom, it was with a feeling that the world had been turned on its axis – and, as he always did in these situations, he couldn't help but wonder what Mary Watson would have made of it all.