Disclaimer: I make no money from any characters and events I borrowed for this fic.

A/N: This wasn't supposed to be anywhere near this long (or this late), but then the Master happened.

Christmas Day, 2009

Looking back from some time down the line, Mycroft will identify the sharing of that chocolate cake as the last peaceful Christmas celebration he'll have for years.

Alien presence on Earth in general, and in London in particular, increases alarmingly after that and Mycroft is dreading the day his brother will find out the truth (and inescapably involve himself): a day that is coming closer, since every episode is more blantant and difficult to explain away than the last.

The spaceship crash-landing in the Thames is possibly the worst, because it hits him close to home, so to speak.

(Mycroft comes out of the harrowing day with firm plans for countermeasures against shapeshifters of all kinds to be drawn up post haste. Really, they should have been in place already!

He has barely averted World War III – no thanks to the current world leaders, nor anyone in the current administration for that matter: how could no-one but him notice that the supposed Acting Prime Minister wasn't, in fact, Joseph Green? Never mind how odd it was that the chairman of a Parliamentary committee for the monitoring of sugar standards in exported confectionary was the highest-ranking member of the government still within London?

But then, people are slow, even in the face of obvious clues – much to his annoyance: it is clear to him from the start that the entire thing is a hoax to incite panic and provoke a war, yet it is all he can do to ensure that even if the UN releases the codes for a nuclear strike, as it looks likely – people can be unbearably stupid – it will do no good to whoever is pulling the strings of this operation – obviously someone with a clear agenda, and the ability to impersonate Humans.

How could they not have safety measures for such an eventuality already? Mycroft hasn't felt this unprepared since he clean forgot an assignment – for the first and last time – when he was thirteen.

The disastrous state that international relations will be in after this is a looming nightmare and the added stress of the media storm around the event is certainly not helping.

Not a good day by any stretch of the imagination.

And if the blowing up of 10 Downing Street proves to be a solution – an efficient one, even, but also a headache-inducing one, not to mention expensive for the national budget – that does not mean his mood isn't sour; and there is the decimation of UNIT besides, which Britain will take time and effort to recover from, and the aftermath of the exhausting day to handle – bless Harriet Jones and her quick-thinking, she handles the press and emergency services magnificently and her proud, no-nonsense speech is exactly what the political climate calls for: Mycroft can already see her brilliant career unrolling before her – perhaps the one pleasing note in all of this.)

(He will see satisfactory Protocols for dealing with the fraudulent impersonation of a legally elected representative in place within the month.)

The alien slavers with a fondness for blood and bones are also a rather awful annoyance (Mycroft almost curses aloud as he races back from the country – and that is the last Christmas he'll spend with his parents, he swears, no matter how much Mummy pleads. What is it with aliens and Christmas, anyway? Mycroft is really not impressed with the timing), but far from the worst (at the very least, Harriet Jones proves herself up to the task of managing the nation, even if he isn't there to hold her hand.)

(It is a pity her star is already setting – he quite likes her – but perhaps this Harold Saxon won't be a bad replacement, all in all, once he claws his way up to the top.)

Mycroft weathers the disaster that is the destruction of Torchwood One rather better than most (he regrets not shutting them down sooner, certainly, he rather sinned of hybris there – and the horrifying body count is there to remind him of his failure in assessing the risk they posed to the nation; but he isn't truly affected either on a professional or personal level. Besides, he is quickly reassured that Harkness has the rebuilding well in hand and is doing a rather better job then his predecessors, even with limited resources.)

The Thames being drained a mere fortnight after the Annual Draw Off had ended and service resumed, however, is not what a perpetually budget-constrained municipality needs, doubly so when it leads to demonstrations in the streets (thank God for UNIT and their long experience in handling the Doctor's catastrophes, even in their reduced numbers they seem to be up to the task and Mycroft is quite willing to wash his hands of that particular alien – fund raising for repair measures is more than challenging enough).

And there is the new Minister of Defence Saxon's troubling response to the starship in the sky (the use of British Army tanks to destroy it is novel and not in a good way, though Mycroft will reserve judgement for a bit while he observes the man).

Even more troubling are Saxon's loud speeches about the existence of extraterrestrial life and how Britain must do something about it. He certainly isn't helping to keep panicked reactions at bay and while Mycroft appreciates how popular it is making him (especially in the wake of that hospital vanishing for hours – to the Moon of all places, if survivors are to be believed) that doesn't mean he approves of the tactic.

In truth, Mycroft isn't altogether sure what to think of the new Minister of Defence and it is a worrisome fact: he hasn't been so uncertain about someone in years.

He isn't adverse to supporting Saxon as Prime Minister – for a politician, he appears to be surprisingly trustworthy – but something niggles at Mycroft in the back of his mind, a discordant note in the symphony the man is conducting, and it leaves him with mixed feelings about the whole situation.

For starters, Mycroft is baffled that he never noticed Harold Saxon before, because how is this even possible? Someone as remarkable as that cannot have gone unnoticed so long – unless he wanted to, like Mycroft himself, but even so… and why change strategy all of a sudden? He's certainly going for the spotlights now...

This bears investigation.

It has been a while since Mycroft had to actually check on anything himself: he has a carefully constructed web of assistants, aides, secretaries, informants, and other minions to do the legwork for him, now, (and occasionally his brother), and merely goes through their summarized reports unless something truly important comes up.

Harold Saxon and the oddities piling up around him rank as truly important.

The man's best-selling autobiography, Kiss Me, Kill Me, is fraught with inconsistencies that, strangely enough, do not seem to raise any alarm in Mycroft's assistants – it is as if they can't spot them, or if they do, they can't bring themselves to care – and even more strangely, tend to disappear when Mycroft gets closer – people suddenly 'remembering' Saxon's youth even as records of it 'appear'… it is all rather disturbing.

Mycroft is used to thinking of himself as a good judge of character and his instincts push him to trust Saxon, but he finds little to rationally support this assessment and uncharachteristically, he starts to doubt himself.

It is altogether troubling.

Mycroft is also unsure about Saxon's crown jewel, the Archangel Network – hailed as a telecommunications breakthrough the world over – which he can't seem to make head or tail of (and how odd is that? He might grant Saxon a greater understanding of engineering, which has never been an interest of his, but at least the basic principles should be within his ability to grasp.) Of course, it is an excellent piece of telecommunications engineering; everybody has Archangel (Mycroft himself included) because it is just better than any other networks (and those are slowly passing to being carried by Archangel too anyway). But one thing is sure: it is not a mere mobile phone network. Those fifteen satellites in orbit have another purpose, one he can't quite figure out.

(It is thrilling and distressing in almost equal measure.)

He knows – he can feel almost – that something is afoot. Something unnerving, something dangerous in the broadest meaning of the term, and it is rooted in the blond man playing the media darling so masterfully; it is bigger, though: bigger than just the Archangel Network, bigger even than just Saxon's careers, he suspects, but what exactly it is, Mycroft cannot yet see. He can sense it brewing, can almost trace the contours of a picture he can but half-see, but it is not yet within his ability to make it out properly.

It is disconcerting.

Mycroft knows his mind is subconsciously processing clues he has yet to properly frame consciously but it is worrisome that he cannot see the plan clearly even though he knows there is one.

And Harold Saxon, who is so obviously at the centre of it, remains surprisingly – frustratingly – outside of Mycroft's reach; in fact, he is actively reducing Mycroft's influence by growing his own – a rather unexpected complication, and a testament to Saxon's Machiavellian skills.

Mycroft might just have found a match for his own intellect: something he had not believed possible.

Nevertheless, the slogan "Vote Saxon" is met with enthusiasm everywhere, making him predict another lanslide victory in the general election, like Harriet Jones before (...It is a true pity that her health failed her, but alas, such is life. Then again, Mycroft is having some health concerns of his own: surely it is not normal to hear a persistent drumbeat no-one else perceives, with no evident physical cause? He almost laughs in his doctor's face when he delicately suggests 'stress management strategies' – as if he hadn't coped with high stress levels all his adult life! – but something must be the matter with him…) and like it or not, Mycroft must prepare himself for working closely with the disquieting man who will almost certainly be Prime Minister come summer, and definitely not favour Mycroft, much less heed his advice.

It won't be the first time he has to work with, or most often around, an elected government (and the legions of politicians from other parties flocking to the winner's side) he disapproves of, of course. It is somewhat startling however, to realize that resigning himself to a highly intelligent individual likely to oppose him strenuously rising to power is more vexing than resigning himself to an incompetent moron likely to oppose him strenuously doing the same.

The man himself seems as wary of Mycroft as Mycroft is of him.

He seems to see Mycroft, in a way most people around him don't. They tend to remember him only when they're in trouble and need his help, or when he drops by to collect on a favour he is owed, and Mycroft works incessantly to keep things this way. Saxon is different and it would be interesting if it wasn't so troublesome.

He should perhaps find it flattering that Saxon so obviously on guard against him – Mycroft doesn't even merit an invitation to Saxon's wedding to the Honourable Lucy Cole (and it's been a long while since he has been excluded from this kind of social events in the political world of Great Britain, his influence having spread all the more for having remained discreet) – but it does make things more complicated.

Apart from everything else… why is Saxon wary of Mycroft? Two minds such as theirs should more likely work together than in opposition and yet… Can Mycroft really have lived in the same country as such a man and never noticed? Surely they would have crossed paths before? In this world of dull goldfish, a mind like Saxon's must shine – so how has he escaped Mycroft's notice so far?

He isn't even entirely sure of what Saxon's end game is (are they even playing on the same board? They don't seem to be using the same rules).

Some things about him make so little sense. Why support Richard Lazarus' research? It took Mycroft all of an evening to dismiss it as infeasable and he was not at all surprised that it turned into tragedy (good thing he didn't bother attending the soiree). Yet Saxon appeared fascinated. The misuse of Home Office resources is also troubling (what could a medical student of little relevance possibly have done – or know – to warrant being spied on, and her family so carefully monitored?) and he knows it is Saxon that has hijacked Torchwood Three, sending them to the Himalayas for no logical reason except to get them out of the way (also rather troubling, especially since Harkness is nowhere to be found).

What does Harold Saxon want?

More and more, Mycroft grows worried about this politician marching to a far too different drummer.

(Harold Saxon does, indeed, become Prime Minister of Britain in May 2008. Mycroft never hears his victory speech: the kill orders for him, and other select threats to the Master's power, are sent before the vote counting is completed and they are barely given any time to react to USA President Winters' abrupt death before a similar fate befalls them.

And then, of course, none of this happens.)

Quite suddenly, Saxon and Winters are both gone – speculations run wild, with no sensible explanation forthcoming – and Mycroft is left reeling.

(Not that the loss is great, all things considered, but there is little sense to be found in any of the halting explanations he can put together and he can't stand not knowing. If he was his brother, he'd be yelling from a rooftop, demanding the universe explain what the hell has happened.)

(He will never know the full truth.)

Meanwhile, of course, there are also more mundane concerns all along, that take up as much as Mycroft's time and attention as the various alien emergencies cropping up with such irritating frequency.

The world is entering a global financial crisis that will keep him busy for years, the ebbs of internal politics – even independently of Saxon's baffling career – are changing in ways that need to be carefully monitored and sometimes re-oriented and, in short, a host of problems at home and abroad engage even Mycroft's brain with a certain level of interest.

Yes, 2005 was clearly the calm before the storm.

And though Mycroft isn't looking forward to the third Christmas after that with any sort of impatience, of course not… well. He kind of is.

Except Harkness doesn't show up when he should.

(Sometimes, patterns are broken, he reminds himself. There could be a number of reasons for this – Mycroft has come up with several logical ones at the drop of a hat – and it's not like he misses the man – sentiment of that sort is perfecly useless.)

...The fact remains that he is disappointed.

(This is irritating. Why is Jack Harkness always able to unsettle him, even when he isn't there? That man is infuriating.)

He briefly considers seeking the man out himself – it's not like he doesn't know where he is based – but he dismisses the idea at once with even greater irritation (caring is not an advantage).

Of course, he is quite busy that Christmas, what with an incongruous, flying replica of the Titanic almost eradicating London (Mycroft's too-quick mind works out very fast the immediate and long-term consequences that the nuclear destruction of their capital will cause, and he comes as close to panic as he allows himself, knowing millions of refugees, tense scrambling for unlikely international support, and quite possibly a wave of nationalist and violent attitudes are in their future if they can't stop this, and that they have no means to do so.

Nor is he particularly happy that Her Majesty so blatantly trusts the Doctor, to the point that the mad alien actually has a phone line directly to her: next thing he'll be parking his absurd ship in the gardens of Buckingham Palace!)

He still finds the time to carefully analyse his own disappointment (over a relationship built on a smattering of shared days and nothing more, as he pointedly reminds himself) and he comes to the conclusion that it is for the best – it is far more sensible, and altogether safer, to simply accept the distance that has been placed between them and focus on more important matters.

(Mycroft can't know that Jack doesn't make it because he is busy being tortured and killed day in and day out by a crazily powerful, psychotic Time Lord, because of course, that Year... Never Was.

He also can't know that the last few years have been a mess of unparalleled proportions for Jack, what with losing Rose to Daleks and Cybermen – he has cried over the list of fallen at Canary Wharf like he hadn't in decades, knowing he wouldn't see the bright star of a girl he loves again, after all – along with most of Torchwood – good riddance, but still – and let's not even mention the amount of work fixing that mess required, thank God for UNIT, really; but Mycroft knows nothing of Rose of course...

And then the Thames being drained, the Titanic crashing into Buckingham Palace, and then not crashing, but only by a hairsbreath, that very same Christmas – not that Mycroft will ever notice, of course, but Jack has more experience with alternate timelines and the technology to track them, although he can't very well show up at Mycroft's to celebrate the fact they didn't go up in a fungus of radiation when the genius will never know they would have...

And then there is his not-relationship with his daughter and lying to his grandson and fairies and cannibals and cyberwomen in their basement and God, Jack should be used to all this madness by now, and maybe having a team again helps a little, he'll give them that much, but things keep piling up, anyone would be a little unhinged, right?...

And then he got to finally meet the Doctor again, but it was all wrong, and then the Master – although Jack doesn't think aobut that Year, nope, not ever, he does need to cling to his leftover sanity, so just no – and really, the amount of Retcon that mess required is crippling Torchwood budget, it really is, if aliens don't stop invading Earth at least for a few years he'll end up broke and...

...and the truth is, Jack is a mess of unparalleled proportions himself.

Mycroft has no idea.)

Mycroft gets over his disappointment very quickly. He has perfect control of his emotions after all, it is just a matter of acknowledging and then dismissing the surprising reaction to a simple missed meeting. Quite easily done.

There are then more mundane concerns to return to, again and always, like the need of a new Prime Minister now that Harriet Jones' career has come to an abrupt end and Harold Saxon's star has risen and then fallen so rapidly (Mycroft spends a lot of time – a lot of time – wondering what possessed him to support that particular candidate in his bid for 10 Downing Street, because it makes no sense at all in retrospect: he can't have been in his right mind. And isn't that a disturbing thought?) or the fact that too many nations he disapproves of are now testing nuclear weapons; there is Mummy's failing health and the necessary preparations for London's hosting of the 2012 Olympics, Russia's gambits on natural gas and Sherlock spiralling down a worrisome path of manic recklessness and depressive boredom dotted with life-threatening stunts, bad-to-worse flats and occasional relapses that make Mycroft feel more tired than managing both Koreas through yet another war-threatening crisis.

(And he can't help, God, he wishes he could take over his brother's life and fix it but he can't control Sherlock's behaviour at all, even trying generally backfires, all he can do is worry, constantly.

He can't understand his brother. He might not be as clever as Mycroft, but he isn't too far behind. He could do anything at all, and yet. It's not that he lacks passion – the violin is proof of that – it's that he lacks direction; and he won't let Mycroft give it to him – foolish little brother.

He thought playing detective might work, but even DI Lestrade only helps so much, and lack of cases leads to danger nights and a rollercoaster of enthusiasm and depression that almost always skirts Sherlock's death and Mycroft is so tired of it. If only he could lock his brother up in a lab somewhere… surely he could keep himself occupied?...)

There is, in short, a whole world spinning incessantly under Mycroft's careful watch, so he pushes Jack Harkness out of his mind and concentrates on keeping his nation (and occasionally, his planet) working as he believes it should.

When he eventually sees Jack Harkness again, a year later than he expected, the first thing he thinks is that his web of minions needs a serious overhaul because nothing he's read in any of their reports can possibly explain the devastation in Jack's eyes, the weariness in his body. The despondency Mycroft can easily read in him, the loss and deep-seated fear and sense of failure. The grief. And...

Mycroft can't help being a genius. His mind works out clues so fast he literally can't stop himself from drawing the right conclusions. It's reflex. And he has enough knowledge of psychology to recognize the aftereffects of torture and his blood goes cold.

(Not terribly recent, months past at the least, and pushed out of his own consciousness quite deliberately, but still effecting him. The guilt and grief are strong enough to be touched, too – he almost feels ill himself, just looking at Jack. God, what happened to him?)

They don't talk about their jobs, not openly (never openly – Harkness has been in a secret organization for so long he has probably forgotten how to be open and Mycroft, as a civil servant, is highly aware of the importance of discretion) and they most certainly don't ask (Mycroft won't, because it's an unspoken rule he sees the sense in, but he wants to, oh, he wants to, to know for sure, and for once, he would accept his deductions being proven wrong, really he'd be relieved if they were, though of course, they wouldn't be) but he should already know, he really should, why doesn't he know? Clearly, he needs to replace the incompetent idiots who work for him with more efficient workers because he doesn't know and he cannot ask and this is unacceptable!

There is a lot of silence between them because Mycroft needs to think – a rush of unexpected emotion always takes a while to properly process and handle – and Jack is in no state to draw him out.

Their time in bed that night is less about pleasure than about comfort (and Mycroft doesn't do comfort – useless thing, pointless in most cases, people get over their need for it eventually whether it is offered or not, why waste his time on it?) …No, Mycroft isn't much for giving comfort. Caring is not an advantage – how often has he told Sherlock this? – but he remembers glaring neon lights and too-white coats and a sad looking tree in a corner and a vial of serum that brought his baby brother back from the abyss Mycroft let him throw himself in; and he makes an effort.

Surprisingly, it seems to be enough, inadequate as it feels. But then, he is a genius. When he does something, of course he does it well. He wonders, though. He doesn't really know if it'll last, if he helped at all beyond tonight, and he cannot ask, and so he'll keep wondering.

He doesn't throw Jack out in the morning either. (Patterns keep being broken and he isn't sure how to feel about it. He'll have to think this over carefully.) Mycroft has work to do – so much work, always – and his brother to worry about – constantly – but Jack is warm and strong and smells good and surely even a useless sentimental holiday like Christmas can have some good in it now and then?

But Jack himself leaves before he can even offer the man breakfast, like always, and Mycroft locks the frivolous thoughts he has started to entertain away with relieving ease.

(He will not hear from the man again for a good long while.)