Disclaimer: If you recognize some character or event, go ahead and assume it isn't mine.


11. Christmas Day, 2012

When Sherlock meets the Doctor for the first time (the leather-wearing, casually destructive version so clearly in love with the unremarkable, spirited blonde teen) Mycroft's job becomes infinitely more complicated.

(Not the job he is paid for, that is always the same, Korea and Russia notwithstanding: the self-appointed job of keeping his foolish, rash, slightly-insane brother safe.)

There is the time John Watson adopts an alien cat and the time when half the MET is struck with an alien flu that turns out to have been deliberately targeted (Sherlock's delight in the whole case is slightly disturbing) and the time when a group of alien fanatics chooses Earth to preech their True Religion (as if Humans didn't have more than enough of those already) and the time Sherlock almost interrupts a session of the full Parliament because he thinks a member of a reptilian race has hidden in the air vents of the main hall (when Mycroft can tell at a glance the scaly creature has veered off to the heater room – it is plainly written in the maid's apron and the disarrayed luggage of the public broadcasting team and the obvious traces on the wall)...

There are the several occasions when John and Sherlock get kidnapped by aliens (and he had had such high hopes, at first, that Doctor Watson would manage to keep Sherlock in check!) adding themselves to the several occasions when the pair get kidnapped by local criminals (then again, he had seen in Watson's hand tremor that he would more gladly walk through fire with his little brother than keep himself and Sherlock out of trouble, and at least, the good doctor has proven himself loyal, resourceful and capable of patching his brother up – Mycroft can hardly ask for more from a mere man).

Not to mention that mess with the Americans (he rather likes that Canton Delaware III, truly, but it still rankles that the situation is handled mostly across the pond – Americans are far too prone to make a mess of things, and their propensity for guns is irritating: he'd be more comfortable if the operation was under his control), the dragging aftermaths of the Medusa Cascade Incident (which Mycroft prefers to think about as little as possible, please and thank you) or Ms. Adler so skillfully destroying months and years of anti-terrorism planning (and costing him far too much professionally – he hasn't been so furious with his brother since Sherlock was eight and destroyed Mycroft's prized telescope for 'an experiment'. Although in the end, it is Mycroft's own fault, because the entire thing was textbook: one lonely naïve man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special. He should never have put her on Sherlock's path.)

In comparison, Sherlock breaking into secret facilities (what is Watson thinking, letting him do such a stunt? At least it's Baskerville and not Torchwood), attempting to relive a victim's last moments (and why DI Lestrade is whining about it to him, Mycroft doesn't know) or pretending to be a comic books villain (really, why is Doctor Watson allowing, nay, encouraging such behaviour? Mycroft'll have to have a word with him, again ), all rather pale into ordinariness, particularly in light of the confusing reports coming in from the countryside of Gloucester (Mycroft has ended up paying an operative to live in Leadworth, just to keep an eye on the mad alien – the bow-tied version – who keeps showing up for any sort of reasons, including a wedding, of all things) and the scrambling on UNIT's part to handle the various smog-loving, bus stealing, mind-manipulating, and Lord knows what else, alien threats that just don't leave Earth well-enough alone.

It comes to the point that when Mycroft receives a request to locate 'an 18 th century pirate' in 'a 200 miles radius from London', he just sighs the long-suffering sigh of elder brothers everywhere and delegates the task to a minion.

It is a pity he can no longer send the bill for the overtime to Torchwood Three – it's their job they're failing to do, after all; it could have helped with the budget reductions they're all contending with, and if Jack Harkness had chosen to come and complain in person… well. Mycroft wouldn't have minded.

(The thought rather surprises him, especially after all this time.)

But of course the man is nowhere to be found.

Not after the utter nightmare designated as "456" – children in danger all over the world, people losing their heads left and right (for good reasons, but to no gain whatsoever), Mycroft's allies and co-workers disappointingly indulging in panic when there is work to do, countermeasures to come up with... damn it, even a genius like him can't very well manage a crisis of this magnitude on his own, especially with the idiocy spreading among those in power – Green concerning himself with nothing but saving his own skin (and not even having the decency to let other people do their part, the damn moron: destroying that fool's career afterwards will be too little, too late, and not nearly gratifying enough), Frobisher gasping and drowning in waters too deep for him to swim in (and eventually taking the path of an elegant Greek tragedy as his way out of the world-wide disaster), even the Home Secretary losing her usual coolness and snapping irrationally (he never would have expected Denise Riley of all people to become so ruthlessly emotive, but he supposes being a mother trumps even being a politician).

The 456 crisis is exhausting, nightmarish, and with no hope of a positive resolution. (If Mycroft could get his hands on whoever mishandled the First Contact back in 1965…) He hates being so helpless, but all he could do is work on strategies to minimize and attenuate the inevitably devastating consequences.

He regrets his inability to protect his… friend?… and goes over the reports on the destruction of Torchwood Three with more sorrow than he's allowed himself in years, but there is just too much to do to spare any thought for the betrayed Torchwood agents. He has a world to settle from justified panic.

Later (much later), he'll wonder if there is anything he could do for Jack… If the man will even come to him.

(He doesn't.)

Later, he'll wade through the non-official reports surrounding the 456 Regulation to try to piece together Harkness' whereabouts.

(He disappeared quite thoroughly.)

Later, he'll be informed of Harkness' grandson's sacrifice, and he'll understand.

No, Harkness won't be found on Earth after that.

And Mycroft doesn't blame him.

He has other things to worry about than Harkness' vanishing act in any case – first and last, Moriarty.

Above it all, and underneath it all, there are Moriarty's game and Mycroft's own gamble with the dangerous man: and suddenly most of Mycroft's life seems to fade into a greyish background, unimportant around the sharp clarity and vivid colours of The Plan he and Sherlock have concocted, and how it fits and locks with the genius consulting criminal's plots.

Move by move, they play the Game – through daring gambits and costly mistakes, through clever bluffs and quick reactions, the thrill of gaining advantage and the thrill of risking a loss – they play the Game until they case their worthy opponent into a seeming check-mate, where the White King Moriarty, initiator of the Game, believes himself to be concluding it as well (Sherlock's reputation an unavoidable sacrifice – nothing gained with nothing risked – and Dr. Watson's unwilling cooperation just as distastefully required, though Mycroft is sorry) while it is really the Blacks' victory, even with their Horses under threat of those snipers, in no small measure thanks to the overlooked Bishop Dr. Hooper.

(It is all rather exhilarating.)

The day of the final meeting between his brother and the dangerous psycopath they've been playing with is one of the most nerve-wrecking of Mycroft's life, but they are ready: there are thirteen different possible scenario that might take place on that roof and they've set up a solution for each and every one of them; his brother needs only text him the code word to set the right one in motion.

Of course, Moriarty does the unpredictable – shooting himself, how idiotic; ego, Mycroft reflects, might just be as much a disadvantage as caring – but they adapt; they'll always adapt, and they'll always play the Game to the very end and beyond, and eventually, they will always win.

So Sherlock 'dies' and things go on, The Plan unfolding.

Mycroft has long since started to gather all information about their foe's criminal network, knowing every shard of it is indispensable: piece by piece, they'll tear Moriarty organization to shreds. Mycroft is confident in what he has extracted from the genius criminal while he had him in his clutches and just as confident in the intelligence his minions continue to gather: at this point, it is just a lengthy matter of legwork.

(And isn't it convenient that Sherlock is the one who handles it?)

With every days that passes, with every report of risks taken and close calls, Mycroft knows they're approaching the end they've aimed for from the start. He is developing an ulcer worrying for his brother, of course, but what else could he have done?

(John Watson's accusations ring in his ears anyway and all his logical rationalizations sound hollow.)

(But they are winning. That'll be enough.)

By the time summer rolls around, he is so distracted even the absurd foray of the Doctor at the 2012 Olympics passes him by – he is rather more concerned with that odd case in New Dehli, that has his brother's signature all over it, whatever Sherlock might try to claim: as if that Inspector could have worked out the depth to which the chocolate flake had sunk into the victim's ice-cream cone on his own! He's supposed to be hiding, taking down Moriarty's web from the shadows, but he just can't help getting involved, can he? Oh, no, not Sherlock Holmes!

(Let's not even go over the Tibetan jaunt. Really, let's not. Mycroft is already drinking too much tea as it is.)

The following Christmas festivities are a nightmare in slow, slow motion, dragging on at a snail's pace. (He managed to avoid the family dinner at the cottage, but his parents showed up in London and he can't very well throw them out.) Sherlock is who-knows-where – Mycroft has lost contact and is quietly going spare; nothing at work is complicated enough to sufficiently engage his attention. Mummy is upset and Father accusing and both are trying not to show it (they know, obviously, Mycroft would not be so cruel as to keep them in the dark about their child, but as usual, they don't understand).

When Harkness does not come on Christmas Day, Mycroft doesn't summon the energy to be upset.