Mycroft Holmes was a dignified man. He was the head of British Government. He was suave, educated, and extremely intelligent, a very savvy political mind. He had sophisticated tastes (which included a penchant for exotic teas, fine wines, French cuisine, and a very prominent sweet tooth, the last of which he shared with his younger brother, though this was a little known fact). He had inherited powers of deduction that could match (if not outshine) those of Sherlock (the boy had to have learned how to hone them somewhere, after all). You didn't become the virtual governing force of a nation without the ability to read people with accuracy and manipulate them accordingly.

Mycroft was a Holmes; he was the eldest child, the inheritor of a legacy. A burden which weighed heavily across his shoulders in a way that it did not affect his younger brother. He was secretive, solitary, distinguished. He could be alternately imposing, dramatic, dashing and charming. He was fluent in over fifteen languages, a master chess player, winner of innumerable accolades (diplomatic, educational, and covert). Though he would hesitate to say that he knew everything (it was not wise to place all of one's cards on the table, after all), it would be foolish to think, for even a moment, that Mycroft did not know nearly everything worth knowing, and, what he didn't know, he would find out in short order and undoubtedly use in the most advantageous way possible.

Mycroft Siger Ian Arthur Holmes was also, notably, largely responsible for raising the world's only consulting detective. The success or failure of that task was something that Mycroft debated on a regular basis. In a world filled with international crises, espionage, economic troubles, terrorism, idiots, global warming, bureaucracy, fools-the list could go on forever-Mycroft's most serious concern was his younger brother. It had been since the child was born. Mycroft worried about Sherlock constantly. It was lucky that his mind was able to multi-task so efficiently, since a portion of his consciousness was always devoted to Sherlock.

Recent events had certainly been a cause for increased preoccupation and surveillance. Sherlock did not like being looked after. Not ostensibly, at least. He had protested quite strongly towards Mycroft's overtures in the most recent past, which had caused his elder brother to devise some more…clandestine means of monitoring and protecting his brother.

Where Mycroft was careful calculation and control, Sherlock was unadulterated brilliance exploding and expanding in unexpected directions. Why the boy elected to be a detective of all things, Mycroft would never fully comprehend. Though, he highly suspected that it had something to do with purely spiteful obstinacy. Where had he gone so wrong?

Mycroft was sitting in a very comfortable chair on a very private jet, flying back to London from a rather spontaneous (though unfortunately necessary) trip to Israel. He did so hate to get his hands dirty when it could be avoided. He was sipping a cup of tea and glancing out the window instead of at the forms laid before him on the table. He did have work to do, although, he seemed more disposed to reflection presently. It wasn't as if anyone would dare to complain about his present focal direction. He handled the bone china with appropriate delicacy and continued to follow his thoughts (a positively novel lack of direction behind them).

It had been an interesting two months for Mycroft (who, incidentally, had a high threshold for evaluating what qualified as being something worth noting). The first indication that he was entering into one of Sherlock's more "indecorous" periods was his brother's decision to align himself with Scotland Yard. Well, Mycroft deliberated, tapping his fountain pen decisively against the forms laid out before him, Sherlock had been playing his little game with the Yard for over a year. What was more interesting, his mouth thinned and he tilted his head to the side as he looked, once again, towards the window, was the fact that the Yard, finally seemed willing to play along.

Mycroft, who could be counted on to consider, weigh, and plan every option and every outcome of a given situation, had honestly never considered that anyone at the Yard would be willing to actually entertain (and he really did consider the detective lark to be a bit of an amusing frivol for his younger brother. Sherlock always did enjoy his diversions) "the world's only consulting detective" and his crazy ideas. Sherlock did not present a highly affable or approachable face to the world. Far from it, in fact, his personality and demeanor tended to keep people away, resulting in increased isolation, confusion, and (despite claims to the contrary) distress. It had always been thus when he was a child and his ability to assimilate had grown weaker and weaker as he matured. It was ironic that Sherlock could claim such grand insight into humanity and yet lack, himself, the basic ability to meld with them in any way. Mycroft blamed himself, at least in part. There was really no one else to admonish.

Mycroft had not invested in making sure that Sherlock was held at bay by the Yard. He had not thought it necessary. He knew what people saw when they looked at the young, slightly manic, waif who came to crime scenes, appeared excited at the sight of dead bodies and (especially) the unusual methods that resulted in the more gruesome deaths, frequently telling off everyone in the vicinity, and disparaging the "professionals" (whose egos often could not abide the onslaught). Sherlock may not have degrees in all the fields that these people did, but let it never be doubted that he was, incontrovertibly, smarter, more attentive to detail, engaged, and passionate than any of the rest. Even if it was just a game, he certainly played to win. It was in his nature to do so. The phase would pass, eventually…and he would apply the same level of focus to whatever came next…Mycroft had observed this pattern before…and, alternately, it would be a vast misuse of Sherlock's considerable skills and aptitudes to carry on with this hobby

Instead, his zeal for his current pastime was being furthered and encouraged by Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft had received the report from one of the agents that he had tailing Sherlock (one of the least inept ones) that Sherlock had been seen "playing detective" on a case, and Mycroft had decided right then and there to discover the motives behind his inclusion. He had begun to gather information on the good detective inspector, collecting surveillance, evaluating his motives (and sanity). Soon, he had gathered quite a file, and, when it seemed the man would not come to his senses of his own accord, Mycroft decided that he would need to intervene directly, and so he had. From his point of view there were two prominent options to consider (out of hundreds of potentialities): either convince the DI to ban Sherlock from involvement with law enforcement and detective work all together or persuade the DI to act as his own personal eyes and ears where Sherlock was concerned.

The choice was not really very difficult. From what he could tell from the detailed reports he received regarding Gregory Lestrade, the man was a decent sort of person, no devious motivations implied at all (rare, indeed). From what he gleaned from the most recent attempts to survey Sherlock, his brother seemed happier (loosely deployed here) and in better health and spirits than had been the case in quite some time. Though, based on experience, it was anyone's guess how long that would last or what would finally push him over the edge this time. Sherlock's grip on stability was tenuous at best. The most obvious (and in this case, correct, reasonable, and effective) solution would be to have the DI, who was noticeably becoming invested in Sherlock's wellbeing and in whom his brother was beginning to trust, act as a sort of "nanny." Sherlock's attitude towards Mycroft, particularly Mycroft's interference, was most hostility, resentment, and a desire for his older brother to "keep his nose out of other people's business," he was clear about this. Mycroft was concerned for his brother and needed someone to take care of him: that was also clear. Gregory, therefore, presented the best possible resolution of the problem. Mycroft determined this and arranged to meet him.

What he hadn't considered was the fact that he would develop an attraction to the DI. Gregory was so very normal, and, though quite a delicious specimen of humanity to behold, he was also a bit dense, predictable, and rather emotive. Mycroft had noted the physical attraction and decided to tamp down on it. It wouldn't do in this case. However, he had not calculated that the other side of Gregory's predictability was a certain brand of stability; that emotivity could also include loyalty, compassion, a certain unpredictability, feistiness, and fervidness; or that, just because Gregory was sometimes dim, it did not mean that he was wholly lacking in perception. Mycroft had anticipated dealing with an uncouth idiot whom he could bend to his will and shape into a well behaved puppet. Instead, he found Gregory to be remarkably strong willed and himself actually enjoying the DI's company (and Mycroft did not often relish the companionship of others, there was a reason the Diogenes' Club was a silent refuge). Indeed, the DI rather began to grow on Mycroft. He was alternately fun to tease, surprise, and rely upon.

Mycroft had seen this last when they were at St. Bartholomew's. Sherlock, oh, Sherlock. News of the drug overdose was rather more intense and alarming than the various missives from nannies, tutors, heads of house, professors, and deans that he had received during Sherlock's formative years calling to his attention to various "misbehaviors" and "transgressions" (and these were often troubling reports). No, it was quite significantly more disturbing than those. Mycroft was distressed. Truly. He had gone to the hospital immediately, making mental notes of whose heads he would have for this, and found Lestrade already there, shaken and determined. Mycroft had taken charge, attempted to level blame at the DI, and Gregory had reprimanded him. The altercation and the following interactions with Sherlock had only solidified in Mycroft's mind that, despite the fact that the DI should be dull as paint; Gregory was something special indeed. His ferocity and dedication was admirable, his ability to put Mycroft in his place after such a brief acquaintance was, frankly, astonishing, and his worry tousled hair was downright sexy. Not to mention, the DI had it within his power to both stupefy Sherlock, intervene into arguments between the Holmes' without sustaining physical or psychological wounds (well none apparently visible), and he had managed to surprise them all. Mycroft rather thought that Gregory was admirably insane. It was refreshing.

He therefore came to a conclusion on the spot (though admittedly it had been flourishing within him for some time): he wanted Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and he would have him. Mycroft Holmes was not a man to be turned down, thwarted, shaken, or otherwise distracted or deprived of his goals. If he wanted to stage a coup in a foreign country? It would be done within the week, at the latest. If he decided that he would one day run the nation? He would cultivate his plans in secret for years, rising to the highest position within the land by the time he was twenty-four. If he wanted someone assassinated? They would be dead (quickly and quietly or slowly and painfully, depending upon the requisite circumstances). If he wanted information? He would get it from you by whatever means necessary. If wanted you elected? You were in office. If he wanted a certain Detective Inspector for his very own? He would have him. That was that. Gregory would learn soon enough.

And so he had begun to cultivate plans. Insidious, important, intentionally romantic and seductive plans and he had rather abducted Gregory to participate. And he had. It was going swimmingly until Sherlock had "surprised" and "interrupted" a rather enjoyable evening. He always did have deplorable timing regarding these things…so did the Israelis and the members of Mycroft's covert-operations within the country. International crises always arose at the most inopportune moments, and so did his underlings' incapacities for the simple problem solving necessary to diffuse an impending war and mounting tension in the Middle East. Really, how difficult would it be for someone to just actively use their brain in response to a problem? Apparently challenging enough that it would warrant Mycroft's presence on the ground (and his disdainful wrath in the air). If you want something done right…

Now, business concluded he was headed back to London and pondering the nature of his relationships with the two most important people in his personal life. The fact that he was counting Gregory in that number was interesting to say the least. Mycroft had observed this thought with a strange sort of detachment before updating Gregory's security status to match. Mycroft did not advocate "caring," not because he did not, in fact, care (if Sherlock were as observant as he claimed to be, he would have noticed that his elder brother cared for him excessively, though not in conventionally accepted manners or expressions). It was more that caring made one vulnerable, it could weaken you, and it could hurt you (it could also result in hurt for the people about whom you cared, particularly in Mycroft's line of work). He had learned that hard lesson as a child and again as a young man. He had taught it to Sherlock repeatedly, trying to soften the blows that the world seemed to perpetually descend upon the boy. Mycroft, as the eldest, knew better how to protect, and he had tried his best to shield himself and his brother. Now, he would also attempt to shelter Gregory, if he could.

He wondered how they were getting on: Sherlock and Gregory. He had left Gregory (who rather seemed able to comprehend and relate to Sherlock in a way that he himself could not, which made sense given that Greg was approachable, affectionate, understanding, and did not come with the emotional and psychological baggage that siblings always carry) with a very disgruntled young "detective" and it was to be assumed that Sherlock was not on his best behavior, unless, of course, he was warming to Greg against his own nature of avoidance. We shall see. Sherlock could certainly make things difficult for both of them if he so chose.

Mycroft glanced down at his watch: half past six in the evening, London time. He was not due to arrive for another five hours. Plenty of time to finish his forms, plan for the upcoming week, and, most importantly, take a rest. Tomorrow would be Thursday, after all, and he had a date.


AN:

Welcome, everyone, to Chapter 13! What did you think? I do believe this is the first chapter from Mycroft's POV. I think I was possessed by him. Mystrade next chapter, promise.

Also, I do know that Mycroft does not have a canonical middle name, so I did some research and then fangirled a bit. Gold stars if you know all the references.

Until then, thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and, especially, reviewing this story. You are all lovely. If you get the chance, please, leave a comment and let me know what you think.

New chapter soon!