The separation of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes caused more problems than Mycroft anticipated, or noticed at first. Now that he was off at university, out of the house and distracted by the start of his own life, it was easy to overlook what was going on at home. In that first year, he noticed, of course, that he saw Father less, and that he seemed to be the only member of the family still in contact with the man; and he noticed, as well, that Mummy was often difficult to reach, and that Mycroft himself was still acting as a parent to Sherlock, filling in the places where Mummy couldn't be. But that much, at least, had always been true. He imagined that in the times he wasn't home, life was running as smoothly as it could for the rest of the family.

One evening towards the beginning of his second year at university, he realized that this wasn't true. For the first time in his life, Mycroft received a phone call from Sherlock.

"You'd better come," the thirteen-year-old said. "I don't know what to do with Mummy."

"What's wrong with her?" Mycroft demanded.

"She's locked herself in her room. Also the lights are out."

"Sherlock," said Mycroft, exasperated. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"It would be helpful if you could come. Soon. Or immediately."

When he arrived, Mycroft found the house cold and dark. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the living room with a newspaper in his lap, surrounded by a small circle of candles that shadowed his sharp, angular face with a flickering yellow light.

"Why are the lights out?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock looked up and tossed his brother several envelopes.

"I gather it's about money," the boy said. "I figured that's more your area."

Mycroft squinted at the addresses on the envelopes, and after a moment the realization struck him with surprise. It was so obvious that he was appalled with himself. Of course Mummy had always depended on Father's money, and was used to living a lavish lifestyle with it. Of course she didn't know anything about budgeting, let alone working, and the child support check Father sent for Sherlock wouldn't be nearly enough. Father had always made quite enough money to deal with everything, and Mycroft had never worried about the expense of anything before. Father's work paid for his tuition, his car—how on earth had he forgotten that Father wasn't looking after Mummy and Sherlock like that anymore?

So the lights were off because they couldn't pay the bills. And the heating, probably, as well. And Mummy had locked herself in her room—well, that much was explainable, now. She couldn't handle the stress. Mycroft was quite used to his mother's occasional breakdowns.

When the shock wore off, after a moment, he crossed to the couch, grabbing one of the candles as he passed. He sat down and began carefully opening the envelopes, one by one, to examine the damage.

"Sherlock," he said calmly. "Go and make some tea."

"Why should I?"

"Go and make tea," Mycroft repeated, more sternly. "And bring it up to Mummy. Now. While I sort out this mess."

"What do I say to her?"

"Tell her to let you in because you've got tea, of course. And tell her that I'm here and I'm fixing it. I'll have the lights back by tomorrow."

With a huff of adolescent defiance, Sherlock unfolded his long, gangly legs and went to do as he was told.

"How will you get the lights back?" Sherlock called from the kitchen. "Doesn't that require you to pay for them?"

"Yes, and I'll pay for them," Mycroft replied tersely.

"You haven't got a job."

"Will you leave this to me, please? Go on and solve petty crimes or whatever it is you do, and for God's sake let me worry about money."

Sherlock hushed up, as he was told, and left Mycroft in the candlelight to worry over the state of these bills, the impossible numbers that just kept piling up and piling up.

The next day, Mycroft showed up unannounced at his father's house. Father was in the study, as always, and surprised to see him. The man had been looking worse for wear every time Mycroft saw him—no longer clean-shaven, no longer well-slept, no longer looking capable of a smile.

"Come in, come in. How are your classes?" Father asked, motioning for Mycroft to sit in the chair beside the desk. Mycroft declined.

"I'm not here to talk about classes," he said, tossing the bills from last night onto the desk. Father looked over them curiously for a second, then frowned.

"What are these?" he asked.

"You know what they are," said Mycroft. "The electricity was shut off to Mum's house last night. These date back months. Nearly a year. How long have you known?"

Mr. Holmes took the papers and carefully slid them back over the mahogany surface of the desk towards his son, an icy look of indifference on his face.

"These are not my responsibility," he said.

Mycroft leaned over the desk and slammed his palm down hard over the papers, glaring into his father's eyes.

"You have plenty of money you are not using. You don't leave the house. You don't do anything. You don't have to like it, but you will do something about this."

"Don't you tell me what I will do!" Mr. Holmes shouted, rising from his chair. The two stood eye-to-eye with the desk a wall between them. Mycroft knew, he could see in his father's eyes, that this was the first time his father saw him as the man he was now and not as a child.

"That woman is not my wife," he hissed. "And the child I am paying for her to care for is not my son. I will not be responsible for them!"

"That woman is my mother," said Mycroft, taking a step back and composing himself quickly so that his voice came out calm and powerful. "And that child is my brother. They're my family, and I am yours."

Father sat down slowly, folding his hands together carefully, and for a fraction of a second Mycroft saw the ice of his hardened expression crack.

"She's an adult," he whispered. "She can take care of it."

"You know she can't," said Mycroft. "And whatever she's done to you, Sherlock's just a child. It's not his fault and you know he doesn't deserve it. Growing up with just her. And all of this." He gestured vaguely at the bills, but they both knew it was about much more than that.

"He's a child," Mr. Holmes agreed. "He's not my child."

Mycroft took a deep, slow breath.

"Pay these," he said. "Just these ones. This once. Pay these for me and I'll take care of the rest of them."

There was a silence as the two men, each with a face like stone, stared at each other, and finally Father nodded.

Mycroft turned and left the room, already thinking of exactly which connections could get him the best position in the local law office. The rest of the bills would have to be paid.