A/N- Part 2; see previous chapter for part 1

When Mycroft finished with the food and rejoined the guests, he found Sherlock dressed and standing dutifully by the fire. Mycroft bumped shoulders with his little brother and turned to observe the guests. He easily picked out his work superiors, along with some other men he did not know. There were a few sons and daughters: none his age, but one boy that looked close to Sherlock's age. Mycroft raked his eyes over the other boy and decided that he looked smart enough to stand up to Sherlock for at least a few minutes.

"Sherlock? You see that boy over there?"

Sherlock turned and made a face. "Average intelligence. What about him?"

"Can I please introduce the two of you? You don't have to like him, just be civil. It's good practice."

"Why do I have to practice? I have nothing to do with him now, nor will I in the future."

"Sherlock…" Mycroft sighed in exasperation. "I'm trying to help. You know it makes Mummy happy when you at least make an attempt to be social."

Sherlock pondered their mother's potential happiness against a fight with Mycroft. His face fell and Mycroft knew he had scored a point. "Fine. But go do your government smoozing now. I don't want to have to live through it later."

Mycroft nodded and watched Sherlock slouch off. He quickly turned and joined the group of politicians and officials. The group played a deadly dance of words and gestures, not softened by the Christmas season. Soon Mycroft was lost in a deep discussion about security measures, his little brother the last thing on his mind.

Sherlock, meanwhile, did attempt a conversation. It was not his fault the other boy was an imbecile and took offense to the simple truth. After the teenager had stormed off to his father, Sherlock looked for Mycroft. His older brother was deep in conversation. Sherlock tried to wait, but patience was never his strong point. His analytical mind raced through theories, experiments, hypotheses—anything to keep himself distracted.

Sherlock retreated to a corner of the foyer, eyes darting everywhere. The sounds of laughter, voices, clinking glasses, and footsteps were becoming overwhelming. The smells from the kitchen along with the colors and movements in the room were starting to make him feel sick. Sherlock's eyes frantically searched for his older brother, but he was lost from sight. Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to block out all other stimuli as he took deep breaths. He needed to go to his mind palace…he needed to…he needed…. It was not working. He was not able to concentrate and the outside stimuli came crashing back in worse than before. He had to get out of here—he had to escape. Uncontrollable panic was taking over his body. The more Sherlock lost control, the more he needed to escape. He fled the foyer and made it as far as the back hall before he lost it.

It was there that Mycroft found Sherlock, rocking with his hands over his ears, mumbling unintelligibly. Guilt stabbed through his chest; he knew that Sherlock was bad in large group of people. He helped his little brother up and forced Sherlock to focus on his face. "It's okay…Sherlock, look at me. Look at me. Now, recite the periodic table."

"Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium, Boron, Carbon, Nitrogen, Oxygen, Fluorine…" Sherlock's eyes started to focus and his recitation sped up as the simple task grounded him to reality again. "…Fermium, Mendelevium, Nobelium, Lawrencium—"

"Ok, that's enough. You obviously are all right." Sherlock gave a half smirk, completely himself again. "Dinner is ready, will you join us?" Sherlock's smile fell, but he nodded and fell in step behind his brother.

Dinner was arduous and long, but neither Mummy nor Father commented on Sherlock's plate of fish, which was at odds with the expensive turkey prepared. Whenever Sherlock started to clench his fist and look tense, Mycroft distracted him with questions about the dinner guests. Sherlock had a head for facts and details, more so than his older brother at times. He was able to make hypotheses about the dinner guests; their home lives, what they thought of the other guests, whether they were enjoying the dinner or not.

After dinner the guests gathered in the parlor to admire the Holmes family Christmas tree and to sip their drinks. Sherlock disappeared and Mycroft figured he had fled for the safety of his room. The older Holmes circulated through the other guests, playing the good host and making connections. Holmes Senior made eye contact with his son and gave a slight nod of approval. The night was going very well, considering. That was, until Sherlock returned.

The first indication that something was amiss was when the small fire roared up in a fireball, turning a multitude of colors. A few guests, standing too close, yelped and jumped back. A cloud of oily smoke seeped through the room, making people cough. Mycroft had immediately pulled out a handkerchief and now held it to his nose, as to not breath in the smoke. The other guests, sadly, were not as quick. Windows were quickly opened and the smoke rushed out into the cold air. Apologies were made for the old fireplace and ruffled feathers were smoothed.

Then, the lights went out. The fire's sullen red glow and a few candles were all that lit the room. This was the moment that Mycroft started to suspect that Sherlock was behind the occurrences. An ungodly shrieking noise filled the room; Mycroft recognized the distorted sound of a coyote, elongated and warped. Frightened cries filled the room. The sounds were then replaced by the screams of a small child. The windows rattled as dogs with giant slavering teeth threw themselves out of the dark. The room seemed to twist and spin before Mycroft's eyes and he dully realized Sherlock must have put one of his drug concoctions into the fire. Holmes Senior stumbled past, flickering candlelight showing patches of rotten skin. Mycroft stumbled for the door, only for it to disappear as his fingers reached for the handle. Chaos reined throughout the room as people fought demons only they could see. The young British official leaned against a wall and closed his eyes, refusing to trust his senses. Ghoulish sounds still echoed around the room, adding to the terror of the guests.

Abruptly, the sounds cut off mid scream and the lights flicked back on. Mycroft opened his eyes to find that the room finally stood still. Guests were starting to collect themselves as the drug wore off. Whatever Sherlock had used, it was short acting; Mycroft guessed that only a minute or two had passed. As the room was slowly restored, Holmes Senior shot an evil look at Mycroft. He correctly interpreted it; Sherlock was the cause and Sherlock would pay. No mater how angry Mycroft was, though, he knew better than to leave Sherlock to the mercy of their father. He would have to slip away, collect his little brother, and stay out of the mansion for the night. Mycroft looked around and revised the idea; Sherlock could stay with him at his flat in the city for the next few days.

For now, though, Sherlock was probably reveling at his accomplishment. Underneath the anger and annoyance, Mycroft had to hand it to him; it had been worth it to see the higher ups acting like a bunch of frightened children. Granted—he had been acting the same. He quickly pushed the thought away; it would be prudent to forget his involvement in this incident.

Mummy glided to the center of the room, capturing the inhabitant's attention. She gave a tight smile and said the only thing a proper British citizen could: "Let's have tea, shall we?"