A/N: I've done this in a different post, but I feel the need to do it again. I'm reposting that note:
This note is a bit more personal than I usually write, but I hope you won't mind. I am mourning the passing of one of the strongest, bravest women I ever knew, who taught me the true meaning of love. My grandmother devoted her life to caring for those in need, never expecting anything in return. In her memory, I ask you to perform an extra kindness, even if it's only sharing an extra smile. And take a moment to appreciate your family, they should never be taken for granted. Thank you.
Only once did they make the mistake of taking a guided tour. After Mycroft had, in his exquisitely polite manner, reduced the poor tour guide to tears, by questioning his assertions about every detail of the historical site, correcting his knowledge of the political history and scientific findings, and in general making the man look like an incompetent fool.
"I had thought you would have showed more class," Lady Smallwood stiffly reprimanded him.
"I do apologize, Alicia," Mycroft said, with real contrition. It surprised him how comfortable he was in using her first name. Their group had dispensed with most of the usual formalities during their touring phase, and Mycroft felt like he was shedding his old, tightly stretched skin and growing into a more comfortable new one.
"I saw no reason to suffer the fool. If one takes on a job, one has to at least make an effort to do it right. He definitely hadn't done his homework."
"Oh, Mycroft," she smiled slightly. "You do realize that people come just to have a good time, and his job is to give them that. If he presents myths and legends as facts, or gets some names and dates wrong, most people don't care, as long as he catches their interest."
The British Government looked as if he had swallowed a lemon whole.
"Mr. Holmes," Brian interrupted them, using the title the three younger members of their party had unofficially decided on. While they dispensed with the 'Sir' while not on duty, using the Iceman's first name was still too terrifying a prospect. "Perhaps what we nend is someone truly proficient to guide us on our future tours. There are rumours that we have a walking Wikipedia in our midst. Why not make use of him?"
"Think of it as a challenge," Anthea added mischievously. "If any one of us can find a fact you've gotten wrong, we get to request your presence at the venue of our choice.
Mycroft nearly groaned out loud. His co-workers had cajoled him into many new experiences, some of which he didn't wish to repeat (the overcrowded pub was the worst yet). Though others weren't completely awful, he had to admit to himself. The beach had proved quite relaxing, and had appealed to his sense of aesthetics. Nevertheless, he wasn't one to back down from a direct challenge.
"Accepted," he nodded, and the others cheered.
He spent the night brushing up on his knowledge of historical Athens and Sparta.
Nobody managed to catch him in error, of course, but they still managed to cajole him in a game of pool in the hotel. Cheryl turned out to be the champion of the game, but Mycroft still showed his hand by being the second best.
"I didn't know you had it in you," Brian ribbed him good-naturedly. "You look more at home sitting behind a desk and typing away."
Mycroft gave him a superior smile. "Ah, the young ones. I'll have you know that in my days, I have been to places you wouldn't dream of, and performed feats you do not have the imagination to grasp."
"Do tell," Anthea urged, amused.
"Sorry, that's highly classified."
"And we all have the appropriate clearance, I think," Alicia interrupted smoothly. "You don't have to give us all the details, but do share a bit. When, for example, did you have to practice your pool shooting skills?"
Later that night, the man code-named Antarctica found himself sharing drinks with the other members of his team, and reminiscing about the good old days. "I was a pretty good shot, but my specialty was infiltration through disguise," he informed them. "Of course, that was before I was put in charge of actually planning the ops, which I much prefer. Less legwork," he grimaced.
He spun a thrilling tale of infiltrating a subversive group by donning several disguises, one after the other, of businessmen and butters, of homeless men and prison guards. He told of how he had the leader of the group convinced that he was his right hand man, and how he eventually brought him down with a single kick while the other agents stormed there lair. "And the best part," he continued, "is that all details about that operation are sealed, so you will never know how much of this really happened."
After a pause, his audience burst into incredulous laugher, while Mycroft smiled in amusement. He was swimming with the goldfish, and he was actually enjoying it.
Before bedding down for the night, he checked his messages once more. There was one he hadn't expected.
"Don't get to comfortable over there, brother mine. England needs you- SH"
He shook his head wryly, and sighed minutely. "I don't know if you still need me," he thought inaudibly, "but I definitely want you to, you impossible brat."
Martha Hudson hummed cheerfully as she swept into the upper flat.
Things were going pretty well. The house was renovated, her treasured tenant had moved back in, and John was visiting constantly with her precocious goddaughter, whom she loved as much as she did her two boys.
She was befuddled to find Sherlock sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall with his legs pulled up. His elbows were on his knees, fingers steepled in his typical thinking pose. He had a perfectly comfortable chair to do his Mind Palace flyaway thingy, didn't he?
"Sherlock," she called to him. "Are you alright?"
His eyes flew open. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson. Yes, of course, why wouldn't I be?"
"Did you do something to your chair again? Because the last time that happened, you know what that did to my poor floors, and this time it's definitely coming out of the rent!"
"No, no. I'm just... doing an experiment."
The landlady looked him over, concerned. He had lines under his eyes, and was looking even paler than usual.
"You aren't taking care of yourself again, Sherlock!" she scolded him fondly. "Do I need to call John? Or perhaps I'll give your mother a call this time."
She noticed the slight shudder that ran through him. "I wouldn't advise that, Mrs. Hudson. You know, John isn't really back to himself, despite appearances. The traumas he experienced, so close together, it did something to him. I deduced that he's sleeping poorly, due to nightmares and flashbacks, and all the sodding symptoms of PTSD," he growled uncharacteristically.
"It doesn't help much that, for some unfathomable reason, he has developed a phobia of therapists and won't even go for help now!" the detective had raised his voice in agitation.
"That poor boy! We need to be there for him, you know."
"I'm trying, Mrs. Hudson. And my parents, don't bother with them now. Besides the issue of my sister, they have other issues to deal with on top of that, and they're relying on me to help."
"How is your sister doing?" the landlady inquired.
"We're still playing our violins together, and she even started looking at my parents now, even if she doesn't acknowledge them. And she's still in that darned place and will always be," he sighed at the last words, his shoulders slumping.
He stared at the ceiling blankly for a moment, and then asked, in a hesitant tone, "Mrs. Hudson, is it possible to give away pieces of your heart, until there's nothing left?"
Mrs. Hudson stopped in her tracks, then looked at the young man sympathetically. "Oh, Sherlock," she sighed. "You know, when you give a piece of your heart to someone, they return it with a piece of theirs. You won't lose by giving, only gain" she stated with conviction.
"What if nobody returns it?" he asked plaintively.
"You are not alone, Sherlock Holmes. You have many, many people who care about you," she stated with quiet authority.
She saw a small smile, bittersweet and forlorn, form on his face. "Yes. Yes, I do," he replied, fingering his tie.
Wait, his what?
"Sherlock, why are you wearing that tie?"
"It's for the experiment."
"I didn't think you even owned one."
"It's Mycroft's," he said quietly, and she was startled by the way his face suddenly twisted in anguish. She would be having words with that brother of his. Whatever he had done, it had to be severe to make Sherlock look as broken as that.