To the guest reviewers, whom I have not had chance to thank "in person" - thanks so much for reviewing! Thanks, indeed, to everyone following this story. I hope you'll continue to enjoy it.


Mycroft always dressed himself smartly. Suits were what he wore well – he didn't look quite right in more scruffy trousers, nor did he look good in anything except the most immaculate jacket. It cost him a fortune in clothes, but he had something of a fortune, and so it didn't really matter.

It was strange, then, that he didn't look right in army uniform.

The jacket, the shirt, the trousers: if they had been any other colour, they would have looked like what he usually wore. But he didn't really suit khaki. The brownish-green sort of colour was horrible anyway, but on Mycroft it seemed to clash terribly.

Not to mention it was a bit surreal seeing Mycroft standing there in army uniform, about to go off to war.

He was actually quite proud of this uniform and of its connotations. He would be immensely glad to serve England, to help to win this war. Mycroft Holmes was like that: quietly, but fiercely, patriotic, and something of a fighter though he didn't really look it. He got used to his uniform, wore it several times in the days before he was to leave; he perhaps didn't quite realise the effect it had on the rest of his family.

On the morning of the day of departure – Mycroft would leave after lunch – John was surprised when he heard a knock on his door, and opened it to find himself face-to-face with the elder Holmes brother, who had scarcely interacted with him the entire time he had been here, and who hadn't at all been in his room. The young man was still in that damned army uniform, and had a very serious expression on his face, as if he was only just realising now what he was getting himself into. John invited him in, very politely drawing up a chair for him, onto which Mycroft more collapsed than sat.

'John,' he said, and then, after a pause: 'John, close the door for a moment, wouldn't you?'

John did so.

'I believe you're going to school with Sherlock this term.'

John nodded, not especially eagerly.

'And you're going into the same year as him?'

John nodded again.

'How do you find my brother? – almost as bad as me, I expect?'

'You're not bad,' said John at once. 'You're just, well, unusual.'

Mycroft smiled slightly. 'Look after him, won't you?'

John blinked in confusion.

'My brother. Sherlock. He finds school difficult, and though he would never admit it he needs someone there with him. Not a friend. He's like me. He doesn't really do friends. But he needs an... acquaintance. Just someone who's there for him in case it all goes wrong, or something. To look out for him.' He waved his hand in an apology for his somewhat garbled speech. 'Look after him for me, won't you?'

John paused, as if considering this request; then he said: 'Of course I will, Mycroft Holmes.'

And he thrust out a hand and shook, and Mycroft left the room feeling as if a great weight had been taken off his shoulders.


The day came round too quickly. It was still bizarre to see him wandering around in that uniform, if only because, though they were a week into this war, nothing seemed to have happened just yet. It was quiet. Too quiet. Yet the first blow was about to be struck, and none of the Holmeses or the Watsons liked to look at the uniformed Mycroft as he gathered up his things, and made last-minute checks, or perhaps reminisced as he stepped into each room of the house.

The dinner-spread that day was magnificent. Mrs Holmes usually put out a remarkable array of food the day before school started, because she knew how little regard most of the boys had for school food, but this time she had outdone herself. Mycroft was put at the head of the table, a position he didn't much like except for the authority that he felt it gave him, and looked out over his family without them daring to return his gaze.

At the end of the meal there was still quite a bit left, because nobody had been able to do more than pick at the food. But seeing that everyone was finished, Mr Holmes poured out glasses of wine for the adults, and fruit juice in wine glasses for the children, and raised his glass.

'To Mycroft!' he said in a low and somewhat reverent voice.

And all of them echoed this toast and raised their own glasses, then drank. The slightest hint of a blush crept into Mycroft's cheeks, and he eventually managed to swallow his wine.

After dinner was finished they were all shepherded out onto the drive, where Mr Holmes's car was waiting. He got in; Mycroft hesitated a moment, as if he had been about to clamber into the passenger side without saying his goodbyes, before turning back to the others. He regarded his family as if he couldn't quite believe what he was doing. It was perfectly unlike Mycroft to show any emotion, but there was certainly something sparking in his eyes.

'John – Harry –' he said, and then stopped, reluctant to give any form of speech. Then, in a bit of a blank voice, he said, rather conventionally: 'Keep safe. Enjoy school. I hope you see your father soon.'

He shook their hands, and they said their goodbyes to him.

'Mummy –'

Mrs Holmes kissed her elder son on the cheek, knowing how little he liked hugs, and said goodbye rather tearfully.

'Sherlock –'

Sherlock refused to meet his gaze.

'Sherlock, please.'

At last he looked up, blinking frantically. When Mycroft next spoke, it was in a very quiet voice, one that the others wouldn't hear.

'Sherlock, I... I want you to know that I regret all the times we've fought. I think we get on really. It's upset our mother –'

'Shut up,' said Sherlock.

'I just want us to part as friends,' said Mycroft, and his voice was so incredibly sincere and pleading that he very nearly tipped Sherlock over the edge. His little brother said nothing.

'Goodbye, dear brother.'

They shook hands firmly. They may have embraced the other day, but they didn't dare to repeat the act, not in front of the others. Then Mycroft turned away, and got in the car, and went away towards an uncertain future.