Immense thanks must go to those still with this story. I hope you will continue to enjoy it. :) We're back to Mycroft in this chapter, just because I felt we'd abandoned him a bit.


Mycroft was not often in London. He could remember going on day-trips as a child, and his memory stretched about as far as Sherlock getting excited about some exhibition in the British Museum, and finding the Underground less interesting than he had thought it would be. It was the Underground that he took to Pall Mall on this particular occasion, after stopping at a cafeteria on Baker Street which had been highly recommended to him, and though he found the rattling train little conducive to useful thought, he knew that his destination would more than make up for that.

It was a nondescript sort of house set slightly back from the street. Blinds had been drawn across the windows, and there were blackout curtains hung ruggedly to the sides, but what could be seen through them pleased Mycroft. Therefore he entered and hung his hat upon a stand near to the door, in a long hallway.

He did not need to introduce himself to anyone, nor indeed make his presence felt in the slightest. The floor was carpeted, and the walls soundproofed. A smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. He found himself a corner, set down his briefcase on his desk, and began to rifle through the documents that it contained, whilst his hand went absently to a cigarette-case in his pocket.

An hour later, he was still in that same position, smoking lightly, and with his eyes fixed on whatever papers it was that deserved his attention; he had not been disturbed once, even by those men with whom he shared a room, which he found at once remarkable and deeply refreshing. It was just his luck, then, to be assailed at that point by a young gentleman whose manner caused Mycroft to look up. Here was a curiosity of a man – scarcely older than Mycroft, but holding himself like a man who knows he is clever, and that he holds a position of importance. Someone working for the government, no doubt. Mycroft did not know him, but, guessing his reason for approaching him, immediately took the envelope that was handed to him.

He did not even need to read the missive. He merely scrawled a response on a sheet of paper, slid it into the S.A.E. that had been provided, and made a note to drop it into the post on his return from London. The men of the Diogenes Club, indeed any member of the general public who happened to catch sight of Mycroft on his way home, would not, perhaps, guess that this letter had made him considerably more intrigued and rather more excited than he had been in quite a while.


It was the second letter that he received that day that required closer attention. Mycroft had hardly walked into his office when the woman calling herself Anthea brought him the envelope, which he opened quickly, recognising Sherlock's handwriting on the front; then he began to read the letter within.

Dear Mycroft,

Thank you very much for your Christmas present. It was a nice surprise, and John, Harry and I enjoyed the food very much.

This was typical Sherlock: if it sounded stilted and forced, it was because Sherlock was hopeless at expressing his feelings, and so employed someone else's words to do it for him. If he resorted to that, it meant that he truly did appreciate whatever it was had been done for him.

John organised a midnight feast on my birthday. I'm not sure why, but it was all right, I suppose. Luckily we didn't have any important lessons the next day. We gave some of the cake to Mrs H and she patted me on the head and said I was lovely. I don't believe most people would agree.

Mycroft chuckled. He had never been able to explain Mrs Hudson's soft spot for him and Sherlock.

John is in a quandary at the moment. I don't think I've mentioned Clara before, have I? She goes to Harry's school, and John got a letter from Harry saying that she thinks she likes Clara more than is proper. Harry is upset and confused, of course, and John doesn't know what to think. He's only told me. I don't know why. I haven't the least idea what to do. I don't expect you do, either, but I thought I ought to mention it.

The last thing I should mention is that Redbeard is ill at the moment. I wish I could go home to visit him. Mummy says he should get better, but that whatever it is he's got is really quite serious.

I hope you are well. Please do write back.

Your brother,

Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft sat back in his chair. He was conscious of the fact that Anthea had returned with his usual cup of tea, and was standing beside his door, which was ajar. He silently invited her to come in, at the same time folding the letter and pondering whether to file it under "N" for "no idea what to make of this". He received the tea half in his own thoughts, and did not even notice Anthea leave, much less glimpse the worried expression on her lips.

At long last, steadied by the tea, he began to pen a reply.

My dear Sherlock,

You are most welcome. If you wish for more of anything that I sent you, I shall very easily be able to procure it for you. And a belated happy birthday for the 6th.

My dear boy, John is normal. I thought you knew that. And Mrs H is nice to everyone. Just go along with it.

You are right: I haven't the least idea what to do re Harry and Clara either. It would not, perhaps, be tactful to discourage such a relationship, but nor would it be advisable to encourage it. I should leave it to the people who know what they are doing when it comes to emotions.

I have heard about Redbeard. I too hope that he gets better soon.

Your brother,

Mycroft Holmes


It only occurred to Mycroft when he had posted this letter that all of his letters were similarly hurried and stilted in tone. He found himself hoping that Sherlock didn't mind – but, deep in his heart somewhere, he knew that he most probably did. A slight twinge clutched at him for a moment, but he dismissed it, and by the end of the day had forgotten it. Such was the manner of the eldest Holmes brother.