A/n To all you lovely people who have asked, this little tale takes place in its own private universe and is not connected in any way to Insomnia. Sir Lucifer belongs to the wonderfully talented Mr Gatiss.

The ancient man at the Royal Academy was staring at a Titian as though he was trying to remove the paint with his eyes. That was until he swivelled his head, owl like, to watch Mycroft's progress through the gallery. Mycroft was wearing his casual suit. The grey one. The one with the slightly tapered trousers and the rather daringly non conformist lapels.

"The last time I saw an arse like that it was on a marble statue in Pompeii." Perhaps he didn't mean to say it out loud. Then again maybe he did.

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft stopped and turned to face the man. It was easy to see that perhaps fifty years ago the man would have been a striking beauty with high cheekbones and slim hips and possibly raven hair. Now he looked like a bird of prey. An old vulture looking to pick off something young and tasty.

"God. So am I!" The man sighed. "If I was thirty years younger you wouldn't stand a chance."

"That's what they all say." Mycroft looked bored. The constant attention was getting rather tedious.

"So which one are you?"

"Pardon?"

"Which one are you?"

"Mycroft Holmes."

"Oh. You're the chosen one. Should have known you'd be a redhead." It was said without any trace of malice. "Didn't realise you'd be quite so pretty though." A small sigh.

"Can I do anything for you Sir?" Mycroft had learnt to start off polite and antagonise later. It was something he was attempting, with little success, to teach his younger brother.

"Thirty years ago perhaps. Now all I can do is look." The man gestured to the paintings hanging on the walls. "Can't even paint anymore. Can't hold a paintbrush." He held up an arthritic claw.

"Were you an artist Sir?" Mycroft knew the Academy was a front, but there had to be one or two real painters in there just to keep the place ticking over.

"We all were back then. We had class. Not this bunch of boy scouts."The man shuddered at the words. "I'll give you some advice, Mr Mycroft Holmes. Treat everything you do like you are creating a work of art. Everything!"

He gripped Mycroft's wrist tightly with his gnarled hand. The eyes buried in the leathery face were bright and dancing as they flicked up and down him. Mycroft was almost certain he was being pictured naked. He took a deep breath.

"Not like the others are you? Something different. Can't quite put my finger on it. Yes. Thirty years ago Mycroft Holmes, you wouldn't have stood a chance!" He gave Mycroft's wrist a final squeeze before sauntering off through the gallery as fast as his stiff ankles would allow.

Mycroft looked closely at the Titian, it seemed unremarkable, a good example of the artists work. Except for that odd little squiggle in the corner an... Mycroft smiled, threw his head back and started to laugh. He was still laughing when the bulky form of Joshua Reynolds loomed large at his side.

"Mycroft, I see you've met Sir Lucifer then!"