Mycroft found himself thinking back to his childhood at quiet moments. He remembered the day his little brother was born, just like he remembered every other day from the time he was two, though this day, perhaps, was a bit more exciting than many of the others. He remembered the ride to the hospital and the waiting room that smelled like ammonia. He remembered his and his father's dinner of fast food chips and burgers, followed by a large slice of chocolate cake, which was Mycroft's favorite. No one told him to eat his vegetables or run around a bit outside, for Mycroft had a tendency to put on weight. No, today he could eat all he liked and no one said a thing.

The baby came a few hours later, screaming at the top of his lungs. He didn't stop either, not through his bath, nor his blankets, nor when they handed him to their mother. He had a tangle of dark curls and pale blue eyes, though it was hard to catch a glimpse of them as they were squeezed shut all the while he screamed.

Mycroft stepped forward and brushed a finger gently across his cheek. The baby looked at him, or seemed to, (Mycroft knew he couldn't really see him) and squawked angrily.

"Brother, dear," he said quietly, and the baby fell silent, closing his great big eyes.

He remembered the second time, when he was fifteen. This time had been different. It was too early. There were no chips or chocolate cake. They were silent in the ammonia scented waiting room. But this time, it was only Mycroft and his little brother, Sherlock. Father was with Mother and Father would call them in when they were ready, because father thought the baby was going to die.

"Is she going to die?" Sherlock asked, seemingly reading his thoughts. Mycroft looked at him, unsure of what to say. He was, after all only seven years old and the truth could be a lot for a seven year old. Of course, Mycroft thought, it wasn't fair that his parents left him to figure out what to tell him. He was, after all, only fifteen years old. But they were ordinary and most likely didn't expect Sherlock to deduce it, though, he thought bitterly, they should always expect it by now. They had, after all, two geniuses for sons.

Mycroft was saved answering by the door. His father poked his head out and gestured for them to follow. They were silent as they walked down the hall. Sherlock grabbed on to Mycroft's hand, and Mycroft gulped back tears. He knew that somber look meant nothing good.

She was beautiful, his sister. She had the same eyes as the pair of them, pale blue and observant. She had a head of curls just like Sherlock had had thought they were lighter, like his our hair. But she was so small, so very small. Both his parents smiled down at her and he couldn't help it. Mycroft began to cry.

His parents looked up, astonished. Mycroft never cried, barely lost his temper, was always the perfect model of a son. Sherlock looked up at him and burst out sobbing. "I knew it!" I knew she was going to die!" he wailed into the bed sheets.

"Boys!" Mummy said sharply, though she took hold of Mycroft's hand. They looked up, through their tears, and turned to their mother. Their father sat on her other side, staring at the little girl.

"This is your sister. And she isn't dead and we are not going to let that happen. She will be just fine in a few weeks. The doctor's say she's strong. Now say hello."

"What's her name Mummy?" Sherlock asked quickly, wiping away tears. Daddy pulled him up onto the bed and sat Sherlock on his knee.

"Her name is Isla. Isla Holmes."

Mycroft squeezed his mother's hand as he looked down at his baby sister. He smiled, and promised himself that if she lived he'd look out for her the rest of his life. He remembered how he'd broken that promise, how he'd let her down in the most essential of ways.

And still he remembered how Isla never spoke until she was nearly five years old. Not a single word or even a sound. Whereas Sherlock never shut up, she was silent as the grave. She'd simply follow one of them around, clutching her blanket. How Mummy and Daddy had taken her to doctors, but they could find nothing wrong with her. So she'd simply been allowed to continue her silent treks through the house.

How he'd often found her stuck in one of Sherlock's many cardboard box ships, cast as a damsel in distress or an unsavory sea captain in one of his brother's endless pirate fantasies. She didn't seem to mind and she was a good playmate for Sherlock as she didn't talk back. Whenever she saw Mycroft, however, she would jump up and down and hold up her arms so that he would pick her up. He always knew what she wanted. He'd carry her into the library along with a worn little book and read to her. Always the same, The Hobbit. He was quite sure she could read it herself, but he didn't mind. He loved how excited she was for him to come home, and that it didn't involve getting hit with wooden swords like Sherlock's idea of playtime.

Or how later she'd turned to her own bits of paper, filling them with her own stories and poems, bits of herself cast in ink, so full of feeling and life that it sometimes shocked him. She'd never send him bits again, almost always incoherent to him, for they were just fragment, pieces that fit inside a much bigger picture inside her head, on that, no matter how much she wrote, never seemed to fully form on paper. Or perhaps he'd never seen it, perhaps there were other confidents, that Alfie Winters or one of the girls from her school.

He'd never know now. His computer beeped, pulling him out of his reverie. There were two messages. One announced the death of his boss, an un expected heart attack. He felt nothing as he read the somber email, but perhaps slight satisfaction as blood too covered his hands. This only increased when the Minister of Defense went on to name him his successor. If only it had been two weeks ago.

The second message was brief, a direct dispatch from the field office in Yemen. He read it with furrowed brows, immediately picking up his phone and dialing. It rang twice before the person on the other end picked up.

"I need a car sent immediately," He paused, listening to the question at the other end. "To the airport. But we need to make a stop on the way."