Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters based off of Sir Conan Doyle's most excellent work. I make absolutely no money off of this.

Warnings: Slightly Angsty?

"You're looking verily fresh this afternoon, Dr. Watson," a coolly prim voice sounded across from a slightly haggard John Watson. As always, the government official looked perfectly put together in another of those bespoke suit and tie ensembles. John felt under-dressed in his woollen jumper and corduroys.

'The bastard...' grumbled Watson in his head, though he'd never utter it aloud in this particular company.

He not only didn't want to fathom the nefarious payback he'd receive for the comment, but John couldn't quantify the headway they wouldn't gain if he gave the elder Holmes even an inch of wiggle room. Sherlock was slippery. How much more would Mycroft turn out to be?

"And a lovely afternoon to you as well, Mycroft-"

"Interesting night you had, I presume?" the russet-haired gentleman cut the doctor off. A façade of cool boredom and fiddling with the ever-present umbrella wasn't enough of a disguise to hide the underlying current of concern John could detect.

"You have no bloody idea. Your brother drank his weight in liquor and then went on to sing folk songs with the hubbub of half London's winos. He stumbled into my apartment only to puke his liver into the toilet, unfortunately unfacilitated," John sighed, world-weary bones aching from the previous night still and his most hectic morning. He'd managed to snag the rest of his afternoon off with the rest of the on-call surgeon staff.

Sherlock was nowhere to be found, as usual, so John thought he'd take a shot at squeezing in a half-hour or two with Mycroft. He'd gotten a bit more information for the man from a few colleagues and was far more comfortable with conversations through vocalization versus emails. Mycroft agreed immediately (a space for personal conversation apparently arose after a shuffle of a third-party's schedule). So here Watson was, invited to a proper afternoon tea at four o'clock on the dot.

"Is that so? Did you see to it he remain bedridden?" Mycroft asked in an even tone.

Anthea entered as they spoke bearing a tray of England's finest china with cucumber sandwiches and those powdered tea cakes John was terribly fond of. He'd not had afternoon tea since he was twelve and visiting a distant aunt, so it startled the doctor to see those very same pastries she'd served placed before him. Mycroft's attention to personal detail would be borderline psychotic if it weren't for the fact that Watson was significantly anaesthetized to the surreal creep factor all Holmes men exuded.

"Two sugars and milk please. Thank you," John requested when the secretary stared at him pointedly with a hot tea kettle firmly in her grasp.

He turned his thoughts back towards Mycroft as Anthea poured his host a serving, clearly not needing to ask her employer how he took his tea,

"You bet your ass I did. I would have taken him to the hospital if I didn't know how fatal an operation that would be. He'd claw the floorboards like a cat with me dragging him not a foot closer to the door. I convinced him to bed rest, hydration, and a good herbal remedy that-let us say- takes a very pungent bouquet when concocted," John finished with a self-satisfied smile into his tea cup.

A strange look passed over Mycroft's face. It was very similar to one revealed the previous night, but it passed like a small cloud over the sun; entirely missed by his companion who wasn't looking for it.

"I have always held the strong belief that those in the medical profession have a semi-subconscious inclination towards sadism. You are not doing much to negate this notion, Dr. Watson. I'm terribly afraid this train of thought has trickled down to my precious baby brother. Though how he's come to such conclusions on his own is beyond me," the eldest Holmes mused aloud.

"I promise you I have never been diagnosed with sadomasochistic tendencies. I'm merely like all other blokes who find a bit of fun at the expense of their friends when the opportunity presents," John laughed to himself,

"Besides, it was for the betterment of Sherlock's constitution. It was like killing two birds with one stone. really," he explained, remembering the horrified expressions of this morning when John practically pried his flatmate's mouth open to pour a bitter, biting syrup (home-made) down that pale throat. After much gagging and moaning, Sherlock had to admit an hour later, after toast, that his headache was marginally receding. It was off to the inner bowels of the London health system for Watson soon after, obnoxious patients and interns in all.

"Speaking of which, you mentioned (actually, Anthea mentioned) that you had made a little headway on your journal. Care to elaborate?" John asked, remembering the main reason why he was sitting in this posh office space in some unmarked building half-way across the south side of London.

"Yes. I have catalogued the first of my memories I wish to dictate to you for your assessment. It was a bit of a revelation, this morning's yoga and running meditation," Mycroft spoke with a light cadence, though he fiddled with the hem of his fine cuff sleeve.

Watson was rather surprised at this announcement. It'd not been a day since seeing each other and his patient already had material to analyse. Holmes men did work rather swiftly when the end to the means was beneficial to them, he reminded himself quickly. Maybe this had been the reason the otherwise unattainable government official had managed to make space for his new physician on such short notice?

"...That's quite efficient of you, Mycroft. Is there a specific subject you were attracted to when you were mindfully running?" Watson asked between two sips of tea. It was a little brisk outside, so the hot drink was much appreciated.

Mycroft settled his hands over his flat stomach, his elbows resting on the arms of the cushioned Windsor chair. His face was a study as he hummed to himself. Again, the man was deciding how much information he would reveal to Watson. It should have irritated him that he could tell such a thing, but John simply took the quirk in stride. They'd get nothing done if he couldn't maintain his cool. He could simply ask for more if need be anyway. It was unnecessary to push the private man too far.

After a moment Mycroft looked up, catching his physician in the eyes and, speaking quite softly, began his explanation,

"I was musing on the play of heredity in the current situation. Temperaments and constitutions passed from parent to child, if you will. Our mother is a stout woman of both conviction and heart. She, even in her delicate elegance, has never fallen ill of any malady, even the common cold. She's never had a sniffle, never had an ache, mayhap she is the incarnation of fortitude itself," he spoke with a smile dancing on his lips. His fondness of this woman was very apparent in John's eyes.

There was a pause where tea was taken and the government official turned his face to the window view. Watson held his breath. Next they'd speak of the man's father. This was the very subject he'd been wanting to hear about. Mycroft sighed, placing his cup and saucer on the tea table,

"Our father, the late Lord Holmes, was her opposite in every way. He'd once been very spritely as mother had told us when we were young. And in many old pictures she keeps he looks just dashing in his suits and uniform as any man of his position would have. But war changes every boy into a man. The man that comes from such a transformation is not always a close echo to the youth that had once been."

Mycroft glanced at Watson, imploring the doctor to understand before he continued, "Lord Holmes was a man of dignified reclusiveness. Born in World War II, fear of death took him by the ears and shouted at him from the very beginning of his life. He was a genius, serving this country in the Korean War in intelligence in his mid-teens. He helped further Britain's causes and campaigns in every major skirmish we got ourselves into from then on... It took its toll. Mother says when they met it was only she he ever smiled for,"

"Upon his retirement from the Army and the birth of myself at our country estate, my father became even more of a recluse. They'd given him a position in the government that to this day I do not really know the job description of. As you can assume it didn't afford much time for for the fathering of Sherlock and I when my brother came six years later. When the man did have time to himself from his work in London, it was never spent with my brother and I. If it was given to anyone it would have been our mother."

Mycroft was very good at keeping his voice even, though Watson could tell this subject did not do well for his mental state by the frequency of his fidgeting. It was slightly fulfilling to know that his suspicions had been proven correct, however horrible the reality of that situation was. At least their father was around for a large portion of their lives, John thought, though he wouldn't really call what they must have experienced having a father in one's life.

Even so, John couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't know what was worse: knowing your father left because he hated you, or having your father still there but ignore you all the same.

"If you were wondering what our relationship to Ms. Hudson was, it's really quite simple," Mycroft said changing subjects suddenly. It was still a question that had been floating around in Watson's mind for forever, though, so he did not steer the elder brother back to his father. John sat up a little straighter in his chair, just as eager to hear this particular explanation as the one before,

"Ms. Hudson is the sister to our housekeeper Mrs. Mable Button, whose husband is our grounds keeper. The Buttons were closer to family than our own cousins to be quite frank. My brother and I treated them as such, at least. They were greater parental figures in our youths than our own parents," he explained, the implications of such a situation highly apparent when one considers the Holmes men's privileged background. John had never experienced something like that in his own background, but there were books, biographies, and fellow soldiers who came from money that all told a similar story.

"Whenever our father went to London, Ms. Hudson was the one who kept him. Not on Baker Street, mind you, but further down in another set of apartments near the men's club our father favoured. It seemed proper that when I and my brother went to university and onward that we would seek her recommendations on accommodations. The sisters happen to have brothers in both Oxford and Cambridge, much to my mother's delight. Their youngest sister, Ms. Turner, lives in Edinburgh, whom we have employed as the housekeeper to our familial estate there for similar reasons as the Buttons."

Now Watson knew why Mrs. Hudson put up with the craziness that was Sherlock. The whole family had Holmeses up to their eyeballs. Maybe Mrs. Button warned Mrs. Hudson about the youngest Holmes beforehand?

Thinking of the exasperated expressions on the poor woman's face half the time, John thought differently. It was probably that the Buttons were so used to the Holmes eccentricities that they didn't think to mention anything unusual. Yes, that sounded the more likely path that had been tread. No one can really prepare you for the force of nature that is Sherlock, or his elder brother who could strike fear into the heart of any man for that matter. Watson almost laughed aloud at the image of that first meeting between Hudson and Holmes.

"I feel rather duped," John stated, suddenly realizing something significant, "Is that why the rent is so bloody cheap? I knew we were splitting the place, but I still wondered considering its prime real-estate location-"

"Yes," Mycroft cut in, "I'm sure you're splitting the rent, but Sherlock's probably not telling you how he's splitting it," the man pointed out, smirking into his tea cup.

John felt worried for a moment, thinking he'd been given charity when he wasn't asking for it. He'd never taken handouts for himself, and he didn't want to start mid-way through his life. Before the burning sensation of shame or the biting of anger in his gut overwhelmed his thoughts, Mycroft was quick to dissolve such silly notions,

"The rent is that way for a reason you realize, Dr. Watson. It wasn't anything to do with you, but rather Sherlock himself. He never intended for anyone to actually room with him. The chances of finding someone to put up with my baby brother's antics was so slim he never taken the notion seriously. He, if he spoke to me at all in those years, always said 'it'd take a fool or a genius' to live with him, and he 'wanted neither in his breathing space'."

Watson had to admit that that sounded awfully like what Sherlock would have said. The irritated feeling in his chest subsided. It was better to know that it had been a mutual sacrifice of personal sanity, than a one-sided dupe.

"The rent was made that way to almost appease for, or make up for, living with my brother. Between Mrs. Hudson and Mike Stamford, however, it was agreed that if ever there was a such a person they thought could tolerate it, that without Sherlock's consent the two of you would meet. Sherlock is his own worst enemy at times. He had a habit of tricking or scaring off anyone they told him about beforehand. To be honest, it was as if the world was waiting for someone like you to show up at just the right time..."

AN: Take note that these chapters are little doses of character and conversation. I never intend for them to go over 3,000 words. If there is more to the conversation, it will be discussed the next round of writing them.

Terribly sorry folks this took so bloody long. I was in a real bind for some weeks after the last post and in a nasty rut of writer's block for some time after. I knew what I wanted to write, but I was absolutely floored as how to go about it. I had to coax some thoughts down on paper for another genre (HP, if you must know) for a week and then I really was dried up for a solid month. Stopped myself from freaking out, read a few books, became inspired again, and wrote this down lickety split. I do, really, apologize for the delay.

As always, please, READ and REVIEW~! Thank you!