Every Christmas after The Fall Mycroft would spend it alone.
The fire crackled as Mycroft sat in his usual chair locating by the window. Outside the snow was floating down creating a neat white blanket. He sighed. It looked delightful. Almost picturesque.
The house stood silent. He had made sure that he was left alone for the day. Even though Christmas was a time for family he couldn't bring himself to go see his. How could he explain? How could he sit there and tell them it was all his fault? He just couldn't. He hadn't been able to even look Mummy in the face when he told her everything that had happened. Mycroft felt the back of his throat burn as he downed his whiskey. A gift from the cook he didn't feel like accepting. However the moment seemed right.
He missed Sherlock. Mycroft was meant to protect his little brother and he had failed. He wished he could go and take all those words back. All the secrets he shared. He could have done something. Anything. It wasn't like he didn't have the power to help. He could do whatever he wanted.
As he watched the snow he remembered all the wasted moments. Every Christmas had been the family get together. He had loathed them back in the day. What with the fires and the arguments. Now he realised just how precious they were.
Maybe the Christmas dinners weren't that bad after all.