"You already know that I have little taste for society, as a general rule, and this was most certainly the case while at Eton. Mercifully, one of the few blessings of the school was that all boarders had individual bedrooms. I spent most of my spare time alone in mine, reading. The view from the window was especially pleasing to me, as it looked out over a large stretch of smooth turf, which was only spoiled by a tall, venerable elm in one corner. While engaged in study one afternoon, I happened to glance out of the window, and noticed one of the smaller boys attempting to climb the elm. What caught my attention particularly was that there were no branches for the first several feet. I confess, I found myself watching with interest, as the boy seemed to be clinging to the bare trunk through sheer determination alone, inching upwards with his eyes fixed upon the lowest branch. Alas, he was barely two inches from his first solid handhold when one of his feet slipped, and he tumbled to the ground. Undeterred, he picked himself up and prepared to try again, but was quickly collared by a groundskeeper and marched back inside. I gathered from the man's angry gestures that this was by no means the first attempt. Nor, I had a suspicion, would it be the last."

Lestrade grinned. "Did he ever make it?"

"Oh, yes, many times. Lord knows how, given that the groundskeepers were always on the watch for him. His chief advantage was that they could never be certain when he would appear. And every time I passed a window on that side of the buildings, my gaze would be inevitably drawn towards the elm. I could not have said why climbing that tree was so very important to him, nor why I had such an interest myself in a boy whom I had only ever seen from afar, not to mention an unrepentant breaker of the school rules who would doubtless be expelled in due course. I might have been content merely to observe such antics from a distance, had I not received a letter from home just before the Christmas holidays began."

"Wotcher, Holmes." Watts Major stuck his head unceremoniously through Mycroft's door without bothering to knock. "Not going home for Christmas? Rotten luck, old chap!"

"Not at all," Mycroft replied primly, setting his book aside. "Father wrote me yesterday that the manor roof was damaged in a storm, and the repairs will take the better part of a fortnight. I should much prefer to remain in lodgings with no water damage or... well, fewer icy draughts."

Watts chuckled in sympathy. "Wise man! Well, anyhow, I've come to wish you compliments of the season before my own departure... and to bring you a little Christmas present, courtesy of old Snowy." He pushed the door open wider.

"Why would the housemaster...?" Mycroft fell silent as his 'present' was revealed: the young tree-climber! "Oh no... No, no, no!"

"Happy Christmas, Holmes!" Watts was already strolling off down the corridor, hands in pockets. "Enjoy!"

Mycroft had rarely moved so fast as he did out of his chair and to the door. "Watts, this is ridiculous! Snowden knows I don't need an errand boy! What am I supposed to do with him?"

Watts merely laughed as he turned the corner. "You're the genius, Holmes, you work it out!"

Mycroft was left spluttering at the empty air, until he slowly became aware that he was being stared at, and unhappily returned the boy's steady gaze. "Go on," he said gruffly, "back to your room. I'll explain to Mr. Snowden, you won't get in trouble."

The boy shook his head. "No point. He'll just give me to someone else staying over. If I've got to be a fag, I'd rather it was for you."

Mycroft sighed, not the least bit flattered. "Don't you understand, boy? I do not need to be waited on!"

"I know."

The certainty in the lad's voice made Mycroft pause. "How do you know?"

"Seen you through the window. No one else comes into your room except the upper years and the teachers."

"How did...? Oh, I see. I suppose the elm does make an excellent observation post." Which he'd clearly just been retrieved from again, judging by the fresh stains and scuffs on his person.

The boy nodded, a trifle defensively. "Fair's fair. People stare at me, I get to stare back."

"That's not quite how it works, lad." If the other boys realised what he was doing, or the staff... "Ever heard of a Peeping Tom?"

"No. Is it like Long Tom?"

"Who's Long Tom?"

The boy hesitated, eyes darting. "Don't know... I... think I just heard it... somewhere..."

Mycroft saw the boy shiver, and made up his mind. "Well, you shouldn't be standing out there in the draught. You can come in for a minute and get warm, at least. What's your name?" he added, as the boy darted past him to the fireplace.

"Peter. Just Peter," he suddenly added over his shoulder, almost fiercely.

"As you wish." He would have to make inquiries later. "Mycroft Holmes."

"Mycroft?" Peter snickered. "How'd you get stuck with that?"

"It's a very old family name," Mycroft said stiffly, closing the door and pulling his chair up to the fire. "It means... Well, never mind."

"What?" The dark, wavy head was cocked to one side, no trace of mockery in Peter's expression.

"Well... It's really a combination of two Old English words," Mycroft began slowly. " 'Mýðe', meaning 'the mouth of a stream', and 'croft', which is an old word for..."

"A small field?"

"...Yes, exactly. How did you know that?"

"Professor Tilden, the English master. He likes old words, too."

"I see." Mycroft reached for the kettle beside the hearth and found it empty. "No, no, don't get up. There's still a little water left in the jug..." But Peter was already heading to the washstand with the kettle. "Oh, well, if you really must. Do be careful, though, that jug is heavier than it..."

Crash!

Mycroft looked speakingly at the ceiling as he got up again. Any sardonic phrases he might have had ready, however, were forgotten on seeing Peter's immediate reaction. The boy was drawing himself up as tall as he could, shoulders back, body braced... until the look of dawning horror on Mycroft's face made him falter, sagging again, the grey eyes showing far too much relief for one so young.

"Good God," Mycroft murmured. "You didn't seriously imagine...?"

"...Wasn't sure..." Peter stared down at the puddles and shards of porcelain, shifting some of it around with the toe of his shoe.

"Not ever, d'you hear?" Mycroft stated firmly. "Especially not for an accident, they happen to everyone." No doubt it would take a few more minor disasters to convince the poor boy that he spoke in earnest. "Now then, why don't you fetch one of the towels from the cupboard there, and see what you can do about the worst of the water. I, meanwhile, will requisition a dustpan and broom from the caretaker, and we shall then see if your vision is keener than mine while picking up the pieces."

"...You're not going to tell?"

"On the contrary," Mycroft smiled, albeit in some resignation. "As I said before, I have no particular desire for a servant, any more than you wish to act as one. However, since it seems that we cannot easily be rid of each other without causing undue bother... We shall simply have to make the best of it, shall we not?"

Peter nodded slowly, a faint grin beginning to appear. "I suppose so..."