A/N: Hello, and apologies for the long wait! I finally have a little time to write, and I have a pretty good idea where this is going. Please continue to read and review! Enjoy!
This is ridiculous-how does Mummy ever expect me to climb the political ladder if I'm always having to take care of that little ingrate?
Eighteen year old Mycroft Holmes approached the Headmaster's office of the primary school, now too-familiar. His face stuck in a hard line, he was prepared to give Sherlock a piece of his mind-misbehaving on a day like today-how dare he-
His harsh posture fell at the sight of the small boy through the office window. Sherlock, eleven-years-old, feet not touching the ground from his perch on the office bench, was holding a rag to his face, the evidence of a bloodied nose lingering upon the tissue. Mycroft sighed and entered the office.
"Hello, Mycroft," said the secretary warmly, "so sorry to call your mother, but he was bleeding this time."
Mycroft nodded to the secretary in answer, and knelt to the ground in front of the curly-headed boy who was trying so very hard not to look upset.
"Well, Sherlock, what did you say this time?"
"Where's Mummy?" he asked, the trace of a sob still hanging on his voice.
"You know perfectly well she's hosting the Duke's garden party today. You get me instead," his irritation began to rise again at the thought of being pulled from another days work, but just as he prepared himself to be angry Sherlock, the young boy looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes.
"I didn't even do anything. They started it. They keep calling me 'freak.'"
"I see. And how did you end it?"
Sherlock glanced to the side. "I told Harris his parents were splitting up."
Mycroft sighed and looked down at the floor before resolving himself to be patient with his little brother.
"Sherlock, I've told you-and Mummy's told you-you can't just say things-"
"But it's true! Yesterday when his Mum picked him up she wasn't wearing her-"
"I know. It's just-sometimes it's better not to bring these things up."
Sherlock shoved the rag back into his nose, fighting more tears.
"Now," Mycroft said, pulling Sherlock's hands away from his face, "let's get you home and cleaned up."
Sherlock's eyes widened in horror. "You didn't tell Father, did you?"
"No, Sherlock. I didn't tell Father."
Sherlock visibly relaxed and hopped off the chair to exit the office. As the two brothers left the building, Mycroft gave Sherlock a playful shove, eliciting a rare smile from the younger Holmes.
Mycroft blinked into his tumbler, suddenly aware of his lack of brandy. He had been sitting by the fire for nearly an hour, thinking and worrying about Sherlock. He pulled a long chain from his waistcoat pocket and drew out a watch, checking the time. He was just rising from his seat when Anthea strode through the open gallery door.
"Your ride is here, Mr. Holmes. Shall I have tea waiting when you return?"
"No, thank you. It will certainly be a late night. You do know how much Her Majesty likes to speak."
Mycroft limbered through the doorway to the street outside and directly into a dark sedan with blacked-out windows. "How's the hip, Stefan?" he said, gathering a newspaper from the seat and not bothering to look up at his driver.
"Much better now that you're here, darlin.'"
Mycroft's head snapped up to the unfamiliar voice. Through the reflection of the rear-view mirror, he found himself eye-to-eye with Jim Moriarty. With a skid of tires, the car pulled away.