Mycroft draped another blanket around his brother's shivering form. He was seated, knees up against his chest, on one of the couches, a mug of steaming hot chocolate, rested on one knee. He appeared to be using his toes to turn the pages of the newspaper that was lying on the coffee table, amongst cough drop wrappers and piles of tissues.

Mycroft smiled ever so slightly as he watched a pale foot shoot out from the warmth of the blanket and grasp the edge of the paper between two toes. He bristled however when the brand burnt into his brother's right foot showed it's evil visage. They'd have to do something about that brand. Surgery perhaps.

"Feel better this morning?"

He received only a cough and several sneezes in reply. Mycroft nodded as if he understood the cryptic message and sipped his own warm mug of green tea. "Is it *sneeze* true? Is Lestrade to be a *sneeze, sneeze* father?" How on earth had he come upon that piece of information?...Oh of course. Irene. Mycroft tipped his head gently. "Yes, a boy most likely. He confided in me the name. Wanted my blessing I suppose."

"Why?"

"Because the child is to have your name as it's middle name"

Sherlock looked shocked. Mycroft was puzzled, he thought his brother would be pleased. Why, why would Lestrade name his child after me? That makes no sense, thought Sherlock. It was most likely, because the Inspector felt obligated to after learning the detective had "died" to save him. Yes, that made sense. Still, Sherlock was hardly the best person to name your child after.

"I see"

Cough, cough, sneeze. Mycroft took pity on him, he was about to cough up a lung, and handed him another cough drop and a fresh box of tissues. "Try not to make a mess. I have to pop out for a bit, Sherlock." His brother grabbed a fistful of tissues and loudly blew his nose, it sounded like a badly played trumpet. "Where?" Mycroft stood, placing the empty mug on top of a few used tissues, his nose twitching in disgust. "To see John actually" If anything could get Sherlock's attention it was the mention of John's name.

"Why?"

"Well, the twins are leaving, so I have to have his stuff returned, he's finished Memoirs and I have been fast pacing all the books so far, thats why they have all been released so quickly. But you already knew that. Anyway, I thought I better play the grieving brother and just happen to be at the cemetery when he is. Audio caught at a nearby restaurant suggests he will go today. Is there anything you'd like me to say or ask?"

Tell him I'm alive, tell him everything will be ok. Tell him I miss him. Tell him I'm not ok. I'm Sigerson, I'm broken, I need him.

"No." But Mycroft could see those thoughts with his eagle eyes.

"Last time we spoke about your childhood. He seemed happy to learn about it. Would you mind if I share with him more stories?" It helps me in a way Sherlock. To remember how you once were. You aren't dead but you are not yourself. And you know it will help John. Make him smile.

"You.. spoke about me?"

"Of course, who else would we talk about? Is it ok? I was thinking of lending him the photo album. To play the part. Its what I would have done had you...well anyway. Yes or no?"

"Yes."

John was sad to see the twins leave, they themselves were crying. But the promise of a reunion come Christmas time brought a smile to John's face. Christmas was not far away. A month or so. Nearly a year. A year without Sherlock. God, how will he face Christmas? He'd only been able to spend one with his flatmate but these sorts of holidays, you always missed people you didn't have, didn't you? Mary kissed his ear, bringing him out of his self pitying and walking with him towards Sherlock's grave.

In front of which was a familiar figure. Tall, dark hair, long, tailored coat. Umbrella in his left hand, a pirate's hat in the other, which he lay in front of the grave amongst the flowers. He had something under his left arm. Files perhaps. His shoulder's slumped, the man took a deep breath and turned around.

"John. Miss Mary"

"Mycroft"

Mycroft gave his trademark smile, which could mean a number of things if you knew him. John saw this smile as a 'grin and bear it' bereaving smile. He'd seen it a few times now. He preferred much more, even though it used to annoy him, his 'I'm smart and you're not' smile. At least that had meant Sherlock was alive. This one was a testament to Sherlock's death. Mycroft liked to pretend he had no emotions. But it was clearly not true. The three stood there awkwardly for awhile, until John sidestepped Mycroft and walked up to the grave and kneeled down. Ignoring the 'wrong' Holmes' presence he started to talk.

"I finally wrote it Sherlock. Your death. Wasn't easy, took me forever. But it's done. Now the whole world can read the true story and see what a hero you really were in the end. I knew last time I was here I said I was working on Hounds but, I just felt now was the right time to write about your 'fall'. I hope I did it justice mate"

"Sorry I haven't been here to visit you too often lately. Been looking after two rowdy five year olds. The boy, James, reminded me a lot of you. Precocious, dark curly hair. Curious, rude. Always getting into trouble. I imagine you were much the same as a child. Well.. better pop off, your brother is being annoying and eavesdropping again. See you again near Christmas mate." He patted the top of the headstone before turning around and limping back to Mary. Neither Mycroft or Mary had spoken during John's speech.

"You still here for a particular reason?" Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Your stuff will be returned shortly..and I look forward to your new book." John nodded, but he expected Mycroft was here for other reasons. "What's in the satchel?" Mycroft removed said satchel from beneath his arm. "Why don't we sit down?"

The three moved to a vacant bench, John and Mary both seating themselves on Mycroft's right side. The elder Holmes brother removed a blue leather album and placed it on his knees. It looked ancient and well loved. "I thought perhaps you might like to look at these." He handed the album to John.

"What's in it?"

"Open it and find out."

Inside were dozens and dozens of photos of Sherlock, Mycroft and both of them together. John swallowed as he turned each page. "Why?" Mycroft shrugged. "Why not?" John smiled at the happy little boy who was waving back from the pages of his childhood. "Last time I saw you, you told me a bit of his childhood."

"Do you want to hear more?" Mary smiled and nodded eagerly. John grinned. "You wouldn't mind telling us?" Mycroft bowed his head. "I have no one else left to share them with." The doctor's smile briefly fell. "If it helps you, we'd love to hear some." Mycroft tilted his head, looking pleased and grateful.

"Very well. Why don't I start from the start?"

I remember clearly the day I first met my little brother. I was seven years of age. This memory is particularly clear in my mind because I remember thinking, yes I'm happy to have a brother but why did he have to wake me up? Because they woke me up early in the morning, around two or three am, to tell me I had a phone call. It was father, eagerly telling me that it was a boy. I had a brother.

My parents had been trying for a second child for years. Bad luck, two miscarriages and their busy schedules always seemed to get in the way, until one morning, mummy exclaimed to father that she was pregnant. Everyone held their breaths as the months ticked by, but the doctor's assured us that the baby was perfectly healthy.

Mummy and father weren't sure if it was to be a boy or a girl. Mummy hoped for a girl, she already had a boy. She dreamed of a girl with long raven locks like her own. A girl she could put in pretty dresses and be the envy of all the fancy ladies, business associates and socialites who were always dining at our house. I however devoted my time to much research and concluded that I was going to have a brother. Which suited me just fine. Girls giggled far too much and pinched my cheeks. It was very annoying.

Then one day mummy was rushed to hospital and I was left all alone in our big manor house. Very early the next morning one of the servants woke me up to inform me of a phone call. A few hours later they dressed me in my best suit and handed me a bouquet of flowers.

Why? I thought, a baby won't care about flowers. But they were for mummy. She looked exhausted. I remember telling her to take care of herself and rest. Father was holding a blue bundle in his arms. A little pudgy pink thing escaped from the confines of the bundle. It's fist was tightly clenched and reaching for father's face. Father beamed down at it.

Boy or girl I asked mummy. Boy she replied tiredly, how disappointing for her but she seemed pleased nonetheless. They asked me if I wished to meet him. Of course I did, introductions were in order. Father bade me to sit and I obeyed and he placed the bundle in my arms. It was heavier than I'd imagined. Nestled in the blue fabric was a small wiggling person. So very small. His little hands were fisted and waving themselves trying to touch my face. He was very pink and had a mop of dark curly hair and the bluest eyes I had ever seen. He was beautiful. Of course he was, he was a Holmes after all.

I felt something wet on my cheek and wondered if my new sibling had spat at me. But it was a tear, and the another and another. I was crying! And mummy and the other relatives in the room, mostly the female ones, began to cry because I was crying. Happy tears mummy said. Happy, I was happy because I had a little brother. The baby gurgled and stared up at me as if trying to deduce who I was. I asked mummy his name.

Sherlock.

Oh my parent's and their fondness for unusual names. But then they both had unusual monikers themselves. Sherrinford and Athena. Father's name was a traditional Holmes name. Mummy's family were all a little... eccentric. Mummy usually went by her middle name though, Violet. My parents had settled on a name from each side of the family. Sherlock came from mummy's side, and my name came from father's.

I gave my brother a formal greeting and shook his little hand. The fat fingers closed around one of mine and held fast. I think he was saying hello back.

Hello Sherlock.

John and Mary seemed to be near tears as Mycroft concluded his first tale. Mary was running a finger along a photo of a smiling baby with black curls. He was sitting in the lap of a dark red-headed child, who was also smiling broadly at the photographer. John gave a nervous laugh.

"Oh Mycroft, he sounded adorable" Cooed Mary. Mycroft pursed his lips and gave her a brief smile. "Of course he was, thats why everyone doted on him as a baby." John laughed. Easily imagining a very spoilt little Sherlock.

"Would you like me to continue?"

"Yes please" Replied the other two in unison.

A/N: Mycroft's memory of Sherlock's birth is based on my own memory of my little brother's birth. I was a lot younger than Mycroft, 4 and 1/2. But I have a slightly photographic memory and I remember the day he was born because I was awoken in the middle of the night by the phone that was behind my head. I was very happy to have a brother but annoyed that he choose to be born in the middle of the night thus waking me up.

And when I went to meet him and held him in my arms I cried happy tears and made everyone else in the room cry too. IDK why I was even crying. Lol. But year. Thats what inspired this memory.

Next two chapters will be memories I think, because it would be too long to put it all in one chapter.