Mycroft really didn't feel the cold. Whilst Sherlock was swanning around in his huge coat on all but the warmest days, even in the depths of winter Mycroft only ever wore a light Crombie, and even then he took his suit jacket off wherever possible. He had heard all the jokes of course. The endless witticisms from Sherlock about body fat and whales. And the whispered mutterings from his staff about "The Iceman". Everyone was a comedian!
The only thing that really bothered Mycroft in the cold weather was his arm. A couple of inches below his left elbow. In the unlikely event of someone running their finger along it they would feel a knot of bone, the tell tale sign of a breakage. In the cold weather his arm would tingle and the feeling in his fingers would disappear. Sometimes it was so bad he would put a hot water bottle on it to try and reduce the pain to an aching numbness. He never took painkillers. If he wanted he could have got hold of an entire pharmacy worth of Opiates and no questions asked. But Mycroft had seen firsthand the dangers of drugs, the seductive pleasure of a cushion of oblivion. No. Not for him. He needed his pain. The pain helped him remember.
At thirteen years old, you didn't really have fears. Or at least not the fears an adult has. You have irrational fears about the spots on your back or whether you will ever stop being so much taller than everyone else. Irrational fears about creaking floorboards and the spooky old tree near the lake. You didn't worry about hurtling down the stairs on a tea tray. That wasn't scary. It was fun.
It was fun watching your best friend slide from the top of the stairs right to the bottom and then get tipped out onto the hall carpet, helpless with laughter. It was fun watching your little brother bumping down the stairs shouting "Faster!" at the top of his lungs. And it was fun folding yourself into the tray and speeding down the stairs. It was fun right up to the point the tray took a skid to the side and you were tipped out, completing the journey to the hall on your front. It was fun right up to the moment you sat up and noticed your left arm was bent at a strange angle and your hand was upside down.
Nick's face had been as white as Mycroft's. But if Mycroft was the Iceman, Nick was the cool head.
"Sherlock. Go and fetch Mummy. Now please." Nick was the only person Sherlock ever obeyed.
"It's broken isn't it?" Tears were running down Mycroft's cheeks but he was determined not to cry properly in front of Nick. Boys didn't cry. Even when things hurt. Daddy said so.
"Yes." Nick nodded and carefully helped Mycroft to stand and then sit down on one of the chairs in the hall. Mrs Holmes took one look at her eldest son's tear stained face and the pale face of his best friend and called for the car. By which time, Nick, with the presence of mind of the Doctor he would have been, had made a sling from an old table cloth to support the broken arm.
The car journey took forever. Every bump in the road jarring the broken ends of bone together and causing more tears to run down Mycroft's face. All the time Nick's arm was around his shoulders, the tears dripping onto his hand. Nick pulled out his handkerchief, remarkably clean by thirteen year old standards, and wiped Mycroft's tears away.
The car swung in to Downing Street, the frost already forming on the pavement.
"Sir? We're here." Mycroft pulled his attention away from the dying light outside, replacing the thoughtful look on his face with a mask of total indifference. A mask that told everyone he could crush them all if he wanted. His left arm twinged a little as he picked up his briefcase, the pain flowing up his arm. Mycroft blinked any tears that might have been forming back. Boys didn't cry. Daddy had said so. Besides, there was no one left to wipe them away for him any more.