The first flakes of snow had started to settle on Whitehall, sugar coating the seats of power and turning everything in to a Dickensian Postcard. Mycroft looked out of his window, taking in the strange lilac sky over London and the streetlights slowly buzzing in to life. No doubt the whole country would grind to a halt the moment its inhabitants realised it was snowing. There was already a panic of people trying to get home before the city reached gridlock. Mycroft didn't really care what the weather was doing. In the words of the song, he had no place to go, so let it snow.
The snow had become more intense when he looked up from his report again and saw the blanket of white draped across the lawns. And in the twilight Mycroft saw two boys, probably children of some member of staff, racing across the covered grass and diving in to the snow. He could hear the sounds of their laughter even through the thick bullet proof glass of his windows. Mycroft turned his attention back to his desk and the mountain of paper work. But at the back of his mind he couldn't help but remember.
Sherlock had the Mumps. He had to stay in bed. Of course this was easier said than done. Especially as it had snowed and the whole of the grounds had been turned into one big white adventure playground. If Sherlock hadn't been such a complete pain in the arse, Mycroft would have almost felt sorry for him. Normal Nightmare Sherlock had been replaced with Possessed-by-the-devil Sherlock. Mummy was beside herself trying to keep him occupied, and stop him from trashing his room, the house, and eventually himself as he beat his head on the wall by his bed repeating the phrase: "Bored, Bored, Bored." As loudly as his sore throat would allow.
It had been Nick's idea. Of course it had. Over breakfast. Breakfast where Mycroft would pick half heartedly at a bowl of cornflakes, terrified of getting fat, and Nick would demolish his own body weight in toast and jam.
"Let's make Sherlock a snowman. A big one." Mycroft had never made a snowman before. It seemed like a whole lot of physical activity for something that was just going to melt in a couple of days. But Nick seemed keen and of course Mycroft always did whatever Nick asked him to. Nick pushed a couple of very jammy slices of toast onto Mycroft's plate with a grin. Mycroft smiled back at him and began to chew his toast.
The actual construction of the snowman had taken some time. In fact it had taken them three hours to assemble what Nick had deemed the required amount of snow. And then Mrs Holmes had called them in for tea and biscuits to warm up. The daylight had started to fade by the time the sculpting phase had been completed and the front lawn was graced with a nine foot high, rather faithful rendition of an Easter Island head. Although they had made it slightly less grumpy looking than its stone counterparts.
It smiled up at Sherlock's window. And the small curly haired audience of one that had his face pressed to the glass stared in open mouthed wonder at his Snowman. That His big brother and His friend had made for Him. Sherlock felt a lot better.
They walked back to the house, arms brushing together, almost but not quite holding hands. Boys didn't hold hands. Another thing Daddy had told Mycroft. Mycroft began to wonder if there was something wrong with him. He continued to wonder as he sipped his hot chocolate. Continued to wonder through dinner. Continued to wonder as he pulled on his pyjamas and slipped into bed. And he came to the conclusion that if there was something wrong with him, the same thing might be wrong with Nick as well...
The daylight was nearly gone, and the two boys were just putting the finishing touches to their snowman as Mycroft peered out of the window once more. The younger of the two boys, or at least the smaller, suddenly looked up, noticing the tall man at the window. He smiled and waved cheekily. Mycroft smiled and waved back.