A/N: This is set sometime after chapter four in Tomorrow Never Knows, when Mycroft forces his father to leave so he won't hurt Sherlock anymore. Sherlock is eleven here, Mycroft is eighteen. This chapter is split into two parts: (Not) Guilty which focuses more on Mycroft and his interaction with his Uncle Ingfred, and Guilty which focuses more on Greg and his talk with another one of Mycroft's uncles, Priam. Ingfred and Priam aren't really important characters in the series but are there just to show what Mycroft and Sherlock might be like when they get older. They also have their own story (Running on Empty) which is a back story for Sherlock's father, though I'm only going to post that one in archive.

The first time it happened, or at least, the first time Mycroft realized that it could happen, he was seven and Sherlock was barely in the picture yet, could barely even be considered a human being as he was still confined in their mother's belly. Father was sick, his mother always told him this. But he was only seven and though he was intelligent, for him, sick came in the form of fevered skin and runny noses. It meant hospitals and a cold stethoscope pressed against your chest, and sometimes, when his mother permitted it, it could mean accepting a lollipop from the doctor. He knew about the other kind of sickness, about insanity. But when Father got depressed a few weeks after they sat him down and told him he was going to have a little brother or sister, Mycroft realised that Father's sickness runs deeper.

His Father isn't a bad man, not really. Just strange, hot-tempered, and a bit misguided, like most of his relatives, which makes it hard to figure out if it's the bipolar disorder making him act that way, or if he just acts like that because he grew up surrounded by people with the same personality. Mycroft doesn't hate him, not like Sherlock who's never really learned to keep under the radar, anyway. Besides, some of the fights could have been avoided if Sherlock had just kept his mouth shut. Among the two of them, it's obvious that he's the favorite, not his little brother who attracts trouble wherever he goes and even has the audacity to look their parents in the eye and challenge them to punish him. Their mother doesn't, but their Father did. A lot, and Sherlock, the little brat, wore every scar, every mark like a brand of courage. He doesn't have to anymore, doesn't really have a reason to. Father's gone and while he calls sometimes, it's only to discuss legal matters with Mycroft. He's still molding him to follow in his footsteps even while a thousand miles away, and it must be working because Sherlock looks at him differently now, his mouth twisting to form the same scowl he puts on whenever he's in the presence of someone he truly dislikes.

This? This, Mycroft can hate.

Sherlock's become more solitary with Father gone, opting to lock himself in his room with his violin when at home, ignoring Mycroft's calls when in his new school. He talks very little, even less to their mother and Mycroft thinks this is absolutely unfair because at least she doesn't see him as a lost cause. At least she's still there. Mycroft doesn't know what's wrong with him—he gave up trying to understand Sherlock a long time ago, possibly the same time Sherlock gave up on him. He's not happy, not by a longshot, but he's not miserable, either, and Mycroft thinks this is alright. As long as he's eating and sleeping, then Mycroft can leave him alone for a while. He's got bigger problems anyway.

"You're working too hard," Frances tells him. She drops her bag on the desk, takes a seat, then rounds in on him. "Again."

Mycroft doesn't bother stopping and gives in to the urge to roll his eyes. All his friends—the ones who didn't fade into the background when they separated to go to uni—say that when they meet him. It's not exactly a lie. Frances says that a lot so it's true. She's been around longer, since that incident when Frances slapped Greg and Luke for spilling red paint all over her uniform, making Mycroft laugh in spite of himself. Frances knows him. Maybe not as well as Greg and Sherlock, and even Luke, but she knows enough. She might not know the reason for their parents' separation, or that Mycroft's the one who caused it, but she does know that it's affecting him.

Her eyes drop to the phone near his hand. "Alright, which one of your father's associates are you meeting today?" she asks, her eyes narrowing in a way that warns Mycroft not to lie to her, that he better not even think about it.

"No one," he says. He's being honest. Frances relaxes a bit, but she's still giving him that look. "I'm meeting up with Greg later. I haven't seen him in weeks."

"That's because you haven't gone home in weeks," Frances retorts. She shakes her head at him, making the shorter strands of her hair swing to-and-fro. "Mycroft, you really need to stop thinking ahead of yourself and just relax."

Easy for you to say. You don't have to look after anyone. She's a bit like him, studious and responsible, but she's got four sisters, two of them older than her, and her parents are still together and genuinely love each other. She'll be in charge of a few of the smaller businesses her parents have once she graduates, but she'll have help from her sisters and some of her relatives. Mycroft's all alone. He can't trust Sherlock to manage their father's businesses, half of which will be in Mycroft's charge as soon as he's done with school. And he can't neglect them either, because people will talk and Father will be disappointed in him. Even now, even though he wasn't the best father in the world, Mycroft's still afraid of making a mistake.

No wonder Sherlock thinks he's pathetic.

"So what's your plan for today?" Frances asks. Mycroft can read the disapproval all over her face, barely disguised by the smile she's giving him. She doesn't like Greg. None of his friends do. Mycroft can't blame them. He's honest with himself—he knows that if he hadn't had a pre-bond with Greg when they were younger, he'd disapprove of him as well. Still, Mycroft can't help but feel a bit angry, protective.

"Nowhere we haven't been before," he says, because if he were to name one thing Greg cannot stand, it's being in an unfamiliar place. "How's Juno by the way?" He doesn't have to ask because he can read it on her. Nail polish flaking, fingernails bitten down, hair unruly, eyes bloodshot, brown stain on the cuff of her sweater—spilled tea.

"She'll live," she says, though her smile is uncertain. "You survived pneumonia and we all know how you and your brother have the worst immune systems ever. Besides, she says she still has to work for you when she grows up."

Mycroft quirks a smile. "A seven-year-old is infatuated with me. Greg won't be pleased with that."

"She did tell me she likes redheads," Frances says, giggling. Mycroft almost joins in but his phone rings, earning him a glare from the seventy-year-old librarian behind the desk. Frances stops, replacing the mirth in her eyes with a warning look.

"Mycroft," she hisses. "It's nearly Christmas and you've got a date. That can wait."

It can't. There are people to talk to, businesses to invest in. Mycroft could leave the work to their relatives, could even leave it to their mother, but those aren't options because they won't do it as well. Mycroft ignores the disappointment in Frances' face and picks up the phone.

It's the eighteenth of December, and along with the snow came Christmas carols and the twinkle of Christmas lights. Someone is singing in the distance, a garbled rendition of Frosty the Snowman that's making Mycroft grit his teeth. It's faint, though; it's just the wind carrying it. He doubts anyone's willing to sing like that in a cemetery, Christmastime or not.

The polished white marble headstone he's facing is half-covered in snow, the deceased's name nearly covered by it. Mycroft thinks of reaching forward to brush the snow away. Moving seems out of the question, though. Nothing stirs in the cemetery—not the leafless tress, not the snow-coated headstones, and not the man beside him.

Finally, Ingfred moves. It's just a tilt of the head but Mycroft takes it as an invitation to relax. He lets his shoulders slump forward slightly, lets the breath he's been holding slowly turn to mist out of his moth. Ingfred watches him. He's blinking slowly, as if he's just woken. Mycroft isn't certain if it's jetlag or if it's visiting his brother's grave that's affecting him. Both, perhaps.

"You never told me how he died," Mycroft says, breaking the silence. It's meant to be casual but he can't help but feel curious. Father never talked about Orville's death. Possibly, they weren't close. Even more possible, Father was bitter about filling the role Orville was supposed to play. And Priam, well, Priam was barely even three when their older brother died. Also, Priam's not exactly trustworthy when it comes to stories, even less with a bottle in his hand.

Of the three, it's Ingfred who's the most affected by it. The last time Mycroft saw him was on Sherlock's bonding ceremony. He's lived in Reykjavik ever since, and it shows from the way he doesn't shiver in spite of the lack of a coat, unlike Mycroft who's doing his best not to tremble from the frigidity. It's odd that the first thing he does once he stepped foot in London is visit his brother's grave. Orville's been dead long before Mycroft was born.

Ingfred doesn't give a straight answer. "He was an idiot," is all he says.

It's difficult to maneuver a wheelchair in the snow single-handedly. Snow clings to the wheels, stopping any sudden movements. Ingfred sighs angrily before allowing Mycroft to help him.

"You'll be going to the party, then," Mycroft says as he pushes Ingfred to the car. His driver is standing outside, waiting for them. He greets them both in Pakistani, smiling as he takes over and helps Ingfred in the backseat. Mycroft follows.

"Yes." He frowns. His eyes are green, Mycroft notes, and he doesn't look much like Father. His features are softer, his skin tone darker, but they make the same expressions. Priam makes the same expressions as well when he's serious (which is rare) or when he's working. Ingfred frowns and Mycroft sees himself and his brother. "I haven't seen any of them for a long time."

"Priam will be there," Mycroft says, not bothering to hide the exasperation in his voice. He remembers the last time Priam attended, and Father certainly hadn't been happy then.

Ingfred shakes his head. "Oh dear. Our black sheep has returned."

"Wouldn't that be you?"

"I always obey the rules. Little brother, on the other hand…" He makes a face before frowning once more, again lost in memory. Mycroft leans his head against the window and waits for Ingfred to talk again. He tries his best not to look at his watch, tries his best not to imagine how furious Greg will be with him for making him wait. He tries but he ends up looking anyway, catching Ingfred's attention.

"Meeting someone?"

Mycroft hesitates then nods. "Greg," he says. For a moment, Mycroft wonders if Ingfred even knows who Greg is. His frown deepens, his brows furrowing, and Mycroft can tell that he knows exactly who Greg is. He wonders what Ingfred will say, or if he'll say anything at all.

"I shouldn't be keeping you, then," is what he ends up saying and before Mycroft can say anything, he shuts Mycroft out. His eyes close and he turns his head slightly so that he's facing the window. The rest of the ride is silent, neither awkward nor tense. It's just a long pause that makes Mycroft think of forever.

"Don't even bother," Greg tells him. "I knew it already."

Greg's stare isn't accusing or angry or even remotely annoyed. He just looks weary, like anyone who's been sitting alone at a table for far too long. Mycroft takes a seat opposite him, frowning to himself when Greg pushes his plate toward him in offering. "No thanks," he says. Honestly, though, he's hungry. Starving, Mycroft corrects when his stomach growls a plea, realizing that the last meal he ate was a hurried breakfast at six in the morning. It's already past eight in the evening.

Greg quirks an eyebrow at him. "You sure?"

He nods. There's no way he's going to eat Greg's food, not after making him wait for nearly an hour and a half. "So who'd you see?" Greg asks, picking up the last bit of the sandwich and taking a bite. "Another one of your dad's associates?"

"Ingfred," Mycroft answers. "My uncle, the older one. He just got back from Reykjavik."

"Is he dangerous?" Greg asks, rolling his eyes in amusement. It isn't funny, but Mycroft still tries a smile for his sake. Greg doesn't get it, doesn't get how his family can tear him apart without raising their finger. He can divide them easily in two groups: people safe to interact with, people Greg should stay away from. Priam is and Greg would love him, Mycroft thinks, would probably even go and have a drink with him. They met before, three times to be exact. The first when Sherlock was born, the second during his and Greg's bonding ceremony, and the third during John and Sherlock's. Priam would tease the two of them, would probably tell them that he's indebted to them for doing the injection and making them bond in the first place. If he stays sober long enough, he'll probably tell him.

Ingfred…Mycroft isn't sure about Ingfred. Priam is much younger, Ingfred's only a year younger than Father. Besides that, Mycroft doesn't really know him. He knows a bit, but since most of the information came from Father, it's probably biased as Father hates Ingfred. "You'll have to rephrase the question," he answers. Greg laughs.

"You're so serious, My. It's just a Christmas party and I've been attending it for eleven years."

"It's different this time." It comes out quiet, dead, like remnants from his visit to his dead uncle's grave. Greg cocks his head to one side, the way he does when he's confused or thinking of a solution to a problem. And then he stands up, the legs of his chair screeching as he pushes it back, and in a second he's sitting beside Mycroft.

"Idiot," Greg says fondly. Something in his voice brings a sickly-sweet feeling to Mycroft's chest. Greg moves close, close enough for his features to blur. "What? I'm too boring now to distract you from all your icky relatives?"

He kisses him quickly, and Mycroft tries to control the unease building in his stomach because they're in public and they just don't do that. His hair tickles Mycroft's face. It's blue again, a darker, more respectable shade. Still, Mycroft can't help but think of how the others will react.

"Greg," he starts.

Greg sighs, sinks a little in himself, then says, "Yeah, I know. I'll dye it tomorrow."

The manor is more than big enough to house them, but Mycroft can't help but feel trapped. Sherlock feels the same way, too. They don't talk about it, but it's obvious. Sherlock's been adjusting his tie in front of the mirror for the past fifteen minutes, the scowl on his face showing no sign of fading. "Let me," Mycroft says but Sherlock pulls away from his grasp with a muttered curse, opting to have John help him than let Mycroft do it even though John's as competent with formal wear as he is with table etiquette.

"Your mum will be looking for us," John reminds them. He brushes Sherlock's hair back from his forehead, ignoring the snarl he receives for doing so.

John doesn't bother to hide the disapproval in his face as he wraps his hand around Sherlock's. It's something they have to do when presenting themselves to their relatives, and Mycroft feels a little guilty every time he sees the discomfort in their faces. Sherlock makes a face but doesn't fight it, only tightens his grip on John's fingers as he pulls him out of the room.

"I'm going to drown myself in punch," Luke announces. His tie is askew and he's kept one of his piercings but at least he looks presentable. He bites at the edge of his sentinel ring, a bad habit that no one has ever gotten him to quit. Mycroft's long given up on telling him to stop it. It's not like he can even hide it. "This party's going to be a bore."

Greg rolls his eyes and mutters something to him. His hair's too dark now, darker than his natural color, but at least it doesn't scream at people to pay attention to it. It's not any better than the blue hair, in Mycroft's opinion, but at least Greg made the effort. He leans in close, presses his mouth against Greg's temple when Luke's facing the other way, earning a small grin for his efforts.

Greg doesn't really have to do much. His job is to talk when needed and to keep Luke in check as much as possible. Mycroft wants to hide him, keep him in a room until everyone leaves. He doesn't say it, though, because it's unacceptable and Greg will be furious with him, will probably complain about Mycroft not trusting him. It isn't that. Mycroft trusts him quite a lot. It's just that, he doesn't trust him with his relatives.

A hand grips his shoulder, spinning him around and forcing him to lose his hold on Greg.

Mycroft doesn't always use metaphors or similes, but there's no denying that Priam smiles like the sun. It's a big smile, his mouth stretched wide to reveal toothpaste commercial worthy teeth. He still smells of antiseptic and cleaning products, which means he hasn't found the punch yet.

"How's it going, Mikey?" he asks.

"Fine." Mycroft doesn't know what so say after that. Priam's far from being his favorite relative. He's far from being anyone's favorite, really, ever since that brief stint of being disowned during his early adolescence. Rejecting your pre-bond then going off to do god-knows-what can turn you into a social pariah. It's their duty to act appropriately, to accept your pre-bond, to have kids, etc. Priam never did those things. Priam doesn't care. Or, to quote Father, "Priam doesn't give a shit about anything."

"That's what we do," Mycroft responds to Priam's banal comment of growing up while he was away. He doesn't understand why relatives keep saying that. Of course he grew up. It's not exactly rocket science. He locks his fingers around Greg's once more, silently telling him to pay attention. "Not busy today?"

"Hmm? Nah, thought I deserved a break. The hospital can take care of itself for a while. I plan on getting shit drunk." He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, like a child caught doing something wrong. His eyes slide to Greg who immediately straightens and puts on a smile that looks only slightly forced. The commercial smile returns to Priam's face. "Greg, right?"

Greg nods. It's a bit stiff. Mycroft looks at his uncle's face and sees the thought form his eyes. Mycroft thinks of stopping him, but there's no way he can say 'no'. "You don't mind if I steal him from you?" Priam asks him, mischievous now as he hooks an arm around Greg's shoulders. "Don't worry, I'm not going to do anything. I need someone to joke around with before I face Ing."

Greg stares at him, questioning. Stop it. Don't touch him.

"Don't get him drunk," Mycroft says and Priam laughs and tells him again not to worry, that he's just killing time. Greg raises a hand in farewell before Priam tugs him aside. Mycroft watches as Greg pulls away, enough for him grab Luke who's been flirting with one of his mother's nieces for the past ten minutes.

Mycroft turns away to face one of his aunts.

"I'm sorry."

Mycroft searches his face, over all the features made familiar by the strong family resemblance, and thinks that if the sincerity in his voice is doubtful, it still shows in the set of his mouth and the crease between his brows. Mycroft tries to be nonchalant and shrugs, but it's less smooth than he wants. "It's not your fault," he says, and it isn't. It's Mycroft's fault. He wanted it to happen, anyway.

At least, this is what he believes.

Ingfred traces his finger over the rim of his wineglass. "I'm sorry, still."

"Okay."

"You really shouldn't blame yourself."

He sounds miserable and Mycroft doesn't even know why. It angers him a little but he controls it. Ingfred looks at him and shakes his head. "You're quite unlike Siger."

The comment weighs Mycroft down like a sack of bricks. It shouldn't hurt but it does, somehow.

"It's a good thing," Ingfred mutters, irritated. He sets the wineglass down. "You idolize him too much."

"Should I not?"

"No. Yes." Ingfred shrugs. "For me, no."

He sighs angrily then returns to the form he's been working on for the past ten minutes. Mycroft cranes his neck to read it but it's in a language that's unfamiliar to him. Whatever it is, it must be important enough for Ingfred to avoid the party altogether by holing up in Father's office. Behind him, Mycroft can see an old photograph of the four of them as children. His father is beaming at the camera, one arm around a young Ingfred who isn't bound to the wheelchair yet. The happy, care-free smile of his father makes him uncomfortable, like it isn't something he should look at. He avoids looking at it as much as possible.

"I was thinking," Ingfred begins, his pen pausing over the slightly wrinkled paper before him, "I was thinking about The Diogenes Club. About handing it to you I mean."

Mycroft blinks. "That's yours."

"It's not like I can even handle it anymore," Ingfred admits. "I hate staying in London."

Mycroft thinks about the responsibility of handling it and tenses. He thinks about school and Sherlock and all those people he has to get to know. "I'm not sure," he says. "I'm a bit busy."

"It's a good place," Ingfred says. He's not exactly pushing, just being sincere. "You loved going there when you were little."

He doesn't remember much about it, only that it's a quiet place where you're not allowed to talk. Sherlock's not allowed there.

"I'll think about it," he says instead of the 'yes' that's on the tip of his tongue. Ingfred smiles at him, looking a lot like his little brother for a second.

"You know, it was Sig who disowned Priam, not our father." He's already folding the form and tucking it in the front pocket of his coat. "And people always say Sherlock takes after Priam."

Mycroft stares at him, waiting.

"If Sherlock ever does something horrible, you wouldn't disown him, Mycroft. You'd help him." Ingfred smiles sadly. "That's why you're not like your father."

He isn't sure if it's a compliment or not—his family usually says things that can trick the mind, the heart. "And you? If it was up to you, would you have done it?" Mycroft asks carefully. He sees it now. He's not Father, nor is he Priam. He's a bit like Ingfred, or rather, he'll be like Ingfred if he makes the wrong decisions. There's something like regret in Ingfred's eyes when he shakes his head and tells him the opposite of what Mycroft was hoping to hear.