It was an unusually sunny noon, and Mycroft had an urgent phone call. Sherlock Holmes, "Great" Detective Dead, read the morning paper. It had happened yesterday, and naturally made the front page today. Mycroft gave something like a closed-mouth grimace as he stared down at the image on the paper, eyebrows knit. He was doing what he could.

"Mister Holmes," said Anthea, his personal assistant, from the opposite side of the dining table, also doing what she could(from her mobile phone of course). "Are you alright?"

Mycroft was a little surprised at the question, but then again, he was working through some difficult family affairs. It was natural enough for most people to take a little sympathy. Mycroft gave a curt nod in response to his assistant.

After a few minutes he placed the phone back onto the surface of the table, making sure it was covered the image on the paper of Sherlock Holmes's red splattered head.

"We will be having a visitor later today," he said.

"Who sir?" his assistant asked, mildly interested.

"Sherlock Holmes."

She nodded. Typical on the papers to get it wrong.

"Ah, Mycroft. Delightful to see you," Sherlock remarked sarcastically upon entering the tall door to Mycroft's mansion.

"I would say the same for you, brother dear."

Mycroft studied him. He was thinner, he would give him something to eat as soon as he could. He carried a large duffel bag, one that obviously didn't belong to him. He wore a white t-shirt, which was tattered and dirty, so he'd either gotten into some trouble in the past twenty four hours or he was borrowing it from one of his homeless network. Mycroft sniffed in disapproval, taking in an old, stinking scent, one that could've only been conceived after long months of sleeping out on the London streets. More likely one of the homeless network, but he wouldn't put it past Sherlock's innate ability to attract conflict. The sweat pants and shoes appeared to be in the same condition as the shirt. To hide his face, he had on a gray hoodie, but just in case, there was also a large beanie hanging in front of his eyes.

"What have you been doing in the past twenty four hours?" he asked.

"And why would I tell you?"

"I'm your older brother." Mycroft said this in a vaguely menacing tone.

"How's the diet?" asked Sherlock loudly, causing Anthea to smirk a little from on a nearby armchair(Mycroft had asked her to stay, as he felt he needed back up in dealing with Sherlock). Fortunately, her boss couldn't see her as the chair didn't face the front door.

"Fine," said Mycroft in a rather final tone, as if to say and that's that. "Speaking of food, you need to eat."

"No I don't," said Sherlock, automatically disagreeing with Mycroft. He looked him over. As usual, he couldn't deduce as much about Mycroft as he could other people, as he made a point of keeping his suits immaculately clean. He could tell however, that the diet was not going well, and Mycroft was the slightest bit more agitated than before now that he'd asked about it.

"Yes, you do," stated Mycroft, as if this was an indisputable fact. "My mansion. My rules, brother dear." This was of course, the alternative to saying I genuinely care about your health as an older brother and wish for you to consume an appropriate amount of food, but that would've been humiliating. Caring does nobody any good, even when it is for your own younger brother.

Sherlock gave him a slightly menacing stare, reminiscent of that of a sullen teenager who didn't want to follow his mother's(no, brother's) orders. Mycroft stared back with equal intensity. The room took on a cold, silent quality.

"Chinese, on the way," said Anthea, merrily breaking the silence. She stood and faced the two Holmeses. "Shall I stay late Mycroft, or do you think you'll be capable of handling Sherlock on your own?"

Mycroft looked at her sideways, annoyed and vaguely put out. "Do not leave."

"I'm still not eating," Sherlock said. He was met with two rather exasperated looking expressions.