So, this is a little experiment of mine, as I thought it way overdue that I returned to the Sherlock fandom. So, I hope you'll enjoy: Mycroft, the (Terrible) Matchmaker!

I do not own the series "Sherlock", nor the books about Sherlock Holmes or James Bond, though the two latter are in the public domain, and I mean no copyright infringement; nor make any profit off of this story. This story is not listed as a crossover as I am merely borrowing Ian Fleming's character of Bond, (updating him to modern time) and his works are not an option on this site. I am not in any way actually basing this on the James Bond films.

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Mycroft Holmes was the British government, everybody around him, or at least around his brother Sherlock, knew that, and yet, who drew it to its logical conclusion?

Mycroft Holmes would tell you that the older the brother in the family Holmes, the more annoying he himself found said individual. His only elder brother, Sherrinford, had joined him in the defence of Britain straight out of University, signing up only a year after Mycroft himself came into the service of the nation. The oldest Holmes brother had then proceeded to commit high treason in a frankly outrageous manner (at least according to his still-loyal younger brother) and was now spending one hundred lifetimes in super max prison. He would have disappeared discreetly, but Mycroft had pulled a favour, for the sake of their mother, Violet. He was a loving son, after all.

The next in line of the brothers' Holmes was Mycroft Holmes himself. The government man rarely thought about himself in any sort of sentimental way, neither loved nor hated his own shadow; there was merely respect and trust in his personal self-image.

The next brother, Sherlock, was annoying, and Mycroft found himself constantly frustrated in his presence. Infuriating as he was, however, Sherlock was his little brother, and Mycroft did love him. And always, whatever it took, he would care for him.

Their youngest brother, Quentin, was Mycroft's favourite. The only brother of his, in fact, he genuinely liked being in the same room with at any given time. Even so, Mycroft truly loved his baby brothers, at the end of the day. Both of them. Even when Sherlock was being unresonable and he had to worry about Quentin.

Mycroft had always assumed they would all stay alone all of their lives, as he was a workaholic, Sherrinford was in prison, Sherlock was impossible and Quentin was far too shy to meet many people at all.

On this day he sat with two files, looking down on them and thinking of his two little brothers. It was January, and he had just gotten word that there had been a fourth serial suicide, meaning that DI Lestrade was even now on the way to the flat at Bakerstreet which Sherlock had rented after some pushing from their mother that he needed a proper living place. He hadn't argued that he couldn't afford it - mother's urgings usually came with the appropriate changes in trust fund payouts without anyone ever needing to ask. Not that any of them really lived off of their trust funds, though Sherlock came closer to it than all the rest of them combined.

This meant, that Sherlock would cheerfully jump into danger within the next hour. He would have to keep an eye on him. No change there. Quentin, on the other hand, had showed distinct signs lately of depression; loneliness, his elder brothers deduced. Well, two of them. Mycroft, the Holmes heir, did not give much for the deductive capacities of Sherrinford. After all, anyone who thought they could manage such a betrayal of their country and get away with it right in front of Mycroft Holmes's watchful eyes had to be more than just a little bit daft.

But he ought to do something for his brothers this year, he had already decided on this. Only Quentin might ever thank him for it, but that mattered less. He did not do things because he wanted thanks, after all. Besides, mother would thank him for his thoughtfulness in looking after his brothers, and that would be more than enough.

With that thought, Mycroft Holmes looked back down onto the files he had before him on his desk. Service records of one James Bond, and one John Watson. The two men had been friends in early training, and then moved on in different directions. John Watson had become an army surgeon, and had only just returned to London after having been shot in the shoulder. James Bond had gone into the navy instead, then special forces, and had recently done a similar transfer due to a back injury.

Neither one of those men could be called an invalid by any stretch of the word, but they were both courageous, loyal and made on all accounts for good friends. Even more important, John Watson was the steady companion his younger brother Sherlock would benefit from having around, and James Bond fit the mark for what his youngest brother found "an attractive man" absolutely to a T. And Mycroft Holmes had a plan.