"Three counts of sexual misconduct with a minor, and one of assaulting an officer in Her Majesty's police force. These are not charges that can be simply dropped." Mycroft Holmes said to the dark-haired ambassador as they sat together sharing a sherry in the dimly lit parlor.

"Why not? I thought that was the very meaning of diplomatic immunity."

"But diplomatic immunity is for diplomats, not their sons."

The ambassador took a sip from his crystal goblet before smiling at Mycroft with the teeth of a crocodile. "But can't we just stretch the rules a bit given that you and I are such good friends."

"Friendship means nothing to a court of law. I believe the usual sentence for this kind of crime is about ten years or so?"

"But the boy is young!"

"Not young enough."

"But in the interest of peace between our two countries, can't we come to some sort of agreement, for family?"

"Well, the judge might be persuaded to dismiss the charges if our countries relationship were a just a bit closer. There is the matter of a Uranium ore agreement between you and the Russians. If you could perhaps cancel that agreement."

"But the Russians are our allies!"

"What are allies when weighed against one's family?" Mycroft said. He took a sip and the dark sherry stained his lips red, one of which crooked up in a smile as he said, "Family, it's all we have in the end."

Mycroft ignored the phone buzzing in his pocket, until he saw the ambassador's eyes drop minutely, and he knew that he had won. He looked at the screen then and frowned.

"If you would excuse me for a moment, Ambassador," he said closing the door carefully behind him before answering the call.

"What's happened?"

"It's your brother, sir. He's been shot!"

Mycroft pushed off from the door rushing toward the exit.

"Where?" he asked.

"He's enroute to the hospital."

"Have the car meet me out back, now!"

"But the ambassador?"

"Hang the ambassador. I want that car ready to go when I get there. I'll want minute by minute reports."

"Yes, Sir."

The door opened, and Mycroft Holmes entered the car while it was still moving. His assistant climbed into the seat beside the driver and they were off. She was texting Bright to take over the negotiations. He couldn't be bothered to worry about that now. Sherlock was hurt. He rolled up the divider and shut everyone else out of his mind.

The hospital was twenty minutes away. A helicopter might be faster, but the airport was even further away than the hospital. There was no point panicking. Sherlock had been hurt before. He had probably just shot himself in the foot playing with John's gun. He checked his phone. No updates. He needed to take his mind off of it and think of something else.

He closed his eyes and settled back into his seat concentrating on the smooth feel of leather rubbing across the back of his neck. A memory bubbled up unbidden. "Inappropriate," he said to himself as he ran his fingertips sensually across the leather surface.

That couch had been leather as well. Warm brown like the color of his eyes. It was smooth beneath his bare skin. The cool touch of it sliding beneath his back was almost more pleasant than the the warmth of the body next to his. It had been with his school teacher, how cliché! He had been young and brilliant with a full head of ruddy brown hair on his shoulders. He had been curious and the teacher had been eager.

The first time had been on the leather couch in the teacher's office. The second, spread out on his bed, a curled up quilt under the small of his back, and sweat pouring down his forehead because the window was shut and the curtains were closed despite the heat of the day. It had not been an unpleasant experience, the warm touch of skin against skin, the rough prick of small hairs under his tongue. It was pleasant how powerful he felt. He loved the way his teacher panted at the sight of him. The way his voice alone could make him shake and shudder.

He didn't mind the third time, pushed up against the wall of the classroom, the teacher biting his own hand to keep from crying out. What he did mind was his teacher's complete lack of discretion. It was one thing to have relations with one's teacher. It was quite another thing to have been known to have done so. The teacher's eyes strayed to him in the middle of lessons. Sometimes he paused and licked his lips. His looks, his actions, his voice, were tells obvious enough for even the idiot students at his school to notice. He wasn't going to let his future be ruined by the man, so he applied to another school, a more prestigious one that would get him one step closer to his ultimate goal of a job in the British government.

The school accepted him, of course, but the teacher wouldn't just let him go. He cornered him against the door, one hand on his thigh as he spoke of passion and true love. Mycroft slid out of his grasp and left the room. He told everything to the headmaster, and was at the new school within the week. The teacher was dismissed, but the rumors followed him in whispers from one school to the next. Mycroft Holmes had broken the heart of someone who loved him. Mycroft Holmes had a heart made of ice.

"If only that were true," Mycroft said.