(( Hello, everyone! I decided to branch out a bit. This is a Mystrade fic, yes, but I really want this to be a longer one than ten chapters. We'll see how long it will be, but I have really high hopes for it! I really hope you guys like it – and I deal with some rather touchy topics, so I really hope I do them some justice. Either way, thank you all for reading, you're all so beautiful, and leave a comment if you want!))

Mycroft liked schedules. Controlling, organizing, and planning were his first three offspring. If he had it his way, nothing on Earth would be left to chance. Granted, at the ripe old age of twenty-four, Mycroft didn't exactly have a lot of say in that yet. When he was in his teenage years, he had grand aspirations. Even now, he still hoped, but it was reserved and reigned in.

All of his plans had to be set aside, however, as it was 6 AM and Mycroft needed to get Sherlock to school.

They lived in a flat, he and his brother. The circumstances surrounding how they moved in were complex, but painful enough to clash with Mycroft's recent 'no untamed emotions' philosophy.

The flat was small. Not terribly hygienic. There was but one bedroom, and Mycroft had put his younger brother in there in order to give him a sense of privacy. Not that Sherlock particularly deserved privacy, given that he was the most troublesome twelve-year-old child in the planet, but Mycroft had felt a deep sense of guilt from wrenching Sherlock out of their home.

That left Mycroft with few options. Most often, he took the sofa. That was remarkably uncomfortable and Mycroft always woke with a sore neck. Pathetically enough, that was the best option Mycroft had found yet. The others were the rocking chair in Sherlock's room and physically sleeping beside the adolescent, and Mycroft knew Sherlock would smother him in his sleep.

There was a kitchen, a bathroom, and a small living area, besides. Mycroft regularly checked the kitchen over for mice and bugs – it was fruitless, because it wasn't as if they could afford an exterminator if anything was found. He was hoping that everything would hold together, as their furniture was made cheaply. Mycroft had gotten it for a lark, and he quickly understood why. In their short time at the flat, Mycroft had become a plumber, an electrician, an engineer, and an architect – or, at least, his skills had evolved beyond hitting at things with a hammer.

The bathroom was a small source of tension between the two. Mycroft needed it in the morning to make himself look presentable, and Sherlock had a not-so-secret desire to constantly play pirates in the tub. Grudgingly, Mycroft had taken the responsibility of cleaning it. Despite his efforts, the place always had a slightly yellow tinge to it.

Mycroft kept the living room presentable. They had a small telly with which to watch the news ( Sherlock, thank heavens, had never shown particular interest in watching telly), a slightly battered and sunken-in sofa, a lamp, and a rug. Usually Sherlock's experiments were thrown all about, but Mycroft snapped at him often enough to clean them up.

The entire flat seemed a tad grungy, a tad dangerous, and a tad smelly. It wasn't in a particularly nice bit of London, either, so he kept a strict curfew of 7 PM for Sherlock. Whenever it turned dark, Mycroft told him, Sherlock had to be home. The boy was twelve, short, curly-haired, and naïve yet. Mycroft didn't want him to get mixed up in the wrong sorts.

Speaking of his younger brother, Sherlock still had to attend school. Mycroft pried himself from the sofa and slumped his way over to Sherlock's room. "Sherlock, up. School." As he did so, he made sure his face was carefully masked. His neck was twinging with pain.

Sherlock was sprawled out on his bed, taking every conceivable inch for himself. That was another reason why Mycroft didn't just swallow his pride and sleep in the same bed for him. Sighing, Mycroft went over to him and shook his shoulder. "Up, Sherlock, I've an interview today and I cannot be late."

Sherlock let out a small whine and mumbled something along the lines of, "You shan't get the job, anyway."

Sherlock was never particularly kind. Hadn't ever been, really. Even now, he held a grudge against Mycroft for not telling him why they could no longer live with their parents. Mycroft didn't intend on telling him, and Sherlock was cross over it. Although Sherlock had never been one to stay angry, Mycroft didn't know if this would be different.

"That's a possibility, but I must go there regardless. And you have school. Up." Mycroft told him again, physically lifting the boy by his shoulders. When they had first moved in, some months ago, Mycroft had been…soft. Sherlock enjoyed the word 'fat', but Mycroft just felt he was a bit softer than the ideal specimen. That had nearly disappeared when they had moved in, entirely due to their small income.

Sherlock whined again and slumped against the wall, but he did slowly make his way over to find his clothing. The boy's hair was sticking up in several places and Mycroft licked his fingers in order to pat it down. The whine turned into an outright scoff of disgust. "Mycroft, stop it. I don't want your spit in my hair."

"I wouldn't have to if you learned how to operate a comb. It's not that difficult, Sherlock, I assure you." A touch of pride entered Mycroft's voice. "Top of your class, and you cannot even brush your hair. Heaven help us, Sherlock."

At the end of the day, Mycroft didn't hate his brother. He couldn't. In the most cliché way possible, Sherlock was all he had. Even if Sherlock detested him, Mycroft had to care for him, and he felt pride for him, just the way a parent would. It was sickeningly sentimental.

However, that didn't mean Mycroft was the most affectionate stand-in parent about. No, after the night, Mycroft had sworn off emotion entirely. He merely looked after Sherlock because it was his fraternal duty to do so. Still, he thought to himself, he would do a damn better job at raising Sherlock than his own parents had accomplished.

As Sherlock began to get himself ready, Mycroft returned to the living room and attempted to make a meager breakfast.

They had been born into wealth and affluence. The Holmes family had two major characteristics about them – one, they were sickeningly rich, and two, they were richly sickened. Every single male member of the Holmes family had some mental disease, from Alzheimer's to psychosis, but they were also rich enough to treat it. Mycroft didn't know if he had escaped the curse on his mind. He had always been frighteningly intelligent, but he in no way regarded that as a mental disease.

Then the thing had happened, and then Mycroft and Sherlock were on their own. No money, of course, because that would've been far too easy. So Mycroft had gotten a job waiting on tables at a coffee shop (it seemed so beneath him, but hell, he'd be willing to go onto prostitution if that meant being able to feed his brother). He had an internship going for a politician. Of course, he could always get more money if he simply dropped the internship and worked full-time, but Mycroft was hoping he could actually properly get a job in the government soon.

However, a government job wasn't a short-term goal. No, short-term was acquiring a better paying job. They were poor. Not starving, not yet, but it was rare that Sherlock got a decent meal. By decent, Mycroft meant home-cooked. Usually Mycroft got bits and pieces of a meal. Nothing proper, and nothing filling. Sherlock ate at school (where Sherlock got the money for that, he didn't know), as Mycroft could deduce. Once a week (and Mycroft made sure it was absolutely once a week), Mycroft would bring home some ingredients and attempt cooking.

Sherlock would roll his eyes and gag, of course, but Mycroft didn't grow annoyed with him. No, for Mycroft had unparalleled observation, and he could tell that Sherlock appreciate it. That was why Mycroft made sure that, one night, Sherlock would eat something.

That was where the interviews came in. Mycroft usually had one lined up every few weeks, and every few weeks, his hopes would get up. More money would be a godsend. Sherlock was a growing teenage boy, after all, and their own meagre flat could do with some fixing up.

However, he knew before he went that he would not get the job. Why?

Somebody needed to be there to pick Sherlock up from school. Obviously, the only one that could was Mycroft. Their flat was in a bad neighborhood. Mycroft didn't want for Sherlock to be mixed up in all that.

And two…

Sherlock had brought up, multiple times, that perhaps they could go somewhere for help. There were places that gave food to the poor, clothing to the needy, help for the helpless. If they could just admit they needed help, they would get it.

Mycroft felt that he'd rather die than admit that perhaps they needed help, and that they needed it soon. After all, all it took was one cold or even a broken bone for Mycroft's budget to be depleted completely.

So he walked Sherlock home, every day, because Mycroft never wanted to admit there was something wrong with the set-up they had.

"Oh, Sherlock, you look like you've been sleeping under a rock. Haven't I told you to go to bed on time? I do not care how easy your classes are, or how you'll always be the top of your class, you need your sleep." Mycroft insisted at him, standing up as Sherlock slumped his way out into the living room. The boy's eyes seemed sunken in a tad, and he was swaying on his feet. His clothes hung loosely from his body, and Mycroft realized with a shock that Sherlock must have been losing weight.

How much damn weight did Sherlock have to lose?

Yes, money had been tight lately. Mycroft hadn't always been able to feed him on a daily basis. Sherlock had the most miraculous away of scrounging for things when he grew hungry, which put into question why Mycroft often put food in front of Sherlock rather than in front of himself. At the thought, his stomach gave a depressed grumble. Either way, Mycroft resolved to actually bring something home that night for him to eat. Anything, as long as it was filling.

"I've been busy, Fatcroft." Sherlock responded airily, lazily adjusting his clothes around his body. His bag was thrown haphazardly over his shoulder. Papers were just about to spill out of it, and Mycroft went over to secure them. "Besides, 'm fine."

"I'm positive that you are. As it is, have a nice day at school. If I hear you condescending to your professors again, Sherlock, I will get involved." What an empty threat. "I shall be there to walk you home at the usual time."

With that, Sherlock was out the door and out of Mycroft's hands.

Did Mycroft despise this life? Vehemently. He hated not being able to live in a stable, safe flat, he hated not being able to feed himself or his brother, he hated the constant worrying. But his Holmesian pride made it so that he couldn't really do anything to help himself, and he hated that, too.

He had one suit that he only wore to interviews. With his massive loss of weight, none his clothing had fit anymore. The suit was an expenditure that Mycroft knew was necessary, but hated anyway. The rest of his clothing was cheaply made. It wasn't like he wore those often, anyway. He wore his uniform to the coffee shop, and it wasn't like he had friends to go out with. Hell, he didn't have friends, period.

Still, he slicked his hair back as fashionably as he was able and brushed the dust off his suit. Really, he thought as he looked in the mirror, he wasn't a bad-looking man. It wasn't like he could afford to pay attention to that part of life anymore, though. Sometimes it was a miracle just to get out of bed and get Sherlock off to school, work a shift, pick Sherlock up, help him with his homework, make sure he ate something, perhaps go out for a stroll, and put Sherlock to bed. Just to do that, and only twenty-four.

Walking, of course, was the only transportation to get to his interview. Hell, was he ever frightened about walking through his neighborhood with that sort of clothing. But cabs were too expensive and a car was only a pipe dream, so walking it was.

About two hours later, Mycroft was walking out of the office. His face was the usual set composure – Mycroft wouldn't allow for anything else. However, he knew perfectly well that he wouldn't get the job.

Mycroft was a master of observation, and he took a massive enjoyment in the task. So, when he mentioned that he wouldn't be able to work when he was picking his brother up from school, he could see his potential employer's face fall. So Mycroft wouldn't be getting the job, then.

It was a damn shame, and Mycroft would be a damn liar if he said that he wasn't disappointed. There was no reason to get unduly upset, though, and besides, he had a job to get to.

A spark of hope twitched in his chest as he thought that, perhaps, he'd get to see him today.