A/N: It's been a while since I last updated anything, hasn't it? I hope to be more productive in the near future. Thank you to everyone who followed this story, especially those who reviewed, for keeping me inspired to finish this!

Epilogue

It was at another one of those ""Christmas Dinners," that Mycroft had once warned John about, that things came to a head.

Mycroft had spent the last six months after his return working his backside off, trying to restore balance after the messes created in his absence. He was officially reprimanded for his role in the Magnussen cover-up, but didn't suffer further consequences. The "mission" he had been forced to go on was deemed the equivalent of "time served- plus," with the advantage being on Mycroft's side, which made the reinstated government official more confident in making his demands.

Sherlock, the perpetual lucky idiot, wasn't punished too harshly. He was indicted in a closed court session on charges of manslaughter, but given the circumstances and Sherlock's previous record of public service, the judge was pretty lenient. However, his offence of the law in trying to force officials to cover up his crime meant that he couldn't get away with only a slap on the wrist. He was given the choice of taking on some MI6 work, or going to prison for two years.

It didn't take Sherlock very long to make up his mind (.005 of a second, by his estimation). He very nearly changed his mind when he learned of the actual ramifications of the deal. He would be treated in the same manner as any other agent, have to do everything by the book, submit to his handlers' instructions, and actually fill put paperwork. He then learnt the most horrific part: his missions would all be personally overseen and reviewed by none other than Mycroft Holmes, whose word would be law as far as Sherlock's treatment was concerned.

"That's preposterous!" Sherlock had complained to the MI6 Chief, who had briefed him on the rules. "Why does Mycroft even need to be involved in this? Why does he need to control my every move?"

The chief had given Sherlock a stern look, accompanied by the ghost of a smile. "Because he's the only one who can. Our government has learnt its lesson when it comes to Mycroft Holmes' siblings."

Sherlock had squared his shoulders and done his duty, like the soldier John had acknowledged he had in him, like the grownup Mummy had labelled him, and like the devoted brother Mycroft had trusted him to be.

It wasn't all that bad, in the end. The more Sherlock devoted himself to his actual duties, instead of just looking for ways to piss Mycroft off, the more he was successful in gaining his brother's respect and trust. Which had been there before, but was increasing exponentially. It was a delicate dance through old mistrust and hurts, but the Holmes brothers somehow managed a working relationship that was astoundingly close to decent. (Though the jabs about diets, intelligence, and various other matters were still present in most interactions.)

When Sherlock wasn't busy doing his "community service," he was back to solving cases with John Watson. Their relationship would never be what it had been before, but Sherlock didn't necessarily consider that a bad thing, in the end. They had both seen each other at their worst, had hurt each other deeply, and yet their deep bonds of friendship had survived it all. They probably understood each other better than ever. Their joint mission of rescuing Mycroft had given them both the opportunity to work together in a way they hadn't for too long, and had solidified their newly re-established partnership.

The ill-fated Christmas dinner had been Sherlock's idea, and had been done with the best if intentions. Mummy and Dad were still very upset at Mycroft, especially at his disappearance, for which they weren't given a satisfactory explanation. They were still waiting to see Eurus, but Mycroft found himself unable to arrange it before he had set all security matters back in order. Mainly, they were still unable to forgive him for having lied about Eurus for so many years.

Sherlock had proposed having a holiday dinner, where they would all have the opportunity to clear the air. He had proposed hosting the party in 221b, as a sort of neutral ground. Mrs. Hudson had been invited too, considering the location, and her frequently expressed desire to properly meet Sherlock's parents. Mrs. Hudson and Mummy had indeed hit it off right away, making fast friends.

The evening had been going pretty well, when Mycroft arrived, fashionably late, and a sudden chill descended on the gaily bedecked room. Nevertheless, everyone tried to be on their best behavior. Polite greetings were exchanged, and Mummy and Mrs. Hudson did their utmost to chatter on while ignoring the elephant- or rather, the Mycroft- in the room.

Sherlock gave John a significant look. It was time to implement The Plan.

Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. The room turned silent, and all eyes were trained on the detective. "Alright. Let's get this over with. Mycroft, say whatever you have to say, and then kindly relieve us of your presence."

"Sherlock..." Mummy demonstrated half-heartedly.

"Why was I invited, again?" Mycroft asked, facetiously creasing his eyebrows in thought.

"I was wondering quite the same," Mrs. Hudson spoke up, shooting Mycroft a poisonous glance.

"Now, Martha," Mummy patted the landlady's hand. "You know how William and I like our family to be together, especially on holidays. We've decided to give our Mycroft another chance. He's still our child, no matter how reprehensible his behavior has been in the past."

John stared at Mummy, and then turned to Sherlock, his eyes questioning. Sherlock gave a tiny nod.

"Would anyone like some more tea? I was just about to make a cup for myself. To go with another slice of your heavenly Christmas cake, Mrs. Hudson," John said, winking at the older woman.

"A cuppa would be lovely," Mrs. Hudson said, just as the elder Holmes couple voiced their requests. Sherlock nodded towards John. "Mycroft can make his own tea, can't he, Mrs. Hudson?"

The landlady burst out in peals of laughter. John went into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "I'm not sure there's enough cake left for you Mycroft, but then again, I'm not sure you need it."

"You can have a piece," Mrs. Holmes told her eldest graciously, "but do hold off on a second one. You know what you look like when you aren't careful."

"Let the boy be, Mildred," William Holmes spoke up softly, almost timidly. "Christmas is only one day a year, after all."

"And I would have liked to spend this one day a year with all of my children," Mildred retorted sharply, glaring at her husband, before turning her glare on her eldest. "We might have been doing that, if someone had cared enough to arrange it."

"Once again, I'm very sorry about that," Mycroft said tiredly. "I tried, but the security procedures weren't yet in place."

"Sometimes I wonder if you even understand the meaning of the word 'try,'" Mildred snapped.

John came back with the tea tray, which contained six cups. "Merry Christmas," he said sardonically, as he placed a cup in front of Mycroft.

Mycroft lifted his eyes to look at John, a thoughtful expression on his face. John squirmed a bit under his penetrating gaze, and finally looked away.

"I can see what you and Sherlock are trying to do, and I appreciate that," Mycroft told John quietly. "However, I'm afraid it's quite pointless."

"I'm not quite sure what you're talking about," John answered, shrugging, and continued handing out the tea.

"John, did you bring sugar? We'll need quite a lot of it to sweeten the sour aftertaste when he finally leaves," Sherlock snarked.

No one reacted to Sherlock's statement, save for John twitching one side of his mouth up. The only sounds in the room were those made by the occupants consuming their victuals.

Mycroft left his tea untouched. After several minutes of silence, he sighed. "As Sherlock has so cleverly suggested, I'll just say my piece and then leave all of you alone. Mummy, Dad," he turned to look at his parents, "I never intended to hurt you. I'm sorry I couldn't do better. I am putting in all my efforts in getting you reunited with your daughter, and I hope that happens soon."

"Soon is many years too late," Mummy said frostily.

"I know, and I'm sorry," Mycroft looked down. "Mrs. Hudson, I'll let you have the rest of your party reptile-free. Sherlock," he looked at his brother, his tone softening, "John," he turned to the doctor, a small smile on his lips, his tone nearly affectionate, "Well played. It isn't your fault that your ploy didn't work. Nevertheless, I appreciate that you tried. Merry Christmas to you all."

Sherlock looked at John, who spread his hands apart in defeat. The older people in the room stared at Mycroft in confusion. No one returned his silence held until the last tap of Mycroft's umbrella had receded.

"Sherlock?" William Holmes turned his bewildered gaze on his younger son. "Would you mind explaining what your brother was on about?"

"Why didn't you ask him, Dad?" Sherlock asked softly.

"He wasn't going to explain, was he?" Mummy sniffed.

"Perhaps if you had given him the chance," Sherlock answered steadily. "Excuse me, I need to go."

Sherlock dashed down the stairs, and managed to catch his brother before the latter was swallowed up by the waiting black car.

"That's it? You're just... leaving?" Sherlock panted out.

Mycroft turned to his little brother, his face impassive. "Yes. This was never going to work."

"But why?" Sherlock threw up his hands in exasperation. "Why, Mycroft? They're your parents, too. And Mrs. Hudson puts up with me, and John, and Rosie, and she's always there for us. Why wouldn't they give you a break?" Sherlock's voice cracked at his last few words.

"You did your best, Sherlock. You and John," Mycroft said in a soothing voice. "But your strategy was wrong. You thought you would get at least one of them to defend me when the both of you were trying to take the piss out of me, didn't you? Perhaps you thought you can evoke some maternal protectiveness in Mummy, or even Mrs. Hudson. Or at least get them to inadvertently take my side while scolding you for your appalling behavior."

Sherlock nodded shortly.

"You were sure that at least Dad would stick up for me, out of his inherent sense of fairness, if not out of paternal affection," Mycroft stated.

"So what went wrong?"

"Conditioning, Sherlock. Our parents and Mrs. Hudson don't see me as a child. They are conditioned to see me as an adult on their level, who bears as much responsibility as they do. So they hold me more responsible for my reactions. And I don't invoke the same protective instincts as you, John, and Little Miss Watson do."

Sherlock placed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, as he hadn't bothered to put on his coat before rushing out. "So I'm not truly the grownup?" he asked, smiling ironically.

"I'm afraid not," Mycroft answered, returning the smile.

"It's still not fair," Sherlock protested.

"When was life ever fair?" Mycroft mused. "It doesn't matter all that much, in the end."

"All lives end. All hearts are broken," Sherlock parroted the words from a different Christmas, long ago. "I know that. And I still care. You shouldn't have become the scapegoat for everyone's collective failures."

Mycroft looked at his now shivering brother in concern. "Go back up. You're freezing away here."

"Alright. But would you wait here a moment? I have something to give you."

In a flash, Sherlock was back, wearing his Belstaff. He handed Mycroft a cigarette, and lit up one of his own. " Just the one," he smirked at his older sibling. "Merry Christmas, brother mine."

"And a Happy New Year, little brother," Mycroft replied, smiling.

Later, Sherlock and John would both confront the present occupants of 221b. Sherlock would wonder at how Mummy failed to notice that Mycroft had lost so much weight that he was skinnier than he had ever been in his life. Sherlock would wonder at how Dad, who always taught his children to stand up for the underdog, had failed to do so in regards to his own son. Sherlock would tell Mrs. Hudson that he loved her, but he could no longer put up with her treatment of his brother. He would strongly advise them that, if they weren't able to change their feelings, they should at least keep their distance, and stop relying on Mycroft to be their problem solver. John would back up everything Sherlock said, compassionately but firmly.

For now, Sherlock only smoked his cigarette in the company of his older brother, constant protector, and first friend. As long as Mycroft was back at his side, Sherlock was sure that balance would eventually be restored to the universe.