A/N: This story takes place in the year 2000, ten years before "A Study in Pink". It's set in the same universe as "Evolution of Fear", "A Sociopath's Fears" and "My Fears Relieved", but you don't need to have read those stories to understand this one. I don't own these characters, Moffat/Gatiss and Arthur Conan Doyle do. Google Translate was used for the Latin titles, apologies for any goofs. Thank you to johnsarmylady for beta reading!

Warning: a character contemplates suicide in this story. If you find such things triggering, please don't read any further.

Cave Idus Martias

[Beware the Ides of March]

It's a drizzly morning in London, and Mycroft Holmes' flat is not much warmer than the early spring air outside. The diplomat is still sound asleep when the phone rings. After the third ring, he realizes that the ringing is not part of his dream and plods across the room to his mobile phone. He suspects that it's work again, calling about one crisis or another. Mycroft takes a moment to wonder why crises always occur at 6 AM on his day off and not, for example, when he's in a meeting with the dull representative from Finland.

When he glances at the caller ID, he realizes that the caller is not the office, it's Father, and his heart accelerates. (Father would only phone me at this hour if it were a true emergency.) A thousand horrors run through Mycroft's mind: his brother, Sherlock, has relapsed on cocaine or ran afoul of a drug dealer and is in intensive care; Sherlock has been arrested; Sherlock is dead. Mycroft takes a deep breath as he answers the phone.

"Yes, Father?"

The voice on the other end takes the diplomat by surprise, both with its quavering and the fact that it isn't his father's voice. "Young Mister Holmes, it's Reginald. I've bad news. It's your father, sir."

Mycroft blinks. If the butler is calling, it must be very bad news indeed. "What happened?"

Reginald chokes out, "He… he's gone, sir. In his sleep."

"I'll be right over."

Mycroft calls his car and hastily gets dressed. On the way over, he considers what needs to be done: someone must notify Sherlock if Reginald hasn't already done so. Father undoubtedly left funeral instructions, and Mycroft must find them and see to it that they are carried out. Father had a will and Mycroft must tell Father's solicitors to execute it. (I must also ensure that Father is really dead. He's a notoriously heavy sleeper, and perhaps Reginald simply couldn't wake him. Perhaps I will arrive at the Manor to find Father drinking his tea and absorbed in the newspaper…)

…but instead he arrives to find the ambulance already there and a police officer taking a statement from the butler.

Nodding to the butler, he dashes upstairs to the master bedroom. Upon seeing Mycroft – while he may not have Father's metabolism, he certainly has his face – the EMTs leave him alone with the body. He studies Father for a few minutes. The expression on his face is almost peaceful, and Mycroft can't help but wonder at how out-of-character it seems.

Mycroft whispers, "Fare thee well, Father," before silently departing.

After the EMTs and the police leave, Mycroft lets himself into Father's study and finds his funeral instructions. (Focus on the work, not the emotion.) Mycroft makes a brief phone call to the church Father requested and arranges a date and time for the service.

Next, he pulls the butler aside. "Has anyone told Sherlock?"

"No, sir. I tried calling the number in your father's address book, but they said he no longer lived there."

Mycroft lets out a sound that's halfway between a sigh and a snarl. (Of course Sherlock didn't give him his new address or phone number. Father paid for his posh drug rehab, his mobile, and his new clothes, and the prat can't even say thank you!) Brows furrowed, Mycroft picks up his mobile to ring Sherlock.

After a few rings, Sherlock picks up and yawns, "Hello, brother. Is this about Father again?"

"Yes-"

"I'm bloody tired of hearing that he wants to see me. Isn't he above all that sentiment?"

"Sherlock-"

"He thinks because he suddenly deigns to forgive my sins, I should forgive his and come home? Slay the fatted calf for the Prodigal Son and-"

"Enough, Sherlock!" Mycroft bellows, and the younger man is momentarily cowed. "Father died in his sleep last night. The funeral will be Tuesday, 10 AM at St. Vincent's. I hope you can come!"

The elder Holmes punches the end call button in the way that he wishes he could punch his brother's face. "I need some air," he grumbles, and snatching his coat and umbrella, stalks out the back door.