Day 10 of the Christmas Countdown. If you haven't yet, read some of the other stories beginning with a Star Trek story by Pip the Dark Lord of All.

Since I finally watched the third season of BBC Sherlock, I've set this story among the events in that season. A lot of what happens in this story is not in the show and is completely from my own head. I only watched the third season once so I apologise for any discrepancies. Sherlock is also rather out of character, but he was in the third season as well so whatevs.

Characters who appear in this story:

Mycroft Holmes: the unofficial British government and semi-official Queen of England. Also the main character of this story.

Sherlock Holmes: Mycroft's younger brother. He solves crimes.

Mummy and Daddy Holmes: Mycroft and Sherlock's parents.

John Watson: Sherlock's best friend. He helps solve crimes.

Mary Watson: John's wife.

Lestrade: Inspector from Scotland Yard.

Anderson (referenced only): another detective.

Moriarty (referenced only): consulting criminal

Anthea: Mycroft's helper

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC.

Mycroft searched the coat rack a second time and then a third, just to be on the safe side. It didn't take long to search the coat rack since it was completely bare, but he had to make sure he hadn't missed it somehow. After all, where could his umbrella have gone? He was quite sure he had had it just last night. He couldn't have—here his heart almost missed a beat—left it on the underground, could he?

It wasn't often the British government found itself so distressed by external circumstances, but we all have our weak points. With trembling hands and a sweating brow, Mycroft took his phone out of his pocket and dialed Scotland Yard.

"Hello, Lestrade? I—that is to say, we—have a national emergency."

He did his best to conceal the anxiety in his voice and sound business-like.

"Great scott! It's not really that bad, is it?" cried Lestrade's troubled voice on the other end of the line.

"I—no, what? You mean you already know? Where did you hear about it?" asked Mycroft in confusion.

"Just got a call from Baker Street," explained Lestrade. "I was hoping Sherlock was only overreacting again. You don't mean to say he's really in trouble, do you?"

"Sherlock? What? No, this is about me-I mean my umbrella!" sputtered Mycroft. "Ignore Sherlock. He's a drama queen, you know. Listen, my umbrella has been abducted and I need it found instanter. Do you understand? I want your best agents on the case."

"Of course!" exclaimed Lestrade with alacrity. "I'll get Sherlock right away!"

"No, not Sherlock! What did he say, anyway? You don't think he's really in trouble, do you? Perhaps you'd better send Anderson over there just in case." Mycroft couldn't help letting a little worry over his little brother distract him from his anxiety over his umbrella.

"Well, I was on my way to Baker Street myself to make sure," admitted Lestrade. "I'll let you know what's going on as soon as I get there."

Mycroft put on his coat and, with a sad parting look at his empty coat rack, left his flat. It wasn't easy facing the troubles of the day and the cares of a commonwealth without one's best and trustiest umbrella by one's side. Mycroft didn't like to admit that he could care deeply for anything, but losing his umbrella made him realise exactly how much it meant to him. He thought fondly upon its familiar cane handle and ramrod straight spines and the way the black silk shed the raindrops like seed pearls. It made rainy days a delight and it made him feel less alone when he felt it swinging reassuringly at his side.

He got into his car and drove straight to Baker Street. Perhaps Lestrade was right; this might just be a job that only Sherlock Holmes could handle. And was Sherlock really all right? He was his only brother, after all—his only brother left, that is.

The car pulled into Baker Street and stopped in front of 221. The minute Mycroft stepped out he could hear strains of violin music coming from above. That was a good sign—it meant Sherlock was all right—and a bad sign—it meant Sherlock was working on a case. He always took to composing music whenever his brain was particularly intent on something.

Mycroft climbed the stairs and entered his brother's flat as he had always entered his bedroom back at home—without knocking. Lestrade was standing by the fireplace listening as Sherlock played his violin for him. Both looked like they were epically wasting time.

"That's very pleasant, brother," said Mycroft, "but perhaps you should entertain Inspector Lestrade at some other hour of the day when he's not so busy. Right now I want to ask a favour of you."

"He's composing a Christmas carol," said Lestrade, who appeared to be enjoying himself. "Very nice, too I might add."

"I can't help you find your cake right now, Mycroft, I'm on a case," said Sherlock, jotting some music notes onto a sheet of paper.

Mycroft assumed his best air of injury. "You're getting rusty, Sherlock," he said cynically. "This has nothing to do with cake. It's my umbrella that's missing."

Sherlock turned to look at him.

"Your umbrella is missing?" he asked incredulously. It was hard for Sherlock Holmes to look incredulous so Mycroft knew he was really trying.

"Does that surprise you?" asked Mycroft. "I thought nothing surprised you."

"I had begun to think of it as an extra appendage," admitted Sherlock. "It's difficult to picture you without it."

Mycroft put his arms out to the side with a shrug. "You don't have to use your imagination in this instance," he said drily.

Sherlock put his violin into its case. "At least you won't go about poking people with it anymore," he said.

"I never poked anyone. They poked me. And you could show a little compassion, you know. Remember how I supported you when Mrs. Hudson took your skull."

"I'm not qualified to offer condolences," said Sherlock.

"I was hoping you'd consent to look for it," Mycroft suggested.

"Have you tried calling lost and found?" asked Lestrade helpfully.

"No," said Mycroft, trying to instill as much scorn into the monosyllable as possible. "I have a feeling it isn't simply missing."

"Do you mean it was stolen?" asked Lestrade in awe.

"Worse than that," said Mycroft. "I believe it was abducted."

"You mean umbrella-napped?"

"It was obviously done by a master criminal," Mycroft went on, ignoring Lestrade's improvisation. "And even now is probably being held hostage in order to extort an exorbitant ransom. —Which would, of course, be ruinous to the British government."

"You wouldn't actually pay it, would you?" asked Lestrade.

"He would," said Sherlock, snapping the violin case shut. "Do not underestimate the British government."

"So you'll help me, brother?" said Mycroft grasping desperately at this small gleam of hope.

"That's a job for Grant," said Sherlock, picking up the case and heading for the door. "I'm going to play my new Christmas carol for John. I wrote it for him and Mary."

He disappeared, leaving Lestrade and Mycroft staring at each other.

"He can be infuriating," remarked Mycroft, as if Lestrade didn't know that already. "Very well, this seems to be a job for the professionals. Let me know the instant you find anything."

With that, Mycroft went back to his car to face a grim day without his umbrella. It had started raining, too.

Even Anthea bringing cupcakes for lunch couldn't lift the general gloom that hung over Britain's capital that afternoon. Horrible possibilities as to the fate of his hapless umbrella had begun to fill Mycroft's thoughts. What master criminal mind could have conceived the idea of stealing it? Could it have been Moriarty? But no, Moriarty was dead.

Around noon Mycroft got a call. Checking his phone and finding it was Sherlock, he quickly hit the accept call button and uttered a hoarse and hasty hello into the speaker.

"Mycroft. I need you here. Now. Lestrade's already on his way over."

"What's happened?" asked Mycroft. "Don't tell me someone's been murdered again. And what news of my umbrella?"

"Forget about your ridiculous umbrella for two seconds; this is serious!" said Sherlock. "Come over here as soon as you can."

"Of course. All right. Stay calm. Where are you, anyway?"

"At John's house. Hurry."

Mycroft almost ran down the hallway, worry over Sherlock mixed with worry over John—who was a magnet for murder attempts—and Mary—who was a fairly nice person and an excellent cook—and even a little worry over Lestrade, who really could be useful on the rare occasion.

He had his driver speed all the way to John and Mary's house. After all, it was an emergency. Hopefully nothing too exciting would happen before he got there.

The car pulled up at the flat with a screech of brakes and Mycroft jumped out and ran up the front steps. He hadn't gotten so much exercise since the last time he'd worked out on the treadmill and that was over a month ago. He was panting heavily as he entered the sitting room.

An oversized Christmas tree, much too big for the room, stood askew in the middle of the floor, looking as if it were about to topple over. John was trying ineffectually to hold it up while Sherlock's legs protruded from beneath the tree. Grunts emanated from somewhere near the the tree's base.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" asked Mycroft with pardonable annoyance. Had he run up those accursed steps for nothing?

"Ah, Mycroft. You're here at last. You're getting slow, brother." Sherlock crawled out from under the tree. "Maybe you can get the thing to stay upright. It won't screw into the base straight."

"Perhaps that's because it's much too big for that little base you bought," said Mycroft with one of his most infuriating smiles, extra toothy for the occasion. "That wouldn't be the emergency you called me here for, would it?"

"I called Garth," said Sherlock. "Did I call you too? Why did I do that? Must have misdialed."

"I've already given it a go," said Lestrade, from a comfortable position on the sofa. He was munching shortbread from a plaid patterned tin and seemed quite content to remain spectator.

"Sherlock said you used to help put up the tree at your home," said Mary. "So we thought maybe you'd be able to help us."

"Well, really, how hard can it be to put up a silly tree?" asked Mycroft. He got down on the ground and crawled under the prickly branches, wishing to hide his satisfaction at having been considered worthy of a job of this magnitude.

A long time and a lot of prickles later, Mycroft emerged, sappy and triumphant, only to find that Sherlock expected his assistance in untangling an interminable string of Christmas lights.

"I draw the line at lights," said Mycroft, throwing up his hands. "You can have all the honour, brother."

"Have some shortbread, Mycroft," said Mary.

"Don't offer him food; he's gained five pounds since yesterday," said Sherlock.

"Three," said Mycroft drily. "And I don't want any shortbread, thank you." What was shortbread to him when his umbrella was still in peril?

"Five," insisted Sherlock.

"I must return to work now," said Mycroft, putting on his coat. "Unlike you I happen to have a real job."

He hoped there would be no more emergencies from Sherlock to interrupt his day, not to mention take Lestrade off of more serious duties. On his way home a brightly colored bow tie depicting ten rather garish lords cavorting about caught his eye from a display in a store front window and he remembered that he didn't yet have presents for his parents. He had almost forgotten the obligatory family dinner at their house he would have to undergo on Christmas day. Pity they didn't fully appreciate how very busy the British government was and how little time it had for family affairs.

With a long-suffering sigh Mycroft got out of the car and went into the store. He emerged a few minutes later with his arms full of packages. Efficient as always, he had gotten everyone a present in record time.

It was raining harder when he emerged from the store and Anthea was waiting for him with an umbrella. Not his umbrella. Tears started to his eyes as the memory of his loss surged over him. This was going to be a wretched Christmas. For an instant he considered cancelling it, but discarded the idea regretfully. Life must go on.

He arrived back at his office in time for tea. Also just in time for his phone to ring up with a text from Sherlock.

"Come at once."

Mycroft sighed and texted a hasty reply:

"No."

SH: Yes

MH: WHy

SH: Because

SH: Emergency

MH: What's wrong now, little brother?

SH: John and Mary are mad

MH: At you?

SH: At each other.

SH: And at me.

SH: And it's my fault.

MH: Your last message was unnecessary. It's always your fault. There's nothing I can do.

SH: Christmas, Mycroft.

MH: John can sort it out.

With that, Mycroft put his phone in his pocket, ignoring its insistent dinging. At last it rang.

"Yes, brother dear?" said Mycroft, answering the phone with a patient sigh.

"It really is an emergency this time," said Sherlock on the other end. "I can't think of what to get Mrs. Hudson for Christmas."

"Really, brother," said Mycroft, "ask Molly or some other female. I'm hardly an expert at knowing what Mrs. Hudson would like. And don't call me with a false emergency again."

He hung up with pardonable annoyance. The British government hated to have its tea interrupted.

The old house was decorated for Christmas, just as it had been every year since Mycroft could remember; and for the sake of Mycroft's dignity we won't say exactly how many years that happened to be. He walked up the steps with a feeling of nostalgia and entered the house in a mood of reflection that was wrecked immediately by the sight of Sherlock in a Santa hat. Apparently John had made him wear it.

"What on earth..." began Mycroft, his sentence petering out futilely after the first two seconds of effort.

"Merry Christmas," said Sherlock. He gestured to a gaily wrapped parcel on the sofa. "That's for you."

Mycroft glanced at it suspiciously and rubbed his stomach. He fancied it was still sore from the poisoned gummy bears he had ingested several Christmases ago. He no longer trusted Sherlock's presents.

"It isn't something to eat, is it?" he asked.

"No, it's not," said Sherlock. "And it's from me," he added, in case Mycroft might suspect it was from Moriarty.

Mycroft picked it up. It was long and slender and curiously light... like... but... it couldn't... be...

He looked at Sherlock in unbelief.

"Brother," he said tenderly. "You... you found my... umbrella!"

"Took a while," said Sherlock. "I hope you're properly grateful for the enormous effort I took over your silly umbrella."

Mycroft was unable to answer. Gently he tore the paper away from the gleaming black silk. Tears ran down his cheeks as he hugged the precious umbrella against his chest.

"Well?" said Sherlock.

"Yes?" said Mycroft, trying to collect his wits. "Oh yes. Thank you, Sherlock."

"That's not what I meant," said Sherlock. "I was wondering when you were going to get around to asking where I found it. Aren't you curious?"

Mycroft felt that having his umbrella back put everything, including where it had been for a week, into the background, but he felt that some amount of interest was called for.

"Where?" he asked.

"A government minister took it home with him by accident last time he visited you," said Sherlock.

"Indeed?" said Mycroft. "I shall not allow that minister to visit me again." The very thought of a common minister getting his grubby hands on Mycroft's precious umbrella positively made his skin crawl. But his umbrella was safe now, and he would never let anything happen to it again.

Everything was perfect that Christmas day. John and Mary had forgiven each other, Sherlock did not play his violin, Mycroft had his umbrella back, and Mummy had made cake. Nothing could have happened to make the day better.

The family dinner was delicious as always (Mycroft tried not to think about his diet while he ate it), and as awkward as usual of course. When it was over Daddy Holmes retired to the sofa to take a nap, instructing them to wake him up when the Doctor Who Christmas special came on.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair comfortably. What a lovely Christmas. What a lovely umbrella. What a lovely brother who had found it for him.

He drifted into a deep slumber, the umbrella still clutched in his fist. He was so sound asleep (as was everyone else in the house) that he did not hear his phone ringing in his pocket. It was not until nearly an hour later, awaking out of a drug-induced coma, that he got the voicemail Sherlock had left him.

"Mycroft. I'm at Magnussen's. It really is an emergency this time."

"Dear, dear, little brother," said Mycroft shaking his head; "dear, dear."

XD Hope you enjoyed! Tomorrow, head on over to LadyLindariel's page to read the next story in the countdown (it's in the Lord of the Rings fandom).