AN: So this is a new story I'm working on based on a request from someone over on DeviantArt. I'm in for the long haul on this one as it's got a fair bit of plot development to it – I'm curious if any of you can guess if form this prologue.

I'm not sure how often I will update as this is something very different from what I'm used to writing. Let me know your thoughts!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

"Sir?" Mycroft glanced up from the form he was reviewing at the sound of his assistant's voice. "Yes?"

"There's a call for you, sir."

"Why didn't you just forward it through?"

"I couldn't." she explains, holding up a small blue cell phone. Mycroft eyes widen almost imperceptibly. He'd almost forgotten about him. Well, that's not entirely true - but he'd hardly had reason to think about him in so long that it was surprising for him suddenly re-enter Mycroft's life and world.

"Cancel everything for today. Let no one in this office." he orders, extending his hand to take the vibrating mobile from her.

"But sir, the Prime Minister -" she objects. "Can wait." he insists, cutting her off.

A sharp intake of breath from her shows that she realizes the severity of the situation. It's above her clearance level, meaning of international importance at the very least. "Yes sir." she says, with a crisp nod of her head, before turning on her heel and exiting the office.

When she's gone Mycroft takes a deep, steadying breath and answers the vibrating phone. "Mycroft speaking" he greets smoothly, his tone neutral and cool.

The voice on the other end answers with a more emotional tone of regret and barely perceptible anxiety. "I'm sorry, but it's time. There is something very big and very dangerous coming, we need him." he explains.

Mycroft stiffens at his dour words, "What's happening?" he inquires, needing a degree of danger so he can put other measures into action.

"I'll explain it all when he's present. It will make more sense when he has his memories." the voice on the other end assures, his deliberate vagueness conveying his alarm.

"I must warn you that I haven't been entirely successful." Mycroft answers, his thoughts turning towards his charge and the person he has become. Unfortunately he doubted that he was suited for the sort of task that was about to be laid before him.

"Is he alive?" the other voice inquires, seemingly concerned that Mycroft had been grossly irresponsible.

"Of course!" Mycroft responds incredulously, furious at his implications.

"Then you've been successful enough." the voice returns, disregarding Mycroft angered tone.

"I'm afraid I must disagree. He has no sense of duty or service. He's hardly a thought for anyone but himself. Actually he hardly has a thought for anything other than his mind, treating all other parts of himself with the same inconsideration that he treats his fellows with." he explains, allowing exasperation to colour his tone.

"They aren't his fellows anymore." The voice reminds.

"You've no idea how relieved he will be to hear you say that. He's constantly going on about how inferior their minds are. He's rather arrogant and difficult to manage." he replies, his tone implying a grumbling dissatisfaction.

"You care for him though and that means he's not a lost cause." he responds and there is almost a smile to his tone at reading the affection behind Mycroft's seemingly remote exterior.

"I've taken care of him, there's a difference." Mycroft argues.

"I hope you've done both. It's important to be loved, especially when you have to make a difference in the world. It's vital." he answers, his voice gaining a soulful quality of a man wise beyond his years.

Mycroft brushes this aside by saying "He's loved I assure you, though not by me."

"By who then?"

"A very dear and loyal friend." he answers, thoughts turning towards the staunch army doctor that he was lucky enough to know.

"Ah, there's nothing better to have. Bring him along as well." he insists.

"Certainly. When and where?" he asks, back to business, coordinating details.

"You're giving him the watch this afternoon?"

"I'll be leaving for his flat as soon as we're done." he assures.

"Good. Tomorrow evening then. Make sure your office is empty at 7:15."

"You're landing here?" the tone conveys such surprise you can practically hear his eyes widen.

"Yep. Less risk of being spotted." he answers, his tone displaying the need for caution. "I'll see you then." he assures. Click. The line on the other end goes dead and he snaps the phone shut.

He lets out a heavy sigh as he slips it into his pocket. His head drops into his hands for a moment. He'd lied of course. He did care for Sherlock. He'd been foolish enough to get attached despite his determination not to. Flashes of memory paraded through his mind. Sherlock's first day as a human and his role in creating a past he never had.

"Sherlock Holmes, how dare you do something so foolish!" he'd berated as he entered the private hospital room he'd created in the safe house he'd built for him.

Sherlock's response was a low groan extracted from the fact that Mycroft had turned on the lights. "Wha?" was the only word he could form.

"Drugs Sherlock. I can hardly believe such a thing of you! Haven't you any consideration for anyone but yourself? I know you're at odds with mummy but you shouldn't act rashly because of it. You've sent her into hysterics. She's so upset, she refuses to lay eyes on you." he scolded with his well rehearsed dialogue.

It was a clever method that easily covered any questions Sherlock might ask. It explained his disorientation and amnesia. By mentioning family members and dynamics he was creating false memories in Sherlock's mind that his imagination would take and create a past for him. He already had photos albums ready with modified pictures to show him when he demanded further proof of his identity.

"I - I don't remember anything." Sherlock mumbled, as he attempted to sit up and examine the room.

"Not surprising with what you took. I couldn't believe the blood results, you were practically a walking chemist you had so many drugs in your system!"

"Drugs?" Sherlock responded, confused and incredulous.

"Yes! You know, chemical compounds created to -"

"I know what they are!" he snapped, cutting Mycroft off. "I just don't remember taking them. Or know why I would."

"Well neither do I. though I wouldn't be surprised if you thought of it as an experiment."

he offered, baiting him into manifesting the personality of a scientist.

This would fit his true personality and it seemed like something the eccentric young teen would've done in his previous form.

"Yes, I suppose it was." Sherlock confirms, taking the bait. "Can I have the blood results for my records? I want to know the results. And can I talk to one of the nurses or doctors who cared for me? I need some feedback."

Mycroft's mouth almost quirks up in one corner, the closest he ever gets to a smile, and he responds smoothly "I'll get your test results. The medical staff it too busy to be bothered with your questions though."

Sherlock's response was a glare and muttered curse. Mycroft left him with a pile of books and a few false cards from well-wishers, who he claims believe Sherlock, was in some sort of lab accident. It's a complicated lie that is woven larger and larger throughout Sherlock's teen years and slowly fades into something resembling truth as he transitions into adulthood and begins building his own life and relations.

He snaps himself from his memories and calls for his assistant. "Get the car."

"Yes sir. Am I to come with you?"

"No."

"Yes sir." and she's gone again.

Fifteen minutes later and he's immersed in the midday traffic of central London.

"Left at the grey building." he directs the driver. They pull up to a large, dilapidated brick building and Mycroft exits the car, motioning for the driver to remain. Mycroft can sense his surprise at being asked to take a government official to such a seedy location, but he hides it well.

Mycroft ducks into the house, under a fallen door. "Hello sir." he's greeted by a crisp young woman at the front desk. This dilapidated building is in fact a well disguised bank for the storage of very important information and artifacts possessed by those in the government.

"Box 371" he requests, handing her the key card. "One moment, sir." she says, taking the card and disappearing into a back room. She returns a few seconds later and hands him a small metal box and his key. "Thank you."

"Have a good day sir." she answers, directing her attention back to the computer.

He ducks out of the building and climbs back into the car. "221B Baker Street." he directs the driver. "Yes sir."

If conveniet please review; if inconvenient review anyway.

KP