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By the end of the year, the atmosphere at the MI6 office felt different than usual. The calendar on the wall showed December twenty-ninth, just two days left before the new year.
Normally, the end of the year meant final reports, annual evaluations, and endless meetings. But this time, maybe because of the mission they'd just wrapped up together, or maybe because the winter chill had everyone seeking warmth in each other's company, the MI6 members agreed to have a small gathering in the main break room.
William sat in the front chair, leaning back and watching the fire flicker in the fireplace. The orange glow danced in his eyes, casting a soft warmth that made him look gentler than usual. Beside him, Sherlock was pouring drinks for everyone, while Louis was busy making sure the cake he'd baked didn't burn. Moran, already half-drunk, was singing some kind of Christmas song in a version that no one recognized and in a tune that barely qualified as one. Laughter filled the room, wrapping it in a sense of comfort.
When things began to calm down, William leaned forward, set his cup on the table, and asked softly, "If I may ask, what's the happiest memory you have?"
That simple question immediately caught everyone's attention. They glanced at one another, some pretending to think hard. Moran shrugged, and Bond just gave a small smile.
Sherlock was the first to answer. He swirled the glass in his hand, staring at the red liquid as if weighing his words. "Maybe. when I met you," he said quietly, but loud enough for the room to fall still.
Louis nearly choked on his cake, and Bond tried hard not to laugh. "You serious?" Moran asked, amused. But Sherlock only shrugged, his expression deadly earnest this time. "That day changed everything. It was the first time I had someone who could actually keep up with me."
William lowered his gaze to the fire, his face flushed faintly red. Across from him, Louis let out a soft huff but said nothing. Normally, he'd waste no time throwing a sharp remark at Sherlock, but tonight he stayed quiet. After a moment, he took a breath and said, "If it's me, my happiest memory? Probably the peaceful times at home with my brother."
One by one, they began to share their memories, some funny, some bittersweet, some barely happy at all. Until finally, it was Mycroft's turn.
Someone asked, "What about you, Mycroft? What's the happiest memory in your life?"
Mycroft, who'd been sitting quietly in the corner with a cup of Earl Grey, stared into nothing for a moment. The firelight caught his face, making him look older than usual. After a long silence, he spoke.
"If I had to choose one, it would probably be from when I was seven."
And so he began to tell a story from his childhood.
That night, he said, he was seven years old. At the Holmes family home, the smell of burning wood and birthday cake mingled with the crisp winter air. His father had just returned from a long trip, and they planned a small dinner to celebrate Mycroft's birthday. His mother, heavily pregnant, looked exhausted but tried to keep smiling.
Their dining table was small and cozy, lit by a dim oil lamp. His father patted his head proudly while his mother listened to him chatter endlessly. Little Mycroft was desperate to be seen as grown-up. He tried using big words he'd just learned from the encyclopedia, changing topics whenever he got bored, doing everything to sound important.
But the evening changed in an instant. His mother stopped mid-sentence, gasped for breath, and clutched her belly. Within seconds, his father leapt up in panic. The birthday celebration vanished in a heartbeat. Mycroft stood frozen, unsure what to do, as his father ran out to fetch the midwife.
They hadn't told him that the baby could come any day,they wanted the night to stay his. But now everything was different.
When his father returned, the house was thick with tension. Mycroft tried to help however he could like clearing the table, setting out snacks, tidying up the dishes. He didn't know what else to do. Being useful was the only way not to be in the way.
Behind the closed bedroom door, he could sometimes hear his mother's voice, then nothing. The midwife had forbidden them to enter. His father paced the living room endlessly, and for the first time, Mycroft found himself trying to comfort an adult. He pulled out a chessboard and challenged his father to play. Maybe out of nerves or exhaustion, that night his father lost. It was the only time Mycroft ever beat him.
He paused, staring at the fire that was beginning to fade. "But the baby wasn't born until late that night. The midwife and Mother stayed inside, Father sat in his chair in the living room, and I was finally sent to bed. The adults didn't say it aloud, but even then I knew there was no guarantee things would go well."
The room fell silent. The only sound was the soft crackle of burning wood.
No one slept that night, waiting for the baby to arrive. He was told to rest, but he couldn't stop thinking about what might happen by morning.
Dawn broke with a pale light. The house was quiet for a moment, and then a baby's cry shattered the silence. Mycroft's heart raced as he crept down the stairs, one careful step at a time.
In the living room, his father was asleep in the chair. In the next room, his mother lay on the bed, pale but calm. In her arms was a tiny baby, with skin thin as paper, glowing faintly under the winter sunlight and soft pink, almost like a rose petal. Sherlock was so small then, a fragile spark of life untouched by the world.
It was the first time Mycroft saw his little brother. The baby, seven years younger than him, was crying loudly.
Mycroft stood at the foot of the bed, afraid to get too close. His mother smiled gently and told him he could come nearer. But he didn't dare touch, afraid to disturb Sherlock's fragile sleep.
"For the first and last time, he looked like a little angel from heaven."
Sherlock shot him a deadpan look at that.
Everyone who knew Sherlock understood it didn't take long for that "little angel" to turn into a full-blown disaster in the Holmes household. Just months after learning to walk, Sherlock started breaking things, dismantling clocks to see how they worked, and knocking over flower pots just to find out what happened when you poured boiling water into the soil.
As he grew older, the chaos only evolved from shattered glass and broken toys to dangerous experiments and chemical mixtures that nearly set their father's study on fire. Even Mycroft, known for his patience, once lost his temper when he caught his brother dissecting a dead bird on the dining table.
Sherlock might've grown into an uncontrollable man, a perpetual source of trouble but deep down, nothing changed for Mycroft. Sherlock was still that tiny baby he once held with trembling hands, the one who'd made him fear losing something before he'd even had the chance to know it.