Feeling an unaccustomed sense of trepidation, Mycroft mounted the seventeen steps to his little brother's flat. The door stood open, firelight, festive music and happy voices spilling out.

Hand tightening on the Malacca handle of his umbrella, he stood just out of sight of the revelers and swiftly debated simply turning around and vanishing. No one here would actually miss him, and he could call shortly with an apology and an unavoidable excuse. No doubt Sherlock, despite his almost enthusiastic invitation, would be relieved.

Although… Mycroft was already nearly an hour late and he'd already received two texts from Sherlock asking where he was. Perhaps his absence would be slightly noticed. Maybe he could make a brief appearance and then plead obligations elsewhere? I really can’t stay , he thought, testing the words out in his head. No, the inflection was wrong, too incivil.

But wasn't incivility better than bringing the spectre to the feast? 221B Baker Street was freshly renovated; Doctor Watson and his daughter had moved back in; the blog was flourishing and business for the world's only consulting detective and his devoted blogger was booming. There was much to celebrate and a once sneered-at brother who had lied, betrayed and subsequently been abandoned by their parents would not be a welcome addition.

“Alright, Mycroft?” Greg Lestrade asked from behind him, deeply startling Mycroft, who was rather appalled to realize he hadn't even registered the outside door opening, nor someone climbing the stairs behind him. A friendly hand clasped his shoulder, and Mycroft repressed a most inappropriate shiver. “No use waiting about on the stairs, party's inside.” His tone was light.

But as he drew level with Mycroft, Greg's warm brown eyes shone with understanding. In the past seven months the good-natured detective had proved to be a stalwart companion in a world slowly falling apart around Mycroft. He was perhaps a friend at this point, although Mycroft would never presume upon the man's decent nature by pressing the association. He never sought out Greg, but was always very receptive when he arrived in his life.

Greg had sought him out, and continued to do so despite Mycroft's initial attempts to keep his distance. He'd caught a whiff of pity from his brother's minder, easily deducing that Sherlock had asked the Detective Inspector to follow up on him after he was rescued from the Island. He’d been most unforgivably cutting and distant, using sarcasm and silence to try and excise Greg from his life. But Greg hadn't let that stop him, and Mycroft found he was grateful.

“Coming?” Greg asked gently, still waiting patiently at his side.

No , Mycroft had been about to answer, and then he saw the expectation--even pleasure, perhaps--of his positive answer. And beyond that, he now saw, coming out of his selfish introspection, Greg looked tired, worn down. Unable to help himself, Mycroft let his shields down and saw it all. Late nights, rough cases, a lonely flat at the end of it all. A family who had pulled away from him when he'd quietly come out as bisexual this spring. Under it all there was good humour and whimsy and hope and… Mycroft's mind stuttered briefly… Affection.

The heart once so fiercely denied was now straining inside of him, and the giddy feeling Mycroft finally attributed as hope beat wild wings in his breast. “I believe I am,” he said slowly, and crooking his arm he offered it to his friend, feeling a rush of happiness. “Shall we?” Perhaps Greg needed him as much as Mycroft had grown to need him. Was it weakness to reach out for comfort? Perhaps if it was weakness it was answered in turn by the steady presence of another who helped shoulder the burden.

As they entered the flat together there was a chorus of friendly greetings. John looked up from wiping something from his daughter's chin and smiled, “How're ya, Mycroft? Greg, mate.” Sherlock, who had been preparing to touch bow to strings, put down his violin and strode to the door, pleasure kindling in his eyes. “Myc,” he said quietly into Mycroft's ear as he hugged him.

Mycroft, deeply shocked at the warmth of the greeting and the emergence of his childhood nickname, dropped his cane and hugged him back. Over Sherlock's shoulder he saw John Watson smiling at them, his excited daughter in his arms.

When at last Sherlock released him, Mycroft cleared his throat discreetly and looked about for his umbrella, which he had dropped in his surprise. But before he could locate it, Rosamunde Watson had given a happy crow and flung out her arms, trying to launch herself out of her father's arms. Mycroft, assuming she was reaching for his brother, didn't react at first.

Squawking indignantly, she threw herself forward again, John grappling with her awkwardly. Mycroft automatically put out his hands and found himself with an armful of velvet-and-lace clad toddler. “Mah!” she yelled happily, and put spit-moist, chubby hands on his cheeks.

Mycroft's heart squeezed painfully in his chest, and without stopping to second-guess himself, he planted a tender, tentative kiss on her curls. “Mah,” Rosamunde said again, fondly.

“Merry Christmas, Miss Watson,” he said softly. Meeting first his brother's and then John's eyes, emotion rising in his throat and strangling his voice, he managed, “Merry Christmas, Sherlock, John.”

Greg, Mycroft's umbrella dangling from his hand, came to stand at his side. “Happy Christmas, Myc.” His eyes shone with so much hope .

Mycroft adjusted his hold on his niece and put out a questing hand, finding it quickly, eagerly , grasped. “I think it shall be very happy, Greg.” Gazing into the eyes of the man he had been quietly, slowly falling in love with for so long, Mycroft blinked back happy tears, smile breaking out, “Most happy indeed.”