Dec 1, from W. Y. Traveller: Blizzard

Mycroft lounged by the fire in his sitting room, occupying himself by reading the latest political updates in the Gazette, when he heard a ring at the bell. He was not expecting a visitor and the slow hesitant footfalls along the passage were familiar yet alien to him.

When the door opened, Mycroft Holmes thought for a second that his landlady had been careless in not bringing him a card or escorting this stranger to formally introduce him. The tall figure that loomed in the door was blanketed with snow. It took him a ten count to realize that the man was no stranger.

"Sherlock! What in heaven's name are you doing here?"

"A fine evening to you as well, Mycroft."

"Do not chastise me for my manners, for yours are often far more direct. Now, I wish to know why you thought it acceptable to entre my rooms under the guise of a yeti."

"I was surprised by the storm outside. I did not know where else to go."

Mycroft sighed. He rose and took a couple of thick quilts from a basket by the hearth. Laying one down by the fire, Mycroft motioned for Sherlock to sit on it and wrapped the other around his shoulders.

"That will be your position Sherlock, until you are more water than ice. Then you can go wash and dress in a fresh set of clothes."

Mycroft lowered himself back into his armchair and attempted to return to his reading. Yet hard as he tried, his eyes drifted to his brother, asking questions to which he could deduce no answers. Sherlock's eyes never left the fireplace.

The door swung open, interrupting his fruitless thought. Ms. Brown, his landlady bought in two mugs.

"I thought you boys might want to warm up with a hot drink."

She was invaluable as a landlady, as she always appeared to know exactly what Mycroft wanted.

"Thank you very much, Ms. Brown."

Sherlock showed his thanks by nodding. The saintly landlady did not appear offended and took her leave.

The brothers shared their drinks in silence.

"Why did you come here Sherlock?"

"I should have thought I was clear. I was caught off guard by the storm and in need of shelter."

"Yes, a singularly lucid statement. Yet I should consider it a falsehood."

"How do you think that?"

"You are wearing a muffler. You have not put on a piece of winter clothing without my insistence since we were boys. I therefore deduce, that you set out with the explicit intention to see me. Why? I cannot possibly imagine."

Sherlock was silent. Taking another sip of his drink and staring into the fire, Sherlock's eyes seemed more reflective than usual.

"Why did you come to me?"

"Father."

Mycroft tensed. The one word could explain so much. Their old man was funny and charismatic, yet he carried within him a deep hatred for his youngest son.

"What did he do to you Sherlock?"

In response, he reached into his pocket and brought out his card case.

"He left this for me when I was out."

Sherlock handed him a plain white card with no name. Someone had written in messy ink: You shall never find a home with the Holmes'.

"He does not speak for us Sherlock. It is intolerable that he should still torment you so. You know, I hope that you shall never forget, that he is not and never has been correct. Sheringford and I are your family and we do not need the confirmation of a doddering old fool to give you a home to return to."

"He is our Father."

"He is senile."

They sat in silence for a moment more, simply basking in the pleasure of companionship.

"Now, Sherlock. Can you manage to go wash without leaving my rooms dripping?"

"Yes." He stood to go get cleaned up, but at the door he turned. "Mycroft?"

"Yes, Sherlock."

"Thank you."

"No need. Now go before you soak my carpet."