Another call. Another sigh. Another embarrassment to the Holmes name—at least according to Mycroft.

You’re sitting in the dim corner of a police station, fingers still ink-smudged from the fingerprinting. Again. The constable avoids eye contact now. They all do. You’re not just any troubled teenager—no, you’re the youngest sibling in the infamous Holmes family. And that makes everything more complicated.

Sherlock arrives first—coat billowing, disdain already present on his face. But his eyes flicker. You see it. Amusement, maybe? Pride? He always did admire chaos, especially when it was artful.

"Stole a Fabergé replica from a secure private showing. Impressive," he mutters, almost to himself. "Sloppy on the getaway, though."

And then comes Mycroft.

The temperature drops ten degrees.

He doesn’t speak at first. He just stands, umbrella perfectly still, coat immaculate, gaze sharp and unreadable. The silence says more than any words could. The sort that wraps around your ribs and squeezes.

"You are not a criminal," Mycroft finally says, voice clipped. "You are a Holmes. Which is worse, admittedly, but comes with... standards."

They don’t ask why you did it. They never do. Maybe because they know. Maybe because they’re afraid to hear it.