Mycroft stood at the door to his mother's bedroom. Since father died, he's hired nurses to take care of her and doctor's to monitor her.
"Ah, hello dear! How have you been?"
He smiled as he sat down at her bedside. Holding her hand.
"Wonderful. A few troubles but nothing that can't be managed."
"And Sherlock?"
"Manageable." she grins at him.
He gave her tea and she took it gratefully.
"I remember Sherlock always did like getting into troubles." she had a misty eyed look and Mycroft carefully watched.
"He used to climb trees and did experiments with animals. I barely had any hold on my sanity those years." Mycroft smiled as he recalled those days.
"I always knew he was going to be a detective." Mycroft raised his brow.
"All the experiments he did. All the data he stored in notebooks about dead frogs and insects. It all seemed just yesterday when I saw him off to school."
"Yes, and now, his head is full of data about murder weapons and decomposing corpses." The sharply dressed man scoffed.
"Oh that reminds me."
She called her maid who handed her an album of sorts and as Mycroft peered closer he deduced that it was about two weeks old.
"I've been busy dear. I've gotten all I could about him in newspapers and magazines. I've compiled them all here just in case I forgot about my son. This way, I'll always remember Sherlock and all his silly adventures." she smiled as Mycroft once again deduced that she may have read Dr. Watson's blog.
She pointed to picture after picture, telling the story behind them as if he didn't knew about them. Pride was rolling of her as she smiled at her son's achievements. Mycroft nodded to her tale but he was not listening, he was thinking of something else. Something more important than the blabber of his mother.
Hours were spent just looking at the clippings and Mycroft dared to grab a photo album in one of the drawers. Anything to make mummy happy, he sighed.
Violet cooed at the baby pictures and tried to recount their stories, Mycroft helping once in a while if she came blank.
"Dear? There's this boy always hanging around with Sherlock in some pictures. I don't remember ever meeting him." Mycroft looked at the boy in question. "I can't recall him, sorry. Probably a childhood friend. A neighbor perhaps?"
"Perhaps."
Violet went on babbling and Mycroft sat half listening to his mother's retelling of different tales.
An hour later, they were back discussing Sherlock's penchance for trouble. The cases he and John solve together. Some rumor about an elite, the juiciest gossip around town. Mycroft was still, miraculously, listening-half listening really, semantics.
As Violet sipped her tea, Mycroft stopped flipping through the album. He breathed deeply before looking in his mother's eyes.
"Do you know who this is?" he said in a clipped tone.
"No"
Mycroft licked his lips. "Who are your sons?"
Violet smiled. "Sons? Dear, I only have one. Your friend, Sherlock." Mycroft's heart dropped to his stomach.
Mycroft stared at the photo. It was a family portrait.
It was supposed to be one anyway.
"I heard him mention a brother once. Mike? Michael? Mycroft? Yes, Mycroft was the name." he looked hopefully in her eyes. Please.
"Odd name, that. Sorry lad but you must be mistaken. Probably with that job of yours."
Mycroft smiled sadly before tucking away the album. He stared at his shoes for awhile before flinching as Violet's hands cupped his cheeks.
"What is it, dear? You seem troubled." he looked into worried blue orbs before looking away.
"It's nothing. It's just that I remember my mother. She passed away two years ago, she didn't even recognize me." He lied.
"Oh dear." she hugged him and he steeled himself, he can't break down. He summoned his inner actor and forced a smile.
"It's alright. I don't blame her."
"I'm sure she loved you. You're a delightful man and with your success, what kind of mother won't be proud?"
He bit the inside of his cheek. He needs to get out.
"It's been lovely, Violet. But I must go. I swear I turn my head for five minutes and all hell will break lose."
"Goodbye dear. Tell my son to visit as often as he can."
"I will."
"And tell him I love him and be careful."
As he shut the door, he swallows the lump on his throat.
Years of caring for his mother and always pleasing her forgotten. She believes to have only one son and sometimes, Mycroft can't understand why he bothers. He's been visiting for six months now. He always sets up a new identity in the case that his mother forgot the last one.
Not once in those six months did she forget about SHERLOCK, and not once in those six months did she remember her other son, Mycroft.
Maybe he should drag his brother for a visit if his mother really wanted to see her son. He smirked as he cleared Sunday next week off and planned to stop the flow of cases before Sunday so he could kidnap his brother, perhaps even John. Then, John did have a knack at being overly sentimental and that was not something Mycroft was looking forward to.
He slid on his car and told the driver to go the club; he needed some time to think. It has been another tiring day and his emotions were barely being contained. He could only keep up his many masks on for so long.
He sighed as he rubbed his face.
Anything to make mummy happy.