The seven year old Mycroft Holmes stood in the sitting room, watching his seated Mummy make funny noises to the squirming bundle of blankets that she held in her arms. He could hear a faint gurgling noise that seemed to be coming from inside the blankets. Of course, the noise could just be the science experiment bubbling over in his bedroom, but that didn't seem very likely. Mycroft was always so careful when it came to carrying out experiments in the house. His heart sank as the baby that was swaddled in blankets began to emit a high-pitched squeal. He had been hoping - in vain, it seemed - that he would never have to hear that noise again, after it had kept him awake for many hours the previous night. Mycroft was now beginning to realise that this noise, and therefore this baby, were going to be permanent fixtures in his life. Ever since the baby had been born, it had stolen Mummy and Daddy's attention away from Mycroft, upsetting him greatly. In the space of a single night, the little boy had destroyed the progress Mycroft had been making in denying his feelings. They could not be categorised as simply one emotion; there was a mixture of sadness, anger and jealousy, alongside a little curiosity and innate brotherly love and rivalry.
"Mycroft, aren't you going to come and see your little brother?" asked Mummy, momentarily drawing her gaze away from the newborn son in her arms to look at his older brother.
Mycroft shook his head.
"Don't be silly, Mycroft," scolded Mummy. "Say hello to Sherlock."
Mycroft didn't really want to - he would much rather send the screaming baby back to wherever it was that it came from - but he found it hard to disobey Mummy. He could see by the slight twitch in the corner of Mummy's mouth that it was unlikely that she would leave the subject alone, but it was still worth a try.
"Don't want to." Mycroft crossed his arms sulkily and pulled a face. "What kind of a name is 'Sherlock' anyway?"
"A unique name for a unique little boy, just like your own name is. Come sit beside me, Mycroft." Mummy patted the spare sofa cushion beside her. The young Mycroft reasoned that the baby scared him, and that people liked company when they were scared, and so because Mummy wanted Mycroft's company, she must be scared of the baby too. Mycroft wanted to protect his Mummy, and so he did as she asked and sat beside her. She lowered her arms, gently pulling a piece of the little blue blanket aside to give Mycroft a clearer view of the baby.
Mycroft had never seen anything like it before. The baby, his brother, was already beginning to grow dark brown hair upon his head, although Sherlock's was - at present - wispy and curly, not straight like his elder brother's. Sherlock had long thick eyelashes, which fanned around his light bluey-green eyes, creating a startling contrast. There was so much of Mummy in the baby's face that Mycroft couldn't help but care for the little boy, even if he hadn't already felt an innate connection with his brother. In that moment, Mycroft accepted Sherlock as part of his family, somebody worthy of his protection and guidance. Mummy had obviously failed to notice that Sherlock possessed the same keen intellect as Mycroft did, given by the silly noises and faces she was pulling to entertain the baby. Mycroft had always longed for somebody to sit down and explain to him why Mycroft could see and understand things in an instant that nobody else could. They never did. People thought that he was strange, that he should be left alone in the hope that he would grow out of it. From this moment onwards, the seven year old Mycroft promised that he would never let his brother suffer in the same way that he had been treated; as an outcast.
"Isn't he beautiful?" Mummy cooed.
Mycroft didn't give a verbal response, though he inwardly agreed. He felt uncomfortable answering such personal questions, ones which required him to reveal his own emotions to others. Daddy had taught Mycroft that showing emotions was not a good thing, because nasty people could use them against you. Mycroft had remembered what Daddy had said; Mycroft never forgot anything. Daddy was very clever, but never had a lot of time for Mycroft or Mummy. He was always at work, either 'in the office' or in his study. Mummy had once said that Daddy was an interrogator. Mycroft didn't know exactly what this was - nobody would tell him, and he wasn't allowed access to any resources that would help him define it - but he knew that it was an important job.
Mycroft continued gazing at his little brother, their eyes locked on each other in mutual understanding and brotherly affection. He was only just beginning to understand what Daddy had meant by 'the power of emotions'.