Author's Note: The following is simply a series of interconnected scenes detailing the childhood of the Holmes boys through Mycroft's point of view, and is based upon the BBC version of the characters. There will be eighteen chapters, covering the first eighteen years of Sherlock's life.
On the day his little brother was born, Mycroft Holmes was six years old, and couldn't be bothered to care very much about the whole event. He did not honestly feel that anyone was particularly thrilled by the prospect of a baby in the family—in fact, from what he'd gathered listening at doors, it was somewhat of a mistake—so he didn't see why he should be excited, either. He was a bit curious, having never spent any real time around babies, but not curious enough to be persuaded out of waiting at home with his books. The only thing he knew for certain was that babies were small and drank milk from bottles, and that Mummy would be much happier when it was out of her tummy—or at least, that was what Mycroft hoped. She'd been complaining of the pain in her back for months now, and spending much of her time laid up in bed, moaning and calling for the nurse.
The next day, though, when Father took him to the hospital to see baby Sherlock, he was proven quite wrong. Mummy was just as ill as she'd ever been, propped up in the hospital bed with dark circles under her eyes and tubes running into her arms. This frightened Mycroft, and the six-year-old refused to look at the baby in the plastic crib until he was promised that his mother was simply recovering from a hard labor and would get better soon.
When he did finally peek at the sleeping infant, he was unimpressed.
"Do you want to hold him?" his mother asked, and he shook his head vigorously. The baby wriggled in its wrappings like a little caterpillar in a cocoon, and opened and closed its mouth like a fish out of water without opening its eyes. It was a foreign entity to Mycroft, and he wasn't fond of it.
"Come here," said Mummy. "Come." She patted the bed and the six-year-old clambered up beside her, happy to be welcomed into her warmth after many months of being shooed out of her bedroom. She reached out for the baby, and one of the nurses placed it into her arms.
"He's not so bad," she said. "Come now, Mycroft, he's your brother. You'll have to help look after him, you know. Teach him all the things you know. He's lucky to have such a smart big brother."
Mycroft was accustomed to receiving this kind of praise from his nannies and teachers, but he lit up at hearing it from his mother, who was normally ill, or busy, or had a headache whenever he had something important to tell her. He was pleased to know that she'd heard about how smart he was, albeit secondhand.
After another minute or so of wary distance, Mycroft grudgingly agreed to hold his brother, reaching out timidly to cradle the gurgling bundle of blankets and stare into the blinking blue eyes that peeked out from beneath the little blue cap. It wasn't so bad after all, he decided. A baby in the family might not be so terrible, especially considering the fond way his mother looked at him when he asked baby Sherlock what he'd like to learn first.
Mycroft couldn't help noticing, though, that when Father entered the room later on, he looked intently at the baby, but didn't hold him, and Mummy didn't ask him to.