The first time Mycroft read Spinoza, he knew that this was to be his way. All the other philosophers were either too idealistic or too elaborate in their view of the world; and surely if you make an abstract of an abstract idea in the end you get a generalisation too simple to be of use.
But Spinoza was hard and layered. And most importantly, he seemed to share the same view of emotions as his father, bearing in mind that father never cared enough to enlighten his seven years old son why exactly should one wary of caring, whereas Spinoza offered a because clear enough.
Really, Mycroft was angry with himself that he didn´t read the books sooner, and let fathers constant accusations of being a freak and mother´s crying and fear get the better of him. But not now.
So, when mother told him through tears that he was going to have a little sibling, even though he knew she neither wanted another child nor was her health good enough for that and that this was most likely done to keep father´s fists of him, he shrugged the information away and returned to his book.
It was not Mycroft´s fault, really, that his mother had too weak a character to leave her husband and that she let herself be treated this badly. The seven year old even suspected that, in her heart of hearts, she enjoyed being treated badly in some sort of a crooked punishment for her sins (like her inability to behave properly in society).
It was also not Mycroft´s fault that she died. Because, surely, the one at fault is just now waving his hands in a cot and crying. How dare he? How is it possible that this little worm not only took his mother´s life but has enough guts to demand attention in the middle of the night?
Were father at home, he would have certainly stopped this pathetic wailing immediately, but Siger Holmes was at war and Mycroft hoped that whoever tried to claim the Faulklands would have aim good enough to take down his father´s plane.
As for aunt Amelie, she was drunk as a lord (he inwardly giggled) in the kitchen. For all her faults, and despite her custom to imbibe too much griotte in the evenings, Mycroft quite liked her, in the sort of way we like pets or fools, even though they will never reach your intellect.
But the house was empty apart from her, snoring on the kitchen table, tear streaked face disposing mucus on the cloth, and Mycroft and this little sorry excuse of a human being.
„Shut up." He tried, shuddering a little at the resemblance of his and father´s tone. „Shut up. I want to sleep. You did get your food. You have nothing in your nappie" (he checked). „ The room is reasonably warm. Shut up."
But the little creten continued to cry and really, Mycroft was just desperate for an hour or so of a nap and this bastard was taking it from him. „How dare you? You little... It is your fault, anyway, that you don´t have anyone to irritate. Do you even understand? You killed my mother."
Sherlock, as the baby was named after a family hero, who extended the Holmes´wealth to its current state, would not be mollified.
And suddenly, just as the shadows creep in the corners of a room of this damned house and then overthrow you because the moon is covered by a cloud, a thought tiptoed to Mycroft´s conscience.
This little worm was the source of all his current problems. Because were not for a baby, aunt Amalie would have gladly taken her „chubby little gentleman" with her to Bretagne and father would have let him go all too easily.
But aunt Amelie was fifty five and ill. In other words, there was no way she would have been able to take care of an infant Sherlock´s age. And the semblance of duty and good family name Siger Holmes kept stopped him from giving Sherlock away. Which ment crying babies in the mansion. Which ment sleepless Mycroft and angry father. Which ment sleepless and beaten Mycroft. Easy.
But what if there was no infant? What if the baby died? It would have been easy, really. An accident occuring during the night, while Mycroft and aunt Amelie slept and father was away on duty for Queen and country, at least for the authorities.
And just so, as soon as the idea planted itself in his brain, Mycroft took his little brother under the arms and padded from the carpet to the floorboards. Easy, really. Mycroft read somwhere, that over fifty percent of mysterious baby deaths is caused by a head injury. The bones are still soft. He would have to do some research on the matter later, but right now, he posessed all the intel he needed.
It would be like an execution. He killed Mycroft´s mother, now is time to pay. An eye for an eye and so forth.
Mycroft doesn´t remember how long he stood there, with a crying baby in his outstretched arms, getting ready to just let go. But at the precise moment he would have done it and allowed the bundle to slip through his fingers, Sherlock stopped crying and his previously forced shut eyes opened.
Those wide, beautiful light grey eyes. Calm and gentle. Trusting. This little smelly, noisy and dull bundle posessed his mother´s eyes and radiated through them just one thought: I trust you, Mycroft. I love you. You will not let go.
And he didn´t. He took the baby and hugged it tight towards his chest, a tight knot in his stomach, and then seated himself on the floor in the corner, where he hoped the shadow would cover his face.
„I am sorry. I am so, so sorry... I... Sherlock. Little brother. You are my little brother and I..." and right then he started to cry and tears welled up in his eyes and fell freely across his cheeks onto Sherlock´s face and the baby squeaked in surprise but then smiled.
„I am sorry. It wasn´t your fault. How could it be? You can´t even speak." Little hand grazed its fingers on Mycroft´s sleepshirt. „Oh my God, you are ten days old and I already failed you. Oh, God. Please. Please forgive me. I will protect you, Sherlock. From this day onI promise you that I will protect you, little brother. Even if it meant protecting you from myself."
And with his thoughts alternating between I have failed you and I will protect you, Mycroft fell asleep in the corner. And after a few minutes listening to his heartbeat slowing, so did Sherlock.