This Infant Is Neither Tender Nor Mild

My brother was a squirming mess of blankets and dark, wispy curls the first time we met. I found his wailing and the sour milk smell of his breath distasteful, and I resented the way Mummy watched him, tired-eyed but adoring, the little bundle of boy- "Sherlock," Mummy had told me, in a whisper, "his name is Sherlock."- held tight in her arms as she rocked slowly in her chair, in my old nursery.

I was ten years old. I stood in the doorway (Mrs. Hampton had washed my hands and combed my hair before she sent me up, but the presence of my father in the room made me feel strangely shy and worried, as if he'd look at me and find me lacking) and peeked at the three of them: Mummy in her rocking chair, her black hair tied in a loose plait; Father behind the chair, one hand on Mummy's shoulder; and Sherlock.

Father noticed me hovering there first. "Go down and work on your studies, Mycroft," he said, sternly. "You've seen the baby already, and a nursery is no place for a rambunctious little boy." I resented that, too. I had never been rambunctious, not even when I was a small child, and at ten I hardly considered myself a "little boy". I was quite tall for my age, and I was very bright, much brighter than I let on at times. My schoolwork was no challenge at all. I preferred the challenge of corralling my schoolmates, of making them do as I wished without causing me any trouble. When it was my turn to clean the erasers, someone else was there to make sure it was done. When the classroom pets needed tending and my name was drawn, I needed only look at one of the other boys and know that it would be taken care of. At lunch I sat at the table in the back of the room, surrounded by boys of my choosing, boys who knew to eat quietly and to follow orders. And I rewarded them, of course, with money or with privileges, run-off from the power I'd amassed. My teachers knew me only as the pudgy, fastidious child with perfect marks, but my classmates recognized me for who I was, however silent that recognition might have been. So precocious, certainly; I would have accepted that. But rambunctious? Never.

Still. I had never once, not in my entire life, disobeyed a direct order from my father. Head hung, I drifted as slowly as dared towards my small study. I didn't know Sherlock yet, but I knew a few things about him. He had made Mummy tired and ill for months, and his presence had required my nurse to leave me (and I adored my nurse, Miss Holly) in the clutches of my droll governess, Mrs. Hampton, so that she might attend the new babe. I knew that Father looked at him warmly, that the staff had tutted and cooed over him, that Grand-mère had picked out his name and sewn his christening outfit herself (and pricked her fingers more than once, I noticed, though she was very careful not to bleed on the small white gown). Sherlock was loved, that much was clear. But why? I couldn't understand the fascination with the little squealing thing. All he did was cry and vomit and go pink in the face.

And then Mummy let me hold him.

It was after supper, and the wind outside was howling, shaking the old, loose windowpanes in the sitting room. Miss Holly brought Sherlock down at Mummy's request, and I was slightly gratified by Father's small frown. The sitting room, we both agreed, was no place for a baby. I was playing the piano for Father and Mummy (Moonlight Sonata, my favourite at the time, though Father corrected me on both my tempo and posture and thus drove me to clench my jaw in quiet self-flagellation) when Miss Holly brought the baby in. Like most of the time, Sherlock was making horrid noises. Mummy clutched him to her chest, my recital forgotten, and whispered to him, sang, kissed his nose, to no avail.

"I'll be in the library," Father said, sounding as frustrated by the boy's constant wails as I felt. I didn't dare stop playing, not without permission, but I wished more than anything that Father would ask me to come with him.

He didn't, of course.

After a moment- and with Sherlock still spluttering, though what he was so upset about I could hardly understand- Mummy sighed and said, "My. Come here, love."

My hands fell away from the piano mid-chord. "Yes, Mummy." I approached her cautiously, reading her intent in her smile and her eyes. I could tell right away that she wanted me to hold the baby, and I very carefully trained the features of my face into placidity rather than disgust.

"Here," she said gently, fondly. She held Sherlock out from her chest and said, "Put your arms like mine were- yes, just so. There we are." The bundle was eased into the hollow of my cradled arms; the screaming stopped abruptly, as though Sherlock was shocked into silence by my wary hold on him.

"Ah," Mummy smiled, looking at me like I'd done something miraculous. "There, now. He only wanted you, I think."

I tore my gaze away from Mummy's astonished face and looked down at the child in my arms. Sherlock's eyes were closed tightly, his curls falling over his forehead and his mouth smacking wetly. His tiny fists were balled and waved in front of him as his small legs kicked and squirmed. But he didn't cry. "Hello, Sherlock," I whispered, quite unsure of why I was doing so. And then: he opened his eyes.

They looked like mine, Sherlock's eyes. Grey and appraising. Sherlock searched my face for a moment and then burbled, gnawing on one of his fists, and the weight in my arms suddenly seemed like the most important thing in the world. This infant was my responsibility, I decided, as surely as he was the responsibility of everyone else in the house. It wasn't my job to walk away when cried, nor was it my job to sing him lullabies and kiss his fat, doughy cheeks. I needn't cook for him, nor clean his messes. But there was something, I was sure, that would fall to me.

Perhaps it was my duty to keep him from being unhappy. Or else just to keep him quiet. Maybe, in the end, they would prove to be the same thing.

x

Sherlock grew up more quickly than I'd imagined. He was a chubby infant, and then a wild-haired toddler. Sherlock was, of course, a wretched toddler. He was loud, messy, and naughtier than I'd thought possible for someone who still wore nappies and spoke in ridiculous, slurred nonsense. I spent some time trying to decipher his broken banter before giving it up for a lost cause; the boy could gesture at his bottle and mumble, "bah", but then sometimes he'd point at the very same object and call it "oog" or "meh" or some other silly thing. It was clear to me, at quite an early stage in our relationship, that communication wasn't going to be Sherlock's strong suit. Unfortunately for all of us, and most especially for the maids, Sherlock's actual strong suit seemed to be breaking things. He was incredibly efficient in his destruction, made all the worse when he finally managed to walk on his own. (His walking was quite an exciting thing for me, as I'd spent hours in the nursery coaching him on the skill, but it would have been entirely unlike Sherlock to show his gratitude in any normal fashion and so I was promptly rewarded with the news of him having broken one of my model trains the day after he took his first steps unguided.) Moreover, Sherlock positively reveled in the messes he made. A broken vase would send his small, dirty hands clapping, and a pale-faced maid crying "oh Master Sherlock, what have you done?" seemed to thrill him more than any praise or game of patty-cake could have done.

Sherlock was a dreadful little thing, of course, except when he was with me. In my bedroom, or in my study, Sherlock was quiet, watching me with his wide grey eyes as I read to him or explained, in patient tones, what I knew of the world. After the model train incident I forbade him being in my playroom, but I often took him down to the gardens or out to the stables, where he would clap and point at the horses, murmuring happily to himself in his unbreakable code. He was clever, though, my brother; I knew that right away. I taught him colours and letters with pen and ink before he could speak. His baser knowledge I left to Miss Holly (toilet training and the use of eating utensils, for instance) but while Miss Holly was perfectly content to sing him stupid little songs and Mrs. Hampton considered him too young for the small child's classroom beside the nursery, I was keen on seeing if Sherlock really was like me, after all. What a formidable team we might well become, if I kept on diligently. That was inspiration enough.

Sherlock's first word was "My". His second was "no". He favoured the second, but only just.

x

Sherlock was four and unruly enough that the maids had long since stopped cooing at him when Father died. Hunting accident; nothing to be done for it. He died in one of the guest rooms, the one we always used as a sick room, with Mummy holding his hand and the doctor from the village sighing over him, checking his dressings and wiping his forehead with a cool cloth.

I was fourteen and no longer Mister Mycroft. Now I was Mister Holmes, and both the manor and the fortune that had been my father's were suddenly mine, if not in name (the responsibility technically falling to Mummy) then at least in practice. I took the responsibility quite seriously, especially in the wake of Mummy's poor reaction to Father's death, and found myself arranging the funeral and meeting with the solicitor, exchanging quiet, solemn words about the future of the estate. We were in good stead, thankfully, Father having had no inclination towards gambling or poor investments. After the sorry business of my father's burial was attended, Sherlock became my top priority. I requested- and of course, any request of mine was not really a request at all, not at that point, but rather more of pleasant and kindly worded demand- that Sherlock begin his education at once, that he receive more discipline for his wilder behaviours, and that he start to learn both a musical instrument and a physical skill, such as fencing or riding.

The night after Father's funeral I crept into Sherlock's nursery and leaned over his crib. He was getting too big for the thing, my brother, and I was considering mentioning as much to Miss Holly in the morning when Sherlock's eyes flickered open and met mine. "My," he said, his baby voice rough enough that I knew he'd been crying earlier, probably from being reprimanded, the naughty child. "Where's Papa?"

"Gone," I said, smoothing his hair away from his forehead. "But Mummy and My are here, brother mine. You've no need to worry."

"Gerroff." Sherlock pushed my hand away, irascible as ever. "Where did Papa go?"

I considered the things ordinary people might say. Heaven, perhaps, or something quaint and foolish like he's in a better place now. I pursed my lips and then let out a small sigh. "He's dead," I said, calmly. "Go to sleep, Sherlock."

"No," Sherlock said, but he yawned and turned over, his eyes falling closed, and I stood there with my hands clenching white on the banister of his crib until his breath had settled, slow and steady, and his small chest rose and fell untroubled.

A/N: My Latin is a bit bollocks, as I've only taken one actual school years' worth and then my home studies have been...vague at best. So the title could be wrong, but it's a play on the more popular term "dolce et decorum est pro patria mori", which means "it is sweet and proper to die for one's country". My version means "it is sweet and proper to live for one's brother", or at least it's meant to. Bah, Latin's hard. Declensions and whatnot.