When he was six, Great-uncle Jerry asked Mycroft what he wanted for his birthday. The little boy didn't hesitate for even a second. "I'd like an umbrella," he said.
Great-uncle Jerry lifted his head and roared with laughter, giving Mycroft a great view of his drooping white moustache. "Alright," he agreed merrily.
The next day, they went shopping. Mycroft had never been in such a cluttered shop before – Mummy liked going to large department stores. He looked around, easily masking his fascination with a haughty expression.
Great-uncle Jerry led him to a corner filled with umbrellas of all sizes and colors. His eyes widening, the little boy disentangled his hand from Great-uncle Jerry's massive one and marched toward the mess.
His gaze landed scornfully on a bright blue dog shaped umbrella. If had been with Mummy, a saleslady would have appeared by now, asking him if he wanted it. Dogs weren't blue and Mycroft was too mature for a child's umbrella.
At six, Mycroft liked algebra, outer space, and Sponge-Bob.
Three days before his eighth birthday, baby Sherlock broke Mycroft's pink Patrick the Starfish umbrella. Mycroft had been thinking that he was too old for it, but he was still upset. How dare Sherlock touch his present! Daddy said that he was sure it was an accident; a baby couldn't do that much damage on purpose; that one day they would be best friends. Mycroft knew that none of that was true.
He rang up Great-uncle Jerry and the two went shopping. By this time, the store they had gone to before had closed down. Mycroft wasn't surprised. It had been obvious that they were horribly in debt.
They went instead to one of Mummy's department stores. It was close to closing time so they had to hurry. Mycroft counted no less then eight security cameras before they found the umbrellas. At the time, he liked calculus, politics, and the color gray.
It had been very rainy lately and all the store had left was princess umbrellas.
When he turned thirteen, Great-uncle Jerry presented Mycroft with a thin gold box. "I think that you're old enough for something different," he said. Mycroft had been old enough for seven years but he said nothing other then a polite thank you.
He weighed the package in one hand, then calmly opened it. Inside was a black umbrella, a beautiful little thing. Its handle was nicely carved stained wood.
Mycroft gave an empty smile and threw the thing in the trash as soon as possible. He would never use a black umbrella.