The night Sherlock was born, Mycroft was in trouble. He had missed the call for dinner, engrossed in his reading, and Daddy had to come and get him. He missed dinner, but had to sit in his seat at the table for three hours when Mummy and Daddy had finished. He felt lonely, sitting on his own in the dark dining room. The table was long, seating around twenty people, and Mycroft sat in one of the mahogany chairs at the centre. He had to sit on his hands, looking at the ceiling, his back straight and not touching the chair. Daddy said it would make his posture better, and make him stronger. But Mycroft didn't feel stronger. To be honest though, he wouldn't have let his back touch the chair anyway, because of the large purple bruise down the left side of his spine. His head whipped around when he heard Mummy cry out. He had looked it up, childbirth. The book said it hurt lots. Mummy was in her bedroom, and soon he would have a baby brother or sister. Mycroft didn't feel anything about the baby. He didn't really care. He only had eleven years left to stay in the house anyway, and the baby would only really be conscious for six of those years. So it didn't really matter if he liked it. He hoped it would be a boy though, then Daddy would pay attention to it, instead of concentrating on Mycroft. He felt a stab of guilt for wishing harm on it. If it was a girl, Mummy would spend all her time with it, and Mycroft didn't want to lose his fifteen minutes of reading time with her every night. He heard Mummy scream again. He decided to count the seconds until someone remembered him and he could come out. He counted to 18,019 before the Butler came in and told him to scram. He had been there almost six hours. Mycroft crept upstairs, being careful not to touch the walls or banisters. He wasn't allowed to, in case he had dirty hands. He knocked almost silently on Mummy's bedroom door. She was lying in bed, looking tired, but happy, her face pink and her hair slightly damp and scraped back into a ponytail. She was holding a baby. Mycroft ignored the child, and went to Mummy.
"Hello my darling" she whispered "this is your baby brother"
"Oh"
"His name's Sherlock. He has your eyes"
"Sherlock. That's a nice name, Mummy"
"Thank you dearest. Would you like to hold him?"
"No thank you. I don't want to drop him"
"It's okay. Come and lie next to me" Mycroft hopped up onto Mummy and Daddy's bed, a place he had not been allowed to go since he was very small, and leant his head on Mummy's shoulder. She passed the baby to her oldest son and watched his distant exterior melt as he stared into the baby's bright blue eyes. "Mycroft, listen to me" she said
"Yes Mummy?"
"You are his big brother, and it's your responsibility to take care of him, do you understand?"
"Yes"
"You have to promise me that you will always look after Sherlock, always help him when he needs you, teach him the things he needs to know. Do you promise, Mycroft?"
"Yes Mummy. I promise"
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