Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
Mycroft watched through a gap in the door.
He was in the middle of learning about reflexive verbs in advanced French when the school receptionist rushed into the classroom and demanded that Mycroft come to the office. As he dodged through the 'oohs' and 'ahhs' of his immature (and quite frankly, inferior) classmates, his stomach lurched. He knew exactly what was going on. After today, there would be another little human being in the house commandeering all the attention of his parents. Mycroft was promptly rushed out of boarding school in the back of a little, black taxi and left alone with his thoughts during the long journey to the hospital.
As he peered through into the room where his mother was cradling the newborn, he felt as though he was intruding on a private moment. His mum looked thoroughly tired. His fist hovered next to the wooden door, as he tried to decide if he should join them. Finally, he pushed the door open and his mother met his eyes with a huge grin on her face. His father, on the other hand, was asleep on the the sounds of his light snores filled the silence.
"Come on, Mycroft. Meet your little brother," his mother said, beckoning him forward in a hushed voice.
Mycroft stepped forwards hesitantly and saw a peaceful, looking child with wrinkled skin wrapped in a blue blanket. He looked like a prune. His mother's eyes twinkled. He hadn't seen her this happy for a long time. These days, she spent most of her time arguing with Father. Mycroft dreaded to think how bad their arguments got when he was staying at boarding school. He just wished that they would get a divorce already.
"Come sit," Mummy said, shuffling along to make room for Mycroft.
He looked unsure. What if he disturbed the baby? What if it started crying?
The school receptionist brought her baby into work once, because she couldn't find a babysitter. Mycroft remembered hearing it's piercing shriek all the way across the hallway.
"Come," Mummy said, giving him an encouraging look, she patted on the bed.
Mycroft clambered up, never keeping his eyes away from the child. It gurgled and stretched its mouth wide open for a yawn. There were bags under its closed eyes and it looked like a little alien with a tuft of curly, black hair on its head.
"Sherlock? This is your big brother, Mycroft. He's going to look after you," Mummy cooed, using that special voice reserved for babies.
He fidgetted and shuffled away from the baby, not knowing what to say in this situation. He wished that he was back in French class, at least he would know what to do.
"Would you like to hold him?" Mummy asked.
Mycroft stared back at her in shock, but she was already preparing to hand Sherlock away. He held out his arms straight in front of him.
"No, cradle your arms. Like a rugby ball," Mummy laughed.
Suddenly, he felt a weight being transferred onto his arms. The baby was heavier than expected. It gurgled uncomfortably and for a second, Mycroft thought that it was going to start crying, so he imitated the type of things that he saw the receptionist doing to her baby.
"Shh..." he said, rocking it back and forth slowly.
The baby calmed down again and opened its eyes, staring back at Mycroft with that questioning look.
"I think he likes you," Mummy said. "When your Dad tried to hold him, poor Sherlock was in hysterics."
"Atta boy," Mycroft whispered, feeling proud of his little brother for the first time. He looked down and grinned, getting the feeling that he was going to like Sherlock.
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