A/N: Think you saw this by a different author? It was just me. Moved accounts, so yep! Sorry for the confusion.
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Mycroft Holmes, as always, was worried about his younger brother. As Sherlock's teenage years approached far too rapidly for Mycroft's liking, the younger Holmes had distanced himself from everyone. Not that this was any different from when he was younger, but it made the world's difference to Mycroft as he was now included in the category of "everyone". From when Sherlock was born to when he was almost 12 years of age, "keeping away from everyone" really meant "everyone except Mycroft". The older boy was his brother's refuge— a defense when Sherlock got in trouble, an offense when he got hurt; an escape from their flighty parents, a pair of open arms when he was in a mood.
However this had changed, and the two were now constantly at each other's throats. Sure, they had more intellectual arguments than most brothers, but they were arguments nonetheless. The feeling of separation from his little brother shook Mycroft to his seemingly cold core. He now had to go to extreme lengths to find out what the dark-haired boy was up to and how he was, a serious change from the time when all he had to do was ask.
Today, though, he was especially worried about Sherlock. Today was the day before Mothering Sunday. Days used to celebrate what parents do for their children were always a sensitive subject in the Holmes household, as there wasn't much that Mummy and Daddy Holmes did for their boys to celebrate.
If anything, Mycroft thought wryly, it should be Brothering Sunday in this house. I've gone through Hell raising my brother, and would gladly do it again for him. Where's my card and chocolates? Despite such feelings of being unappreciated, he thought that Sherlock was grateful of his efforts even if he didn't show it. He also reminded himself that the entire Holmes lineage has issues with emotions and affection, and those problems certainly didn't skip over the two brothers' generation.
Though Sherlock had never previously gone out of his way to even acknowledge Mothering Sunday, his older brother dug through the Holmes' photo albums and gave him a photo of them that the butler had taken.
"Just send it to Mummy," Mycroft suggested, keeping his tone soft so as not to upset his brother. "She may not have done much for us, but she does care."
All he got in reply was a grumble before Sherlock stormed into his room and didn't come out for the rest of the day, but Mycroft noted that his brother of barely 13 years had taken the photo with him.
The next day, the elder Holmes brother came down for breakfast to find the dining room empty. He sighed, deciding to let Sherlock have one day without him nagging at the boy to eat something. As he sat at the head of the table, a young servant girl hurried in to serve him tea and give him the mail. He stopped her before she left, asking if his brother had sent anything today or the day before.
"Nothing, sir," she replied. "But I saw that he was up late last night, cutting at a photo by the fire. He looked to be in an awful state, tearing about the place the way he does when he can't figure out some great puzzle, so I dared not bother him."
Mycroft thanked and dismissed her. Now he was quite a bit more worried about his brother. He had tried to predict Sherlock's emotional reaction to this year's Mothering Sunday, but distress wasn't on his list of theories. He had expected cold silence, sulking, even anger, but at no point did he consider the day would upset him this way. He was preparing to abandon breakfast and seek out his brother when the butler entered with an empty tray. No- not empty.
"I was told to deliver this to you soon as you came down today, sir," the manservant explained, offering up the tray. "Was supposed to bring it before anything else, but the girl beat me to you with the tea and post. Apologies for that, sir, I'm not as young as she."
Mycroft took the slim envelope on the tray and waved his hand in a way that dismissed both the apology and the butler. Opening the envelope, a thick piece of paper slipped out and into his hand. He saw a photo of him and Sherlock from years ago- the very same one he had given his brother the night before, though it's edges were trimmed to fit neatly on the paper it was glued to. Beneath the photo, written in Sherlock's formal but still scrawling hand, was the following:
Mycroft,
I have been dreading today for some time, unsure of what to make of the holiday. Then one day it struck me. If the day is supposed to be used to celebrate and appreciate the one who raises and cares for you, then so it shall be.
You stepped up and took the place of a parent to me. You didn't have to, but you did. You raised me, took care of me, and were there even if I threw chemicals and experiments at you (Speaking of which, I must say your new hair color is growing on me).
No matter how annoying, nosy, stubborn or aloof you may be...Where was I going with that? (...That was a joke.)
Anyway, no matter what happens, you still are and always will be the one person I truly consider my family. I can't sincerely label you my brother, because you've become much more to me than that. You became my mother, my father, my brother, my friend.
Thank you.
-Sherlock
For the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes pitied his parents. Because they had given up on raising Sherlock, and with it their chance of having a connection with what Mycroft considered the single best thing to happen to the Holmes family.