"We have what you might call a 'difficult relationship.'"
Even as he speaks the words, Mycroft knows that it is the biggest understatement of the millennium. Their relationship is nearly unhealthy. It goes beyond normal sibling banter and into scathing remarks. Sherlock resents Mycroft's entire existence, despite being almost completely raised by his elder brother.
And Mycroft isn't entirely sure when this utter resentment started. At some point, Sherlock had indeed adored Mycroft.
"Mycroft! Mycroft!"
Mycroft looked up from his book to watch a four year old Sherlock bound across the library toward him, several sheets of paper clenched in his small, chubby hands. His dark hair stood on end and Mycroft attempted to smooth it down when Sherlock climbed up onto his lap. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and his lips pursed and Mycroft smiled before ruffling his hair.
"What have you got there, brother?"
Sherlock pushed the slightly crinkled pages into Mycroft's hands and looked up at his brother with wide, hopeful eyes. Mycroft smoothed out the more rumpled pages, looking them over. They all seemed to consist of doodles and scribbled notes of Sherlock's deductions of the manors staff in purple crayon. Mycroft smiled and bent to place a kiss on the top of the little boys head.
"These are wonderful, Sherlock."
Sherlock grinned, a huge, crooked grin that lit up his entire face and he hopped off Mycroft's lap and ran off. Mycroft chuckled at the boy and turned back to his book.
