Violet Holmes never thought she'd have to tell her four year old son that he wasn't going to be a big brother. She never expected something like that would happen to her. Easter morning 1974 they'd rushed to the A&E, and it was there she delivered the dead body of her 16 week old fetus. Miscarried, unknown reasons. She'd already spent hours crying in Sigor's arms while their only child had spent time with her sister.
But they were all home, the tragedy was over, the damage was done. Now it was only working through the aftermath.
Wilhelmina Faith Holmes. It'd been a name they'd picked out if Mycroft had been a girl. The medical examiner had been certain the fetus would have been female. There was no need to name her, of course, but for their own peace of mind. To put to rest their could have been daughter.
It didn't take Mycroft very long to figure it out. He was so quick, so clever. He cried too. Tears fell from big blue eyes. He'd wrapped his little hands in her dressing gown and buried his face in the silky fabric. Violet cried again, kneeling down on the floor to wrap her beautiful little boy up in her arms. Oh how he'd wanted to be a big brother. He'd been so very excited, talking about all the things he'd do for his little brother or sister. Of caring for them, protecting them, teaching them.
No more. And Violet's heart broke all over again. She tucked him close and held him to her chest, speaking quiet words of reassurance. A mother's words could quell the biggest of tears. But it would not be an easy journey to heal from for any of them.
Later that night she tucked an emotionally exhausted little boy into his bed; Diogenes his beloved beagle curled up next to him as usual. At least there was some comfort. Violet pulled the covers over Mycroft, reaching to cup his head in her hand and smooth his dark brown hair away from his forehead. Her expression was soft, blue eyes incredibly fond. She loved him so very much.
"Good night, my love. Sleep well." She pressed a kiss to his forehead and pulled away. Her words came as naught but a whisper in the usual good-night wish. "Angels are watching over you."
After losing Wilhelmina Faith, Sigor and Violet kept trying for another baby. Infertility was a struggle, a trial, and it took it's toll on them all in the years that followed. Violet had three more miscarriages, all before she even knew she was pregnant.
In the August of 1976, when Mycroft was six years old, Violet discovered she was pregnant again. It took her a week to tell her husband. And of course, little Mycroft deduced it himself before they had a chance to share it with him. Too clever for his own good.
They were hopeful and the doctors agreed it was progressing well, but there was still the distinct possibility that she'd lose the baby. As she'd lost the 16 week old girl and the three others.
The remainder of the year brought heartache and worry to the whole Holmes family, even as the weeks passed with no problem. Violet tried so very hard to do everything right. She had to. She wasn't sure she could take losing another child. Changes were made. She made Sigor stop his rare cigarette indulgence. She ate healthily, and abstained from any exhaustive activity.
Little Mycroft Timothy Holmes hadn't given up his dream on being a big brother, and took it upon himself to keep careful track of Violet's habits, behaviors, and intake. Mostly without her knowledge, all in a little journal he kept in a file in his room.
Summer turned into autumn, and with it the changing colors of the leaves and more rain. Each day brought a new hope that the pregnancy would be a success. The baby kicked, Violet felt stronger and less ill.
Then autumn faded into early winter. It also meant Violet's belly was growing even larger with their next child. One picture snapped by Grandma Holmes captured Mycroft with his hands on the baby bump and his sharp nose just touching the blue jumper covered swell. Eye closed, lips parted. A silent promise of protection and brotherhood.
The whole pregnancy was smooth sailing, better than it had ever been since Mycroft had been born. Until the day it didn't. Violet's health went downhill fast five days after New Years 1977 and she grew very sick. The Holmes family went immediately to hospital, consulting with London's best doctors. With words like 'maternal death' and 'fetal distress' thrown out there, an emergency cesarean section was scheduled.
William Sherlock Scott Holmes was born in the early hours of 6th of January. As a preemie, he weighed just under 5lbs and had difficulty breathing right away. Had he been on time, he might have shared a birthday with Mycroft in February.
Violet and Sherlock spent almost two weeks in hospital.
The day they both came home was a joyous one indeed, despite the inclement weather of a London winter. Mycroft had assured everything was in proper order at the house, of course. And when the very tiny newborn baby with startling clear blue eyes was placed in his arms, Mycroft vowed to never ever leave him. He couldn't.
The newborn felt so small, so vulnerable. And the world out there was big and scary, with all sorts of dragons to fight. He would be the big brother that he was supposed to have been. He had time to make up for. He'd make sure he'd never lose his little brother, if it was the last thing he did.
"Mine." Mycroft was sure to let Sherlock and everyone else know. "Brother mine."