A/N: This piece is my view on Mummy's "grown-up" comment, knew that has baffled many. I have alluded to this in my story "Coming Around," but this is an expanded, complete version. I would love to hear your opinions, especially different takes on that comment and why it was said.
When Sherlock was three years old, he caused his first explosion.
It was only a combination of several common household products, including vinegar, bleach, ammonia and baking soda, all mixed up inside a glass bottle. But the sound of it brought the entire household running, to find shards of glass all over the kitchen, and a cowering, tear-stained Sherlock under the kitchen table.
Mummy had been reading a book on positive parenting, and wasn't this just the right opportunity to implement it's wise advice? So, instead of tearing into poor Sherlock, who was obviously regretting his little experiment, she frantically cast around for something positive to say.
She finally found it. "Aren't you quite the little scientist!" she beamed. "How clever of you, to figure out how to make a chemical explosion! Next time, however, you'll be doing it in your own lab, and under supervision. We don't want our little scientist to get hurt, do we?"
What started as a parenting technique quickly turned into a coping mechanism. When Sherlock started dragging in animal corpses, she told herself firmly that she was so glad that he showed such interest in science. Then she pasted a large smile on her face and requested he bring it into the garage. She never dared step in there afterwards.
When five-year-old Sherlock went drifting out onto the lake on a log, wearing his pirate gear and yelling "Ahoy, mateys!", she breathed in and out for several minutes, then turned to her husband and said, "What imagination! What initiative! He's such a mature boy, our Sherlock, isn't he?"
Things became more difficult when her little boy dropped out of Uni, and turned to illegal substances for relief. She cried, then, but didn't let herself fall apart. "He does know what he's doing, doesn't he? He's an expert chemist; surely he knows how to keep himself safe from overdosing, or long-term damage?" she half-stated, half-asked, her ever-patient husband.
When her little boy did overdose, she refused to believe it was anything more than an unfortunate miscalculation. Letting herself believe anything else would force her to face the harsher side of reality that she had for so long avoided. From then on, Mycroft began to follow his brother around, keeping a close eye on him and his activities.
Sherlock had showed an interest in crime-solving from a very young age. No one could be prouder than Mummy was when her little boy became a consulting detective, the only one in the world. He had actually invented the job title! Then again, she had always know he was extraordinary. Her little Sherlock, all grown up!
There was someone who was determined to mar her happiness, however. Mycroft kept calling her, tatting on his little brother. She would be enjoying an evening of line-dancing with William, and the phone call would come. "Sherlock's using again."
"Look, I know it's not ideal," she told her older son frankly. "However, we both know that Sherlock is unique. He sometimes needs that extra bit of stimulation to keep him calm."
"He's an addict," Mycroft told her bluntly, one time.
"Now, Mikey, don't be like that. He is a grownup, with a very important job. Why, just last week his name was in the papers, having solved another crime! You know, I understand you resent that he's getting acclaim, but that's no excuse to malign your brother."
After that, she very rarely heard from Mycroft about this topic. That had to be because Sherlock had gotten over that silly phase. She was glad that her son was doing so well.
He rarely visited, and almost never called. She worried, sometimes. "He must be so busy with his cases," she mused to William, who, as always, listened in silence, which she took for acquiescence. "Well, I certainly won't interfere with his career. He did promise to call more last time we saw him. Perhaps, when he gets a chance to catch his breath, he will remember his old Mummy?" She giggled, and then sighed. It was hard, sometimes, to have your little ones all grown up.
She frowned at the thought. Mycroft was still acting immature at times. He had a job of some importance, although she wasn't aware of his exact job description. He had a desk job in some government office, pushing papers. He had formed connections, and had some influence in several departments, as she found out when he assisted her with various issues, ranging from property taxes to health insurance. Nevertheless, his job wasn't glamorous or exciting, like Sherlock's, and he was obviously resentful.
She insisted that he accompany them to the theater when they were back in England. He had his usual excuses about being busy with work of vital importance, which she didn't buy. Come on, he wasn't the Prime Minister or anything. He grumbled about Sherlock never being asked to do anything. Well, she couldn't exactly drag Sherlock away from a case, when he had but several hours to solve it before the criminal struck again, could she?
Mycroft had just snorted about Sherlock shooting the walls in boredom, and lying about the case. Mummy wasn't pleased. Last week Sherlock had saved Parliament from being blown to smithereens, and had his name on the headlines! Of course Mycroft was jealous. What had he done in that time, filled out some forms about income taxes? She hoped her older son would stop acting so childish and learn to accept his brother.
She still worried about Sherlock,and all the danger he was putting himself into, although he was capable of taking care of himself. One day, her worry turned out to be justified. Her little boy had been shot.
This time, she was an unstoppable force. Sherlock and Mycroft would come for Christmas, no excuses accepted. The consulting detective shouldn't be working on cases now, anyhow, he was still not fully recovered. And wouldn't it be nice if Sherlock's friend, the nice doctor, came along with his wife? She was happy that, despite Sherlock's intense schedule, he had manged to make some nice friends. Unlike Mycroft, who was still a loner.
The meal was wonderful, and it was great to be surrounded by family. If only Mycroft would complain a little less, and grow up for once. He had even brought along his laptop, and insisted that the security of the free world depended on that! That boy would do anything to get out of family gatherings. Luckily, Sherlock was much more amenable.
Something went wrong, however. She never did get all the details, but it turned out that Sherlock had drugged his family. She felt shaken, betrayed. "He must have had a very good reason," she told William tearfully. "Mycroft did say it was to save lives. I'm sure he wouldn't have done it if there was another way. And he made sure to have his friend be here to take care of us; he really is a grown-up."
It was no wonder that it turned out to be Mycroft which had betrayed his family, after all. He had lied to them about Eurus, broken their hearts and let them mourn. He might indeed have been trying for kindness, but that idiot boy never did understand the concept of family, did he?
There was only one thing left to do, one person she could turn to for help. She would ask Sherlock what to do. After all, he had always been the grown-up.