Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
By the December of 1977, Mycroft Holmes had witnessed six Christmases. All of which were spent wearing an ill-fitting tuxedo during Christmas dinner filled with decadent goodies— those of which he couldn't get enough of, or he couldn't until Mummy scolded. But this seventh one was going to be different. That's what his nanny said, and Elise was seldom wrong.
Mummy was pregnant. Mycroft was no idiot. He could see his mother's bulging stomach peeking beneath her elaborate maternity robes. Although, he had no idea that a baby might change the course of his holidays until he saw the squirming bundle in her arms.
At first, Mycroft had stood hesitantly in the doorway of the hospital room. Unsure whether to approach, or to run into the protective arms of Elise. He hadn't been able to see his mother's face as she was turned down towards the baby, but when she looked up to see her first son in the doorway, Mycroft saw that she was smiling.
"Would you like to hold your baby brother, Mycroft?"
Mycroft wasn't sure if he did. The baby seemed so small, so fragile. It didn't seem real, and it certainly didn't seem right for such a delicate thing to be put in his awkward arms. The slightest slip and the baby could fall. A hand nudged him forwards, and he had no choice but to accept the small bundle.
"Say hello to Sherlock."
Sherlock. My little brother, Sherlock.
"Hello there," Mycroft whispered.
Sherlock's eyes were closed, but as soon as Mycroft spoke, they opened to observe the world with sharp grey eyes. As soon as they settled on Mycroft, a loud wailing emitted from the baby.
Mycroft panicked. "What do I do? Why is it doing that? What did I do wrong?"
"Darling, hold him closer to you, pat his back. He just feels insecure," were Mummy's soothing words.
So, Mycroft drew the screaming child closer and patted its back. His back. He forgot the baby had a gender. But still, the baby continued screeching, giving the impression that Sherlock had been possessed by an angry demon.
Mycroft returned his little brother to Mummy promptly afterwards.
"I don't like him," was all he said.
A week before Christmas, Mummy returned from the hospital with the baby. Mycroft still didn't like it. He spent nearly all his time pretending that he was still an only child. It was easy because Sherlock was such a colicky baby that he was constantly shut away from sight.
On Christmas day, Mummy thought it was a fabulous idea to let Mycroft spend time with Sherlock. She led Mycroft to the baby room, promising treats afterwards. It wasn't until he heard the click of the door closing that he realized he had been cheated.
Sherlock was awake. He waved his chubby legs in the air and cooed.
Mycroft sighed. He decided it was better to ignore the baby than make it cry again. He strolled over to the window after hearing the start of a car engine. Even before he peered out, he realized it was his father leaving the house. His father's car engine made a lower grumbling sound that his mother's car. Father's absence had become common in the time of Mummy's pregnancy. The sound of the engine was soon drowned out by Sherlock's crying.
"Hush," Mycroft ordered.
Sherlock continued crying.
"Stop crying. I'm supposed to look after you, and I do not tolerate this behaviour."
The crying did not cease.
"Sherlock, I'm your older brother. What I say goes."
No change in Sherlock's pitch, but his volume seemed to rise.
"Oh, bollocks," Mycroft admitted to defeat, and gingerly picked up his baby brother.
He sat down in a rocking chair and the bounced the sobbing baby on his knee.
"What do you want?" Mycroft was growing especially impatient and frustrated.
He noticed a bottle full of milk in the corner of his eye.
"You're hungry, aren't you?" Mycroft grabbed the glass bottle. He blunderingly shoved the teat into Sherlock's little mouth. Silence returned other than the occasional sucking sound made by eager baby Sherlock.
All the while, the baby observed the room with steely grey eyes, hardly blinking. They emitted intelligence and wisdom well beyond his years.
"You're really not so bad are you? Just a bit hungry."
The baby smiled a little, but returned back to his feeding.
Mycroft began to warm up to Sherlock a bit. He even attempted to play by grabbing a few assorted toys from the vast toy chest. All toys were rejected, but one— a rather morbid plushy skull that was more suited for a Halloween decoration than a baby's toy.
By the time Mummy returned, both her boys were asleep in the rocking chair. Mycroft's arms were curled protectively around his little brother as Sherlock snuggled up against his older brother's chest. Both were snoring so peacefully that their mother hadn't the heart to wake them. She settled a blanket over Mycroft, and carefully returned Sherlock to his crib.
If she had known that Sherlock was the best Christmas present Mycroft had ever received, she'd have given him a little brother earlier.