Mycroft was a plump seven years old when Mummy brought baby Sherlock home from the hospital.
The scrawny newborn with its mop of dark curls screamed incessantly for what seemed like hours on end, day and night.
"Will it ever shut up, Mummy?" Mycroft asked, wrinkling his nose up at the disruptive bundle of noise.
"Mycroft!" Mummy chastised, "Babies cry. It's what they do. It's the only way they know how to communicate."
The seven-year-old leaned over the crib and studied his little brother. Sherlock looked up at Mycroft with big doe eyes and quietened.
"There, see," Mummy said, noting the change in Sherlock's behaviour, "he obviously loves his big brother."
Mycroft frowned. How did this new baby even know that he was his brother? Mycroft doubted that he did really, but he couldn't help being affected by that little bundle of Holmes.
He leaned in closer to his little brother and whispered. "I will look out for you, Sherlock."
