Even in infancy, Sherlock was fussy, sickly, prone to tempers, and quite frankly—as the nurses often remarked in whispers—not pretty for a baby. Mycroft knew that he, himself, had been considered quite a lovable baby, because his nanny mentioned it often. Adorable and affectionate, and with meat on his bones, she would say, as babies should be. Sherlock, she would often mention, was nothing like that.

In the first year of Sherlock's life, Mycroft hardly noticed the baby's presence in the house. The house, after all, was quite large, and Mycroft was seven years old and attending school for most of the day. Mummy did, indeed, recover as promised, and spent a good deal more of her time entertaining guests or going out on trips with her friends. When she had guests, she would normally call Mycroft in and invite him to sit beside her, because the other ladies were quite fond of him, and he knew the sorts of things to say that would make them smile. He could recite poetry he'd learned, or tell them about books he'd read, and this would make his mother proud. He enjoyed her company, the clink of teacups, the way her perfume smelled, and the way her slender hand wrapped around his shoulder and pulled him close when he sat with her. He missed her when she left.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was not called for when guests came to call. Sometimes the other women would inquire about him, and Mummy would say that he was colicky or napping. A few times she called for the nanny to bring him down for a moment, and she would hold him on her knee for a few minutes, shower him with kisses, and then hand him back and send him back upstairs.

Aside from these moments, Sherlock spent all of his time with nannies, who quite disliked the child, and Mycroft quite forgot his charge to help teach Sherlock everything he knew, until one evening when the nanny brought him down to Father's study. Mycroft was standing beside Father's desk, reciting the day's lessons to prove what he'd learned in school, as he normally did before bed. When the nanny knocked and entered the room with Sherlock squirming in her arms, Mycroft was just as surprised as his father was.

"What is it?" Father asked, standing up. "If the boy's upset, take him to his mother. Where is that woman—Sylvia!"

"Mrs. Holmes is out tonight," the nanny interrupted. "I just thought you'd like to know that he walked. Just now, in the nursery."

"Oh," said Father, sitting down again. "Is that all? First steps?"

"He can walk?" Mycroft asked. "I didn't know babies could walk."

"Well, he's growing," said Father. "There's got to be a first time for everything." He waved his hand at the nanny and said, "Well, let's see it, then."

The woman set Sherlock on his feet carefully, gripping his little wrists above his head as he got his balance, and Mycroft frowned, wondering how it was possible that such tiny feet could hold anyone up. Then again, Sherlock wasn't very big. There wasn't much to hold.

As the nanny let go, Sherlock teetered, and Mycroft felt himself take a step forward to catch the baby before he fell. He didn't fall, though. He took a step, wobbly arms out in front of him, and then another, and then gracefully plunked onto his behind, cushioned by his diaper, and stared up at Mycroft with a curious expression.

"Two steps," remarked Father from his desk. "Does he speak yet?"

"No, sir," said the nanny, picking Sherlock up again and balancing him on her hip. "We've tried, but so far he only makes hand signals. No words."

Father seemed to have lost interest. He turned back to his papers and sent Mycroft out with the nanny, telling him to go to bed. But Mycroft was interested in the new discovery that babies could, in fact, learn new tricks.

"Could we teach him to talk?" he asked, as the nanny herded him up the stairs to his room. "Do you think I could teach him to talk?"

"Oh, I suppose," she replied. "If you say the same thing enough times, babies will pick up on it. He's bound to learn eventually, darling. I wouldn't worry about it."

Mycroft was seven years old. He was not worried. He was curious. In fact, for the next week and a half, he spent a good deal of his free time watching baby Sherlock toddle around and taking a new interest in being around his brother. He wanted to be the one to teach him to talk, and repeated the name "Mycroft" over and over whenever he was in the baby's presence.

Eventually, it worked. Sherlock's first word was indeed "Mycroft," but on a one-year-old tongue, the word came out sounding more like "mine."