Mycroft watched Mummy turn to Sherlock, and heard her tearful supplication. He should have been surprised by the words she uttered, yet he found he somehow wasn't. Somewhere deep inside him, he had known the truth all along. Mycroft would never be good enough.
He had tried so hard. In fact, he had never stopped trying. Mummy used to be his sun, moon, and stars, and nothing could make him gladden than an approving nod from her.
If Mummy said he needed to make friends, he tried his best to just that, no matter how ridiculous that sounded. If Mummy said that he needed to smile more often, he would practice stretching his lips in the mirror, contortions until it resembled what other people called a "smile." He wasn't quite sure why it was necessary, but he would do anything to please his Mummy. (People sometimes told him his smile didn't look natural, but he didn't understand what that meant. He had made sure to align his facial muscles in the correct way.)
When Mummy told him he was going to be a big brother, and he would need to protect his younger sibling, he dutifully nodded. He wasn't quite sure what a baby needed protecting from. All those diminutive humans did was cry, eat, and soil their diapers. Perhaps he needed to be on alert for kidnappers. But who would go to the trouble of stealing something something worth so little and yet so difficult to maintain?
When Mycroft grew up a bit, he realized something terrible. Mummy wasn't the smartest person alive. In fact, she probably wasn't very smart at all! The smartest person alive, or at least from all the people he personally knew, was himself! The thought disturbed him so much that he locked himself into his room for a whole afternoon, and blooded.
Yet Mummy was still Mummy, and when she smiled at him and petted his head, something inside of him would do a little floppy dance, and his insides felt all warm. He supposed that feeling was what others called happiness. It was a mystery to him why he felt that way.
Mycroft knew that ordinary people experienced that emotion for the most ludicrous of reasons. He had thought his intellect would make him stay above that. Yet he found himself yearning for the occasional compliments, the nods of approval, and the very rare understanding his mother could give him.
He worked very hard to recieve those gifts. He agreed with his mother's opinions, even when he found them ridiculous. He dutifully attended every social occasion his mother dragged him to, and kept his practiced smile on his face. He studied, got good grades, didn't get into any trouble at school, or at home, and watched over Sherlock, and then Eurus, too.
He did get some approval, and gestures of affections. He also got plenty of criticism. Why didn't he ever bring friends over? All boys his age had friends. Perhaps he wasn't trying hard enough. Why didn't he play more sports? Nonsense, it wasn't dull, it was a healthy activity and brought more opportunities for socialization. Why didn't he try losing a little weight? Extra pounds brought all kinds of diseases.
And why didn't he keep a better eye on his siblings? Sherlock was constantly causing mischief, and Eurus was getting up to no good.
Mycroft would quietly accept the criticism, and promise to do better. He would then recieve a nod and a smile, and would find himself feeling warm once again.
Until he would see Mummy interact with Sherlock and Eurus. He thought it made sense that Mummy would favor Eurus. She was Mummy's only daughter, and hadn't he read about how women usually favored their female progeny?
But Sherlock was an enigma. He was a living nightmare, in Mycroft's opinion. He destroyed everything in his path, and never showed an ounce of regret. When he desired something, he would tantrum for hours, until his voice turned hoarse and his face was redder than the sunburn Mycroft once got.
And Mummy, she loved him. Totally and completely. She would constantly pet him, croon at him, soothe him, and give in to almost every whim of his. It seemed that the more challenging his behavior became, the more love and attention she lavished on him.
Mycroft experimented once. He threw a tantrum worthy of his stupid, curly-headed brother, when Mummy refused to buy him another set of encyclopedias. He was sent to his room without dinner.
Mycroft couldn't deny that the sour feeling in his gut when he saw Mummy lavish ingredients her love on Sherlock was jealousy. He understood that somehow, Sherlock had charmed his way into Mummy's heart without ever even trying. Yet he still protected Sherlock, because that was his duty. And also, perhaps, because Sherlock had also somehow wiggled his way into Mycroft's very narrow, almost non-existent heart.
He didn't protect him from kidnappers, who for some reason never bothered with his little brother. Yet Sherlock was attacked in other ways, by kids who despised him for being different, and adults who despised him for telling the truth. Mainly, Sherlock needed protection from his own stupidity. He never understood how to keep himself out of trouble.
Mycroft never dreamed his life would change so drastically. One day, Redbeard was gone, and then Eurus, and then Sherlock, although only mentally. Even when Sherlock recovered, he was changed. The only thing that didn't change was Mummy's adoration for Sherlock, although her smothering of him grew by leaps and bounds.
Curiously, Sherlock didn't respond to it well. In fact, the more Mummy fussed over him, the more withdrawn he became. Mycroft watched them sadly, not a trace of jealousy left. Sherlock needed much more than love now; he needed someone to understand him. It was up to Mycroft to be that person.
Mycroft became a mentor of sorts to his brother. They had a very close relationship, but in an unconventional way. Mycroft would assist Sherlock in sorting his thoughts, and teach him how to rein in his impulses. Sherlock would act in his typically bratty way, but he knew that Mycroft was always there for him if he needed help.
They grew apart eventually, but that was another story. Both of them kept their distance from their parents, from Dad, who was always there yet never present, and Mummy, who loved them but didn't understand them. Ironically, it was Sherlock, Mummy's favorite, who never initiated contact, and avoided her as much as possible.
Mycroft felt it was his duty to watch out for his parents. He called them sometimes, and tolerated their inane chatter. He always fulfilled their every request, and gave them constant updates on Sherlock (most of which were highly inaccurate, but they didn't have to know that.)
He wasn't expecting any gratitude, which was good, since he didn't get any. Whenever they found out about Sherlock getting himself into some kind of trouble, Mummy would scold Mycroft for not keeping a better eye.
It got to a point where Mycroft grew tired of it all. Mummy's overwhelming concern for Sherlock, her sickening admiration of her younger son, and her constant nagging at Mycroft. Mycroft would respond with scorn and sarcasm whenever Mummy went on a tangent about "her boy," and how much she loved him, and how Mycroft should really appreciate him more. As if she expected Mycroft to start singing his praises.
Deep inside, he was still the little boy he once was. He wanted his Mummy to sing his praises, and fret about him, and tell him he was them most treasured thing in her life. He still tried to please her, no matter how much he suffered by doing that (that awful Les Mis experience still made him shudder). Yet realistically, he knew that he didn't hold a candle to Sherlock's bright light.
Yes, Mummy, he thought when his mother had left. I know I am an idiot boy. I certainly know I am limited. I even know that Sherlock will always be perfect in your eyes, no matter what he does. But I tried, Mummy, I always tried so hard. Doesn't that count for anything?