Mycroft breathes a quiet sigh to himself and tries to force the look of irritation off his face. In his ear his mother's busy with yet another diatribe concerning the myriad moral failings of her husband. Callousness and fiscal irresponsibility and infidelity, what a failure of a man. Never mind the plethora of examples Mycroft could cite to turn every one of her complaints against her. She and Father really are identical when it comes to destroying their marriage, he muses blandly - one might even venture to call them perfect for each other if not for the small issue of their mutual hatred.

Finally she winds herself down, allowing enough of a gap between words for Mycroft to politely extricate himself from the conversation. They exchange a few insincere pleasantries before the line mercifully cuts out, Mummy having hung up first.

"She's having an affair with a bloke in Paris," a childish voice speaks up in a low, angry grumble from somewhere behind him. Mycroft glances over his shoulder to find his little brother perched on the back of an armchair by the door. How he'd managed to sneak into the room without Mycroft noticing is anyone's guess - the boy's usually hyperactive enough to wake the dead with all his mad dashing about. Though, granted... he's been much quieter since their parents started fighting in earnest. More withdrawn, callous.

Mycroft leans back in his office chair and fights the urge to sigh. Because, of course, here's yet another problem for him to worry about - his little brother might very well be developing some sort of childhood depression in response to all this marital strife. And seeing as their parents are far too busy having juvenile spats with each other to take any real notice of their younger offspring it will inevitably fall to Mycroft to ensure the boy receives some sort of therapy. Brilliant. Clearly he's at a point in his life where he can realistically look after the psychological needs of a primary school child.

Sherlock can apparently read something of his big brother's thoughts on his face, because he quite suddenly glares.

"Oh, sorry, am I being a bother?" he snipes acidly.

"Well you did just sneak into a locked room to eavesdrop on a private conversation," Mycroft points out in a tone of vague weariness. Just one holiday where he doesn't have to mediate parental bickering or endure the misguided wrath of a twelve year old, that's all he asks.

Sherlock curls his lip a bit and slides off the back of the chair to stand behind it instead. "It's not my problem if you can't be bothered to use the deadbolt." He takes a step backwards, apparently intending to leave, and continues speaking as he walks. "Anyway I just thought I should let you know that Enny's been crying for the last hour and no one can get her to stop. Not that you care or anything."

Ah, yes, and of course there's the rest of it - not only has sole responsibility for the welfare of a little boy been foisted on him but a toddler as well. Mycroft rubs at his forehead and finally gives in to the urge to sigh.

"You're capable of calming her down, surely." Perhaps not the most appropriate thing to do, attempting to divert the issue onto Sherlock's shoulders, but sod it all he's tired of this. Forcing an eighteen year old into the role of a parent isn't fair to any party involved. He has university to study for and a career to think about and just... god. Why him?

Predictably all Mycroft gets for his trouble is another venomous glare.

"I told her you wouldn't give a shit," Sherlock snaps, then turns on his heel and stalks out of the room. Mycroft drops his hand with an aggrieved look to the empty doorway. Oh, hell... Enola had been asking for him, hadn't she? That's why they hadn't been able to placate her. And he'd just tried to... bloody hell, no wonder Sherlock's furious. Also where had the boy learnt to swear like that? One of the servants? His school mates? Yet another issue to be dealt with. Add it to the list.

Reluctantly he drags himself from his seat and makes his way to the hall. It's not difficult to deduce where his brother's gone, and soon Mycroft finds himself standing in the entrance to the back garden.

He pauses, not yet through the door, and simply watches his younger siblings for a moment. Sherlock's crouched down next to Enola, who's curled up miserably in a freestanding wooden swing with her favourite stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest. She has her face buried in the toy's soft fur and seems to be refusing to look at Sherlock.

Mycroft can just barely hear his brother's murmured words.

"It's fine, honestly. Just because he's busy doesn't mean he hates you."

"He does," Enola wails, voice muffled by her rabbit. "First Mummy didn't go to ballet class and now Myc won't talk to me and everyone hates me! I'm all alone!"

Sherlock scowls a bit. "I've been hanging about with you all week you bloody ingrate."

"That doesn't count, you're always here," Enola retorts with a sniff. "No one who matters likes me."

That draws a rather hurt-looking expression from Sherlock, who rocks back on his heels to fix her with a wordless stare. A short silence follows - apparently Sherlock's having trouble deciding what to say to that. Understandable, really. It's obvious Enola didn't mean her words to be an insult; which, in a way, is more painful than a deliberate jab would have been. More likely to be heartfelt... and more damaging. Especially to a child who Mycroft knows full-well hasn't been getting on well with his peers at school.

Time to intervene. Mycroft draws a steadying breath and finally makes his presence known.

"Is everything alright?" he asks of his little siblings, keeping his tone light in an effort to mask the fact that he's been eavesdropping. Sherlock glances up to him with a scowl. The expression does a poor job of masking the look of emotional distress still etched on his face. Enola, meanwhile, shoots upright and gasps.

"Mycroft!" she exclaims happily, flinging herself off the swing with enough force to send the seat slamming into Sherlock's chest. The boy gets knocked into the cobblestones of the garden path with a pained oomph! while Enola barrels into Mycroft's legs.

"Enola!" Mycroft admonishes. Behind her Sherlock's picked himself up, waves a hand in a silent I'm alright as he rubs gingerly at his sternum, still seated somewhat morosely on the stone path. Enola takes no notice, of course. She's far too busy grabbing onto her eldest brother's legs like a hyperactive leech.

"Everybody said you were busy but Sherlock went to find you anyways and then he said you were busy too but he must've lied cause you're here now and I gotta show you all the stuff I learned in ballet last week it's really neat we did a-"

She continues to babble excitedly about anything and everything. Mycroft glances up from the girl to find his little brother watching them with an expression somewhere between annoyance and despondency. Well this is just going splendidly, isn't it? Somehow Mycroft's just usurped Sherlock's usual role as the girl's favourite sibling, entirely by accident. This is not at all going to improve the issue of a possible bout of depression.

It's all a tad frustrating, really. Because as far as Mycroft's concerned the whims of their overexuberant baby sister can and always should remain firmly in the realm of Sherlock's business. He's the one who dotes on the girl after all - teaches her inappropriate skills for a young lady to possess, endures her enthusiastic trailing around after him all hours of the day and night and reads childish books with her like a decent big brother should. Mycroft, meanwhile, spends the majority of his time away at school, and on the rare occasion he makes it home his attention's inevitably tugged elsewhere by family problems or career prospects. Why Enola should choose to latch on to him of all people he has no idea.

In a fit of desperation Mycroft tries to convey through hand gestures that Sherlock should collect their sister before she can topple him with her excited bouncing up and down into his legs. Despite clearly understanding the message, however, Sherlock just sneers slightly. The boy picks himself up off the garden path and without so much as a word for either of them stalks off out of sight around a corner. Well, then. So much for lending a hand.

Mycroft looks down to his sister instead. "Enola."

"-but I don't think she likes it really only she said she did and did you know that-"

"Enola," he snaps. The girl finally shuts her mouth and blinks up at him questioningly. "You need to go apologise to Sherlock."

"Why?" she asks. Mycroft carefully takes a step back, extricating himself from her clutches. Mercifully she lets him do so without immediately latching on again.

"You knocked him over with the swing, for one thing, and said some rather insensitive things which may have hurt his feelings."

Enola's eyes widen a bit and she glances over her shoulder, but of course Sherlock's already disappeared. She looks back to Mycroft.

"I'll say sorry later," she decides with a bright smile, tugging on Mycroft's trouser leg.

Mycroft frowns. "Now, please."

His little sister huffs a petulant breath through her nose. Dramatically as possible she lets go of his clothes and turns around to plod away after their brother. With a twinge of vexation Mycroft realises she's off to deliver an utterly insincere apology that will most likely leave Sherlock feeling more insulted than ever. Wonderful. Can nothing go right today?

Following the children isn't likely to do much good so Mycroft strides over to the garden swing instead. He takes a seat on the worn wood seat, pushes himself slowly back and forth and stares up into the blue summer sky. Enola will be back soon enough. Either Sherlock will be with her (unlikely) or Mycroft will find the boy later sulking over a gutted toad. Whatever the outcome he'll have to find a way to keep them all sane. Him, alone. Because there's no one else willing to step up... and because he can't abandon them.

Inadvertently his thoughts stray away from his siblings. He thinks instead of the summers of his own childhood - back when his parents had by all accounts seemed madly in love with each other and the three of them would take long holidays to the south of France.

Mummy had taught him about the different types of seashells, walking together up and down the warm sandy beach. Father had chimed in with facts about world oyster trade. They'd been... happy. Somehow.

He shuts his eyes and sighs.