A/N THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU! to everyone who has favorited/followed/reviewed/read this! It literally makes my week whenever someone does! You guys are AWESOME! And a special thank you to firewordsparkler for beta'ing this! It means a ton!

Sorry this chapter took so long...it needed some major revisions...and then college got in the way...but the entire story's written, so updates should be much more frequent now. :)

Oh, and I realize I've been forgetting to post a disclaimer; in case anyone was wondering, my name is not Steven Moffat or Mark Gatiss, so, alas, I do not own Sherlock...

Enjoy!

Sherlock woke two hours later, but Mycroft did not return him to the party, opting instead to settle the three-year-old comfortably in the library with a notebook, pencil, and the promised book of worms, which the boy gleefully accepted. It was another two hours before Mummy stumbled wearily into the parlor after seeing off the last of the guests. "How did it go?" he asked calmly, not bothering to look up from his book on famous political scandals. The book was intriguing, but failed to adequately distract Mycroft from the single, terrifying question that had been plaguing him the entire afternoon: How I am going to care for Sherlock?

"Well enough," Mummy sighed, sinking into the couch, "I told them that Sherlock had a headache and stomach cramps, but that he would feel better once he had a nap."

Mycroft nodded. It was a believable enough story, and Mummy undoubtedly delivered it impeccably; she was flawless in her handling of social graces. He was preparing to return to his book when Mummy asked, hesitantly, "How's Sherlock?"

The question made Mycroft's stomach twist uncomfortably again. How? he wondered desperately. He did not allow the emotions to reflect in his features: "Fine," he said in cool, clipped tone that added a silent No thanks to you.

Mummy did not respond, so Mycroft turned the page and continued reading about the follies of Richard Nixon.

"Please tell me what happened."

The words came out of his mother's mouth in a rush, half begging, and half demanding. Mycroft glanced up. His mother was, as he had assumed, slumped lazily on the couch, but her eyes were blazing with rare, but formidable, intensity. Mycroft surveyed her critically. She clearly wanted to know, she clearly cared. But could she ever possibly understand?

Seeing his reluctance, Mummy continued, "Look, Mycroft," she said, "We both know that you are incredibly gifted. You are without a doubt far cleverer than your father or I," she glanced at the Bible-sized book in Mycroft's hands, "And I also know that you have been watching Sherlock very carefully for months, especially during his fits." She smiled at the flicker of surprise that flitted across Mycroft's features, "Yes, I have noticed," she said, "And I also know that you have been consulting every book on psychology, child development, and mental disorders that you can lay your hands on to try and help him." Another surprise, but Mycroft did not allow himself to show it this time. Mummy took a deep breathe, "And I know that today you figured it out, and you figured it out how to help him...by putting him in a closet," she frowned, clearly still puzzled by Mycroft's response, but continued, "And now I'm asking you, Mycroft, begging you to tell me what is wrong with my son."

Still Mycroft did not respond. Mummy was undoubtedly sincere, but he did not know if his explanation could ever satisfy her. And it shouldn't be me telling her, the furious part of himself observed, she is his mother, she should have figured it out…and then I would not have to figure out how to help him by myself.

Mummy closed her eyes, "Some of the others," she said carefully, "Suggested that Sherlock's behavior might indicate that he has a...problem," she finished lamely, "They were suggesting that we might want to have him examined for autism."

"He's not autistic," Mycroft said calmly, turning another page of his book. He had ruled out that possibility weeks ago.

"Mycroft dear..." Mycroft jaw tightened as his mother's tone rapidly approached condescension, "It is okay if that is what it is. He is still your brother, and we will still love him no matter what."

She was saying it more to comfort herself than him, and they both knew it. Mycroft snapped his book shut, "Of course it is okay," he said softly, but also unable to hide the anger in his voice, "Obviously it would be okay. I'm saying he is not autistic because it is the truth."

They stared at each other for several long seconds, both wondering how and when Mycroft's love had become more unconditional than Mummy's. "I'm sorry...You're right," Mummy whispered, looking down at her lap, "Of course it's okay..." A single tear slid down her cheek, "Please," she whispered, "I know you understand him better than I do, better than anyone does. But he is my son and I need to understand. What happened today?"

Mycroft surveyed his mother for several seconds. He supposed it was true. She loved Sherlock, so perhaps she could understand … even just a little. Mycroft set his book on the end table and sat up straighter, shifting his body to better face his mother. "Sensory overload," he said simply.

Mummy blinked in surprise, "What do you mean?" she asked.

"Let me show you," Mycroft said, getting to his feet, "I'll be back in a moment." He left the parlor and ran up the stairs to the library, where Sherlock was still happily examining the worm book.

"Look My!" he shouted, holding up a relatively well-draw copy of a particularly fat worm. "Very good," Mycroft murmured as walked to the nearly un-touched shelf of children's books and selected a couple of thin, glossy hardbacks. "Sherlock," he said, turning back to face his younger brother.

"Yes My!" Sherlock chimed, not looking up from his book.

"I need you to come downstairs and play a game with me and Mummy," Mycroft said smoothly.

Sherlock frowned, "Worms," he protested.

Mycroft sighed. He supposed he might be able to convince his brother to come willingly, but it was far easier to bribe him, "I'll give you another book with pictures of bugs if you play this game for five minutes."

Sherlock's frowned deepened, considering the offer, "Just five?" he repeated, holding up his five fingers in confirmation.

"Yes Sherlock."

"Deal!" the younger Holmes said brightly.

"Good," Mycroft crossed over to the table, picked up Sherlock with one arm while holding the books in the other, and returned to the parlor.

"Okay Sherlock," Mycroft said, sitting next to Mummy and placing the toddler on his lap. "We're going to play a game called "Where's Waldo?" he held up one of the books. Mummy frowned in confusion, but did not say anything, "I'm going to show you a picture and you have to find this man," he tapped the picture of the man in red and white striped shirt on the cover, "As fast as possible...okay?"

Sherlock sighed, clearly dubious about the potential enjoyment to be derived from the activity, "Ookaay."

Mycroft opened the book to the first scene, a crowded carnival with over hundred different people in various poses, "Where's Waldo?" Mycroft asked.

"There!" Sherlock cried almost instantly, pointing at a spot to the right of the cotton-candy machine. Mummy blinked in surprise, "How'd you do that so fast?" she asked in her baby-voice.

Sherlock frowned, "I looked."

"Oh," Mummy murmured as Mycroft turned the page. This time the book depicted a crowded shopping center, "Where's-?"

"There!" Sherlock shouted, pointing out the figure in front of a pet shop. He swiveled around to face Mycroft, ignoring Mummy's murmured "My heavens!"

"This boo-ring!" he declared.

"You're right," Mycroft agreed. "This time I'm going to have you look at the page for forty-five seconds, and then I'm going to close the book, and I want you to tell me everything you saw in the picture."

"Fine," Sherlock said sullenly, his patience clearly wearing thin. Mycroft turned the page, it was a park scene this time, and looked down at his watch, keeping time as Sherlock's eyes flitted over the page.

"Ok," Mycroft said, closing the book after forty-five seconds had passed, "Now tell me everything you saw."

"Weeelll firs dere was a gramma with gray hair and a blue dress, and next to her was her gran-son," he stumbled a little over the word, "With blue pants and a red shirt and he had a kite that was red too. And then there was a bench with two girls with yeyyo hair and they both had lollies and next to them was a dog, but he didn't have a lolli. And next to the dog was a boy with blue pants and a brown shirt and next to him was Waldo...you know what he looks like... and next to him was..."

"Yes, thank you dear," Mummy said faintly, "Why don't you go run off and play now?"

"But I'm not dun yet," Sherlock protested.

"But you don't want to leave your worm book too long," Mycroft said, "You were in the middle of your diagram."

Sherlock paused, considering this for a moment, before he nodded and slid off Mycroft's lap. "Don' foget bugs!" he said gravely, pointing at Mycroft.

"I promise," Mycroft assured him. Satisfied by this, Sherlock turned and ran back up the stairs.

"How did he do that?" Mummy breathed once Sherlock was out of sight. She was very pale, and her eyes lingered on the stairs where Sherlock had just been as if she had seen a ghost instead of her son.

"He observes everything, Mummy," Mycroft explained, "His mind is able to take in enormous amounts of information, retain minute details, and his mind can process this information at an incredible rate."

"He's very clever," Mummy breathed, "Like you."

"But don't you see," Mycroft pressed, "He's still just a three-year-old! Can you even imagine what it must be like having so much information assaulting your mind all at once, all the time…So many ideas bouncing around your head...it's maddening, and sometimes he simply can't cope, so he shuts down."

"The fits?" Mummy frowned, "but why...he is so loud…"

"He's trying to drown out the information, Mummy!" Mycroft said impatiently, "Covering his eyes and ears, screaming as loud as he can, he's trying to block out any sensory information to try and quiet the madness in his mind!" And how am I supposed to him? that panicked corner of his mind added desperately.

He had not meant for his voice to become so passionate; Mummy was again looking at him as if she had never seen her son before, "And the same thing happens to you," she whispered.

Mycroft recalled the restless ideas that constantly swirled around his mind, the many nights where the chaos of his own thoughts cast away any hope for sleep, the rare occasions when he would shut himself in his room, turn off the lights, lay on his bed, close his eyes, and allow his mind to process all the information that he had put there, pushing against his brain like water against a crumbling dam. "Something similar, yes," he admitted, "Though not as intensely as Sherlock, I think. I hoped that by bringing him to a dark, quiet place where he would not be receiving any new information, his mind would finally have an opportunity to quiet itself... my theory worked."

"Because you were there," Mummy murmured.

Mycroft frowned, "Perhaps. Although, logically, it would work better if he were completely alone..."

"Mycroft Holmes that is absolute rubbish and you know it," Mummy said sternly, "I saw both of you. Sherlock was clinging to you for dear life. He needed the dark and the quiet, but he also needed you. You were the one who calmed him." She sighed, "And I was useless."

Not able to refute this, Mycroft said nothing.

Mummy sighed and put her head in her hands, "I do not understand, Mycroft. I know, logically, what you are trying to tell me, but I do not understand. I never will understand." When Mycroft did not respond, she looked up, "And you knew that," she said quietly, "You knew I could not possibly understand...that's why you didn't tell me." Mycroft nodded stiffly, and Mummy sighed again, still keeping her head in her hands, "I have two brilliant sons whom I love with all my heart, but whom I can never possibly understand. I see the way you manipulate people, Mycroft. I don't know how you do it, but I see it. I see the books you read, the things you study, the way you hide just how smart you are from everyone, until you want them to see. I do not understand it, you know I will never be able to understand it, but I see it" She looked up and stared at Mycroft, her blue-grey eyes, so much like Sherlock's, unusually penetrating, "I will never be the mother you need, but please believe that I love you…I love you both more than I can say."

Mycroft nodded, and found, to his surprise, that the vague, inescapable sense of panic that had been plaguing him since he comforted Sherlock in the closet was gone now. He knew Mummy would never understand, would not be able to help, but she cared…and perhaps…that was enough.

"Mycroft dear, what a pleasant surprise!" Mycroft looked up as Mummy slowly seated herself next to him on the couch; her face was thin and wrinkled now, but the elegance and sophistication remained.

"You should be asleep," he said.

She smiled at him, her blue-grey eyes, exactly the same color as Sherlock's, twinkling merrily at him, "I am an old woman," she said, "I have plenty of time to sleep, but it is not often that one of my sons visits me."

"I'm sorry," Mycroft lied.

"Don't be," Mummy said, though Mycroft knew she saw through the deception, "I know you are both very busy." She glanced down at the book in Mycroft's hands, "Why Mycroft!" she said, "You, looking at a photo album...I'm shocked!"

"Just passing the time," Mycroft said vaguely. He tapped the photograph of him and Sherlock in the closet, "I didn't know you had this," he said, keeping his voice even with difficulty.

"Yes," Mummy admitted guiltily, "I had the camera in my hand when I was looking for you, because of the party, you know, and when I opened the door and saw you...you were both holding each other so tightly… I had never seen either of you behave so affectionately...it was ...adorable, so I took a picture, without really thinking about it. That was before I understood was happening of course..." She gave him a swift, piercing glance, "I never showed it to anyone," she said, "Not even your father." Mycroft nodded, but did not respond. "I still have them keep the closet that way," Mummy continued, "No clothes inside, blanket on the floor...everything."

On any other night, Mycroft would have rolled his eyes at such a pointless, sentimental gesture. Tonight, however, he felt a stupid urge to go and look at the place where he and Sherlock had spent so many hours.

The next time Sherlock had a fit, Mycroft did not hesitate. He scooped the screaming Sherlock up in his arms, carried him up to his room, wrapped him in the blue blanket, and sat with him in the closet, holding him tight until the screaming and sobbing subsided. When Mycroft emerged from Sherlock's room half an hour later, Mummy was waiting. She gave him a small, anxious smile Is he alright now? Mycroft nodded, and Mummy's shoulders sagged in relief, Thank you her eyes said. Mycroft nodded.

It soon became a ritual that the entire household, aside from father, who snorted about "spoiled brats" whenever the echoes of Sherlock's screams found their way into the den, treated with sanctity. If Sherlock started to cry, someone would run for Mycroft. Sometimes Mummy would watch as Mycroft carried Sherlock up the stairs and into his room, a small smile, grateful, but a sad, playing her lips. Sometimes she would not. She gave the maids strict orders to never keep anything, except the blue blanket, in the closet, and she never tried to interfere with anything that Sherlock said or did…not if Mycroft was there to take care of it. Mycroft found he did not mind.

A few months after the birthday party, Sherlock dashed into Mycroft's room. The Elder Holmes looked up from his homework, a scathing scolding already on his lips, when he saw his brother's wide, frantic eyes. Recognizing an impending fit, Mycroft scooped Sherlock up and carried him into the closet, holding him until his brother's sharp, panicked breaths calmed, and his grip on the blanket eased.

"Good job, Sherlock," Mycroft murmured into his brother's ear, "An excellent job."

Sherlock pulled away a little to face his brother, "Really?" he said, and in the darkness Mycroft could just make out his wide, eager smile.

"Yes, an outstanding job," Mycroft confirmed, "And Sherlock, you can do that any time. If you ever feel like you are going to have a fit, you can find me, and we will go in the closet no matter what I am doing."

"Anytime?" Sherlock confirmed.

"Anytime," Mycroft assured.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Mycroft's neck and squeezed him tightly, "Thank you My!" he shouted. He hesitated, "You're my My," he said happily.

"That's right," Mycroft agreed. He disapproved of gibberish or nicknames, even Mummy was not allowed to call him anything besides 'Mycroft', but then again, everything was different for Sherlock. "I'm always going to be your My."

"Prahmis?" Sherlock said gravely.

"Promise," Mycroft said. His promise on the day of the birthday party echoed through his head, my number one priority.

I'd love to hear your thoughts (including constructive criticism). But even if you don't... THANK YOU for reading!