The following year, Mummy started getting really sick again. At least that was what people called it—but Mycroft was fifteen, far too old to fall for that, and he knew that by sick they meant very not right. He remembered vaguely that this had happened before, when he'd been too young to understand it; it was associated, in his mind, with Sherlock's birth, and he could vaguely recall Mummy being shut away in her room for long periods of time while she was pregnant and perhaps even before that.

At that time, Mycroft had thought she really was sick, but now he was much older and could tell that there was really nothing wrong with her. Headaches, which she'd always had. And sometimes she was tired, she stayed in bed, she didn't want to see anyone—but other times, she threw enormous dinner parties, stayed up all night, and took spontaneous trips to France.

These sorts of things weren't exactly things Mummy had never done. She'd always done them. They just hadn't been quite so severe before, or lasted so long, in the past years. They hadn't led to her staying in bed for over a week at a time. They hadn't led to the giant rows that happened almost daily now, between Mummy and Father. They hadn't led to Father trying to ship Sherlock and Mycroft off to their grandparent's over the holidays, so they wouldn't have to be around her while she was "sick."

Mycroft worried about Mummy, but he tried not to think about it too much, because Mummy would work things out eventually, and meanwhile it was more important to worry about Sherlock. While Father worried about Mummy, and Mummy worried about herself, Sherlock had no one but Mycroft to worry about him.

There was, of course, no one in particular worrying about Mycroft, because Mycroft could take care of himself, just like Father.

Father had been attending parent-teacher conferences for Sherlock this year, because Mummy, who usually met with the teachers, couldn't be counted on to keep her appointments. This was leading to a great deal of strife between Sherlock and Father, who couldn't understand why the nine-year-old kept offending and correcting his teachers, why he hid a live frog in his desk, or why he told one of the other children that she was adopted (which happened to be true, but which the girl hadn't known until Sherlock said it). And of course Sherlock didn't understand why all of those things were inappropriate, and to top it all off, he didn't know when he was being insulting. So things between Sherlock and Father were not at their best.

The Christmas holiday was the worst that year. It was six months since Mummy had started getting worse, and though she was on a high point—after convincing Father to keep the boys at home—there was no telling when she might flip. She did last, right up until Christmas, throwing extravagant holiday parties, catching the boys to give them kisses whenever they walked by, decorating the whole house and spending ridiculous sums of money on lavish gifts. Christmas morning, even, she was exuberant. Mycroft and Sherlock received piles of books, and cassette tapes, and new clothing and shoes and bicycles and posters to hang on their walls, and Mummy laughed and made them hot chocolate, and Father watched everything warily, and Sherlock, of course, did not say thank-you for his gifts.

And then Christmas dinner came, and Mummy became a mess. Mycroft didn't know how it happened, exactly. He just knew that there was a loud clattering in the kitchen, and when he rushed in Mummy was in a heap on the floor with a broken plate, sobbing, and Father was helping her off the ground and up the stairs to bed.

"Boys, dinner is on the table," Father said, as he ushered Mummy up the stairs. She was mumbling apologies and mumbling something about being an awful mother. "Mycroft, just look after your brother, will you?"

Mycroft nodded, but the two of them just stood there watching from the kitchen door as their parents disappeared up the stairs. After a moment Sherlock went to the table and started eating, a new book he'd just received open on his lap, while Mycroft just stood and watched numbly.

"She'll get better, you know," the nine-year-old said finally, glancing up from the book.

"What?"

"Mummy," said Sherlock. "She's only like that because her medications have changed. She'll get better. Well—back to normal."

"Her medications have—what are you talking about?" Mycroft stuttered. Sometimes it was infuriating to have Sherlock speak like this, as if the world were simple, as if everyone saw it like he did.

"I'm talking about…well you do know she's got some form of bipolar disorder, don't you?" Sherlock frowned at his older brother in some disbelief, and Mycroft pretended he was not alarmed. He said nothing.

"Anyway, the medications changed, that's all," Sherlock continued. "It's obvious if you've ever bothered to notice her medicine cabinet. And the side effects, of course. The whole behavior, really. It's all a bit obvious."

"Don't talk about Mummy like that," Mycroft ordered.

"I'm not talking about her any way," Sherlock replied. "It's a fact, not an insult." He glanced back down at his book, then sighed with disappointment, closed it, and set it down next to his plate.

"The mystery novels might have been a nice idea," he muttered, "but I'm only a chapter in and I already know the ending. That's dull." After a pause he added, "You're not eating, does that mean you're still worried? I told you she'll get better."

"Yes of course I'm still worried," said Mycroft harshly. "It's Christmas."

"Well, yes," the nine-year-old agreed. "I guess that is rather troublesome." Sherlock stood and walked past his brother, heading for the stairs. He hesitated, turned, and seemed to be thinking deeply about what might be appropriate to say.

"Mummy will be fine," he said finally. "Father doesn't understand me, but she does a bit, I think. It's aesthetic, really, that she's got too many emotions and I haven't got enough. Anyway, she'll be fine, so…" The boy was obviously struggling uncomfortably with his words, and he shifted awkwardly.

"So happy Christmas, Mycroft," he said finally, and hurried up the stairs.