A/N: How do I dare? The nerve of me!

Do keep your fingers crossed for me. Big leap of faith here. -csf


I.

Sherlock was always the most peculiar child. A mischievous smile and a bright intellect, eager to soak knowledge and understanding of the world around him, I had the privilege of watching him grow from a chunky toddler with a mop of jet black curls to a skinny, solemn, surly adult with untamed black curls – some things remain immutable, although I suspect some hairdresser's help, some things a son will want to keep even from his mum.

I watched him with interest as he took his first steps, towards a set of junior illustrated encyclopaedias, his father spurring him on with praise and incentive, and quickly hastening to remove from the toddler's path one of Mycroft's video cameras, Mycroft's latest interest at the time. I love my husband, but the thought that it wouldn't occur to him to turn on the damned camera and record Sherlock's achievements still baffles me. In fact, when I suggested the obvious course of action, he shushed me – me – and told me to enjoy the moment. I huffed, but he wouldn't take me seriously. He just nudged me to his side as we both kneeled on the floor by the book case and cheered on Sherlock to reach the encyclopaedias. Which he did, marvellously.

Sherlock would always be the athletic one out of both our sons.

Mycroft would frequently tell us he is the clever one, but cleverness comes in many types. I once built a chart for illustration purposes, but my dear husband wasn't too pleased. He was convinced it put pressure on our boys to compete with each other; my husband is much more the cooperative leader, always ensuring Mycroft learnt it was his job to watch out for his danger prone baby brother. Given their age gap, it only made sense, and the two grew so very close throughout Sherlock's childhood.

In a way it was such a shame that Mycroft would leave to go to University and Sherlock would become a lonely child, and quickly develop his introversion. He really missed his big brother, and resented the fact that he couldn't follow Mycroft. Perhaps Sherlock resented us a little, if he ever found out we refused to have him move up several years, that would have taken him closer to Mycroft. Of course the matter was never about Sherlock's intellectual abilities, rather his need to live his childhood. In the end, they both skipped a couple of years in high school, no more. But Sherlock and Mycroft were maladjusted teenagers in a sea of ordinary, boring, predictable adolescents. To further enhance their way through the academic world without allowing them the time to fraternise with their peers was hardly going to help them adjust to the real world outside the Holmes estate, their father felt. I hesitantly agreed. I'm not entirely sure we made the best decision, however we always had the best intentions. As their father always puts it, we only ever wanted them to be happy.

It's a parents curse to watch your children struggle with milestone obstacles and have to step back and accept it's their job to learn by themselves what we could so easily facilitate for them.

In my eyes both my boys did rather brilliantly, if I may say so myself. They are now at that age where they are no longer younglings, and it's about time they settle down and find their way in life. Mycroft should stop playing with foreign kingdoms and potencies, and Sherlock – oh, Sherlock – he should listen to that doctor of his a bit more.

It's forever a mother's job to worry.

And I'll always worry about Mycroft. Sherlock, however, has found John Watson.

Now John isn't the picture perfect friend to bring home to meet your parents, although he excels at politeness and has a very disarming smile, slightly self-deprecating, a touch charming and mischievous in one, very captivating, even photogenic. And I don't mean the smile he directs towards Sherlock when they think no one else can see them. They share a world between them, like two old friends who have grown up together, although they haven't at all. I have noticed that smile, I'm Sherlock's mother, after all, I notice these things. Sherlock's deduction gift? Where do you suppose he got it from?

And that, I suppose, is why it's so hard for me to have had such a nasty surprise this morning at our book club. All of Petunia's best china, and Josie's prize dahlias, the white linen someone brought in while Trish and Elliot fought over whose scones were the perfect scones for the afternoon tea. What a terrible timing to go find lady Wilhelmina's butler chocking on his vomit, poisoned to death.

Now Mycroft will insist on escorting me anywhere in those cars with dark tinted windows, and Sherlock will remind me that he's a world class detective, and all the ladies will gossip about my boys... It's hardly fair. Surely I should be able to find out the poisonous hand myself? Can't be all that different from that crime novel we discussed last month, or from Sherlock's exciting pastime, after all.

.

'But Mummy, your age, your temperament! A murder is such an ignominious act, why would you what to deal with that?'

Mycroft is a dear, of course, but like all young people he just assumes his mother is frail and must be kept from emotional shocks, as if I have never lived life.

Oh, the stories I could share! However, we try not to shock Mycroft, he's always been the sensitive type. Much like his aunt, my dearly beloved sister, very much missed. He even has her figure. A bit plump around the middle.

'Myc, darling, you mustn't concern yourself. I am perfectly safe, it wasn't I who got poisoned with strychnine after all.'

Mycroft snaps an angry glare at Sherlock, there is that jealousy flaring up again between the two brothers. Sherlock has hardly done a thing. It's not favouritism. Sherlock has really done nothing but sit on his special place in the sofa and type on his phone, as if nothing could interest him less.

'Myc, darling, I volunteered as a nurse before I met your father, I know how to recognise a strychnine poisoning.'

Sherlock, the cheeky one, rolls his eyes, of course. He believes himself to be the only murder expert in the family. I sigh, it's with such trying patience I deal with my boys.

'Father', Mycroft starts in his usual pompous way, 'I wish you'd tell Mummy not to overexert herself. Sherlock and I are perfectly capable of handling this nasty business.'

'Son', his father smiles as he says this, 'I don't wish to tell your mother what to do, she wouldn't forgive me.'

'Nonsense, dear, it's hardly my fault I'm almost invariably right, that's all.'

'Naturally, dear.'

Is that a wink to the boys? Oh, I wish he wouldn't do that, it's really not nice manners at all. Their father has always been so frivolous, no wonder our boys have such appalling manners. I used to be quite mortified, when Mycroft extoled the virtues of our vintage wines in his friends' houses or Sherlock asked if he could dissect his cousin's dead goldfish.

'I'm just as capable as you two are of solving this murder, you know? Actually, amend that. I could do a better job than either of you. So naturally I want to be included in your investigations.'

Oh, dear. The boys looked at each other and started laughing. I wonder if they are too old to be grounded at their ages.

Mycroft recovers first. 'Mummy, you can't seriously—'

Sherlock interrupts him: 'I'm in, provided John joins us.'

One glance at my son and I realise this isn't about me at all, it's about John. Who is doing overtime at the surgery, most likely. Sherlock is feeling lonely, the poor dear. I don't even think he's brushed his hair today, he's moping about in his second best suit. It's hard to be sure. He got those curls from his French grandmother and that suit from Harrods's.

'Very well, call John, I'll tell him how to get here in the hour.'

Sherlock shakily hands me his phone. Mycroft pales. I hadn't seen these two quite so concerned since they broke my great-aunt's vase.

.

TBC