Thank you so much Moon-fireflies and Supacrazee!

Look, I'm not going to lie. I know this chapter will make you wonder if I'm cracked off my head, but I was having such fun making up my own canon for this particular story (and yes, yes, don't throw torches and pitchforks at me, it really is just headcanon for this story), I just went all-out. I've got a bit (or a lot) of an obsession with this subject matter.

And I just wanted to write about Mummy.

Oh my gosh, please review if you read this. Please, please, please. I'm not above begging. I'm Percy Weasley, an attention whore.

Chapter Four.

Mycroft led his brother through Holmes Manor.

The addition of Sherlock to the Holmes family unit had been a surprise one, to say the least. Not unwelcome of course…Well, not exactly. Just…Unexpected. There had already been two children in appropriately paced succession, and that was enough for the Holmes'. Sherrinford had been born first, to Lord Cian and Lady Una Holmes. Fair haired and with an impish smile, he had proved himself the delight of the mothers in the high social circles his parents frequented. Then Mycroft had been born when Sherrinford had been two years of age. And with the expectation and duty of child-bearing for the line of inheritence taken care of, Una reared them for the accepted time allotted by social convention. Therefore, by the time they were four and six respectively, she returned to work, leaving them under the care of a nanny reminiscent of a stern Victorian governess, but with a hint of mischief, a cook, a tutor who always seemed to doze off, and a chauffer who's pockets were always full of sweets.

It was an idyllic first few years of life, and Mycroft could not have asked for a better childhood. His mother was like a silver screen idol to him, making appearances spontaneously during lessons, or popping in at dinner if they were lucky. The first woman to become the Deputy Director-General of MI5. The Queen herself made appointments with Una Holmes, and Prince Edward was a childhood friend of the Holmes' boys. What more could a boy boast about? His father had been a quiet and thoughtful man, with more of a poet's nature. He was a British Diplomat and was almost always away, and when he was home at the manor, he would be in his library researching or playing his violin.

Lessons came easily to Mycroft. In fact, when he was only a small child he remembered distinctly being told by experts that his parents should expect great things from him. He was a child prodigy. Sherrinford had always maintained the joke that he was Mummy's Favourite Disappointment. The insecurity was due to his lack of prodigy, but that was hardly his fault, and truthfully was never really held against him. In any school classroom he would have been at the top if he had been diagnosed with the dyslexia he had had, earlier on. But by the time it had been explained, he had enjoyed his position as the jester in the family for far too long to maintain any sort of studious ambition. Though, he had harboured an avid interest in the constellations and would have become an astronomer had he lived to adulthood…

Mycroft swallowed as he walked down the hallway, with Sherlock wrapped in a blanket beside him, trudging barefoot on the carpet. Mycroft could tell he was shivering. It was not from the weather. Tears still tumbled down his brother's cheeks, though he did not seem to be aware of them, and he looked deathly pale. John weighed on his mind. Always John. Only John. Always such a selfish man, Sherlock was, but John had entered into his heart, like no other being ever had for him. Mycroft said nothing, but opened the door to his study, and gestured Sherlock to enter. He then asked Percy Weasley to remain outside for a moment. He of course nodded, and Mycroft gave a grateful smile; then followed after Sherlock, closing the door behind them.

No. Sherlock had not been an unwelcome addition.

"Sherrinford…Mycroft, dear…"

Mycroft still remembered the odd appearance of his father at breakfast that morning. He had been five at the time, and his father sat down at the children's table. He had been so big on the little chair, and had looked so silly. With a gentle brush of his father's knuckle against his cheek, Mycroft knew something was incredibly wrong. It was not the fact his father was unshaven or still in his pyjamas, but that tender act of affection that told him their world was about to be torn apart at the seams. He felt his heart almost stop, and he stared at his father, waiting for the axe to fall.

"Mummy has been taken."

Sherrinford had let out a whine, and their father instantly collected him in his arms, "I got a call from the Prime Minister early this morning, boys. I'm so sorry. Mummy's plane landed in Yugoslavia last night. It was thought to have been a secret location, but they were intercepted by rebels…Some of the agents escaped, but others…"

"Is Mummy gone?" Mycroft whimpered.

Cian Holmes leant forward, with Sherrinford crying on his shoulder, and touched Mycroft's face, "Now. I want you to chin up, yes? We are the Empire. We are British. Now what do we say? What would Mummy say?"

Sherrinford snivelled, but he joined in with Mycroft as his own voice wavered, "Rule Britannia!"

Their father nodded satisfied, then placed Sherrinford down, "Exactly. We keep calm, and we carry on. Mummy hasn't been found. That is a good thing. A sublime thing. She may have escaped. Mummy is strong. A huntress. We must wait for news, and we must wait for her. Now, look Sherrinford, see? Mycroft is being very brave. Mummy would be proud. Now, up we get. I'm taking you to your rowing lesson today."

And wait for Mummy they did.

For months they waited. Life continued. School lessons were learned in their little classroom in the west wing of Holmes Manor. Rowing lessons went on, and rowing matches were won. And still they waited. But that was the only true conversation they had with their father, who, after accepting that he had done the dutiful thing in comforting his boys during their time of duress, continued with his travels and his study.

Sherrinford and Mycroft looked after each other.

It was one night, a little over two years later when Mycroft awoke in the nursery with Sherrinford, to a scream. Sherrinford sat up at once, setting his book aside, a finger flying to his lips, but no apprehension was needed. The scream had not been from fright, but from a servant in shock who had dropped a silver tray of dishes, which had crashed to the ground.

Mummy had returned.

Haggardly worn out, and with more lines on her face than Mycroft had remembered, but she had returned. Sherrinford and Mycroft had held hands as their feather light footsteps softly made their way down to the commotion of the household being in uproar. One servant was rushing to call Lord Holmes who was abroad, while others were crying. The Lady had returned from the night.

The brothers slid down on to the floor by the doorway, hidden from the scene, still holding hands, and Sherrinford, though he was now nine and should have been too old for tears, began to cry.

"Mummy's back!" Mycroft tightened his grip on Sherrinford's hand. He couldn't wipe the grin off his face. He felt his face could split apart from it, and he was so happy he could burst. But for some reason he was frozen to the spot, and could not move to run in and throw himself at her. He was too full of nerves. Something held him back.

"…The boys. I want to see my boys. Peter, would you wake them?"

For some reason Sherrinford pried his hand from Mycroft's and was up at once, running to hide. Mycroft stood, but did not follow, and stared after his brother in shock. "Sher! Sherrinford!"

The door of the room suddenly opened, the light spilling in and the happy scene exposing Mycroft. There was laughter, and he was pulled in by joyful servants to the woman he had not seen in what seemed like many lifetimes, to a small boy. She stared down at him, her face full of an expression he did not quite understand, but when he was older realised it had been awe at the sight of her boy having grown so much. She reached out to touch his cheek; then stopped, her hand faltering, inches from his face. She then touched his shoulder instead, squeezing it, and he instantly straightened.

She nodded and patted his back approvingly, "Like a little man. Quite right. And what do little men say?"

Mycroft answered straightaway, "Rule Brittania!"

Mother's return spurned the nation into a frenzy. The survivors of the top secret mission became known in the press as the Dolls Eyes, named after the poisonous berries. They had against all odds survived, after being taken prisoner. After escaping they had carried on with their mission, and had destroyed the terror cell network they had originally gone in to fight. The point of the trip had been to bring back British nationals in crisis, but Una, seizing initiative had chosen to infiltrate the system as a whole. She had moved through the world in clandestine secrecy from Yugoslavia, to Moscow, to even the Horn of Africa, and lastly had been assisted in Bahrain, by the son of a sheikh. He had then helped the surviving members of the Dolls Eyes to return home to London.

Lady Holmes had been invited to give account on her adventure to lectures and conferences around the United Kingdom, and had been in every paper and on every news channel. She had turned down a book deal, finding such things frivolous, but she became as renowned as Nancy Wake, the famous spy from the Second World War, better known as the White Mouse. Even now, decades later, in Her Majesty's Secret Service, mention of being the son of a Dolls Eye opened doors. It had for the Wonder Boy, Mycroft Holmes, who at an early age had enjoyed leading MI5 for a short stint. Sherlock however…Being Sherlock, had snubbed all association.

The small hint of a stomach at his mother's return was not the world's best kept secret, but as far as Mycroft could remember, the only mention of it would have been behind closed doors, as there was no memory of confrontation. His mother had been through hell, had been lionhearted and had returned to them, the nation's darling and heroine. And that was all that had mattered. That she was back. It was every Christmas come together, all in one, for Mycroft.

A child of Winter, the small boy with a shock of ebon curls, had been born during the heart of a snow storm, six months later. Sherrinford and Mycroft had been ushered in the room while their mother slept, and as they looked into the crib at the bundle, the little face turned, and eyes already bright looked up at Mycroft.

"Meet your new little brother, boys," the nurse whispered, "Your mother said he is to be called Sherlock."

The boys were silent, and Mycroft said not a word, but he loved the infant straightaway, with a ferocity he had only thought could ever be reserved for his mother and Sherrinford. But it was almost primal, far more wild than he had ever felt for anybody else. It was both protective and possessive. The little boy was his.

Sherlock's existence had meant that Mummy had lived.