"Have you seen your brother, Mycroft?" Mummy asked, walking down the garden path to where the elder boy was sitting reading under a tree.
The sixteen-year-old rolled his eyes, only briefly looking up from his book.
"Am I my brother's keeper, Mummy?" he retorted rudely, "Sherlock has not spoken to me for several days. I am bored of trying to be nice to him now."
Mummy sighed and shook her head. How did her lovely boys become so distant from one another? Mycroft used to dote on his little brother, and Sherlock looked up to him with admiration and awe. As she turned to head back towards the house, she began to blame herself for leaving such a long period of time between having the boys. While it did not seem to matter in the early years, seven years was too much of an age gap as the boys grew older.
She slowly walked back to the house, giving Mycroft a quick backwards glance before entering the kitchen through the side door.
She didn't notice Sherlock scuttling away from the drawing room window, where he had been watching his brother in the garden.
