Just a little something I wrote about Mycroft and Sherlock. Hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer; I own nothing.

Mycroft sat beside his mother with his hands over his ears as newborn Sherlock wailed in her arms, shriek audible all the way across the house.

"Why won't he stop, Mother?" he shouted over his baby brothers screaming.

Mother sighed and bounced him in her arms.

"Your brother is not feeling well, but because he is so small and does not know how to talk, he tries to communicate by crying."

Mycroft raised a little eyebrow.
"Like an alarm?"

Mother nodded and sighed, exhausted.

"Yes, Mycroft. Like a very loud alarm."

Mycroft scrunched his little eyebrows together as his brother screamed his lungs off.

"What's wrong with him?"

Mother frowned.
"Your baby brother seems to be running a fever. I think he has an ear infection. Your father is supposed to pick us up to go to the emergency room any minute now. Go get your shoes on."

Mycroft nodded and ran to his room as fast as he could, shutting his door behind him. It was no use. He could still hear little Sherlock's crying like it was right beside him.

He looked in his closet and found his shoes and coat. He slid them on and ran to the door to meet his Father.

"Mycroft! Where is your Mother?" he shouted over the crying.

Mycroft pointed up the stairs and went to the kitchen.
He could hear Mummy and Father talking loudly upstairs, Sherlock wailing the whole time.

They were fighting again. They tried to hide it, but he knew. He couldn't not know. The evidence was simple; Father would be cranky and stressed and something was always wrong with Mummy's smile; it seemed fake.

Thing have been different since Sherlock was born last month. Mummy was alway busy with him, trying to keep him quiet. Father was stressed and crabby everyday he got home from work.

But now something was wrong with his baby brother that had little Mycroft worried. He woke up at 3:00 this morning with a fever, scratching at his ears.

Mummy came to the kitchen, Sherlock in her arms, tears in her eyes.

"Let's go, Mycroft."

Mycroft climbed in the car and sat next to Mummy.

"Is he going to be alright?" Mycroft whispered into Mummy's ear.

Mummy nodded and rocked Sherlock back and forth, stroking the screaming child's dark curls.
"I'm sure he'll be fine, Mycroft."

Mycroft sat in the emergency room waiting area, clicking his shoes together as his feet dangled from the chair.

Father was fussing at a nurse about money, waving his hands in the air, while Mother was somewhere in the back rooms talking to the doctor about his baby brother.

Father walked back over to Mycroft, hands clenched into fists.

"Is Sherlock going to be okay?" Mycroft asked anxiously.

His father put his head in his hands.

"Mycroft...Don't...Do not concern yourself in anything that is not directly related to you. Caring about everything fixes nothing." he spat, muttering something about responsibility.

Mycroft sighed and sat in the chair with his hands neatly folded on his lap.
He remembered that the last time he was in this room; he was waiting for Sherlock to be born. He was so excited. He had been waiting for a long 9 moths. He remembered the day Mummy told him he was going to be a big brother;

"Mycroft! Mycroft, come here!"

He happily ran into her arms and sat on her lap. He had just turned six years old at the time.

"What mumma?"

She smiled, her eyes twinkling.
"I've got a surprise for you."

"A toy?" he asked excitedly.

Mummy laughed.
"No."

"A game?"

"No. Guess again."

Mycroft thought it over. Last time something fun happened they had moved into a new house.

"Are we moving again?"

Mummy smiled softly.
"No, Mycroft. I'm going to have a new baby."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
"Like a baby doll?" he was not fond of such girlish toys. He did not understand why that would be a surprise anyway.

Mummy laughed and kissed his forehead.
"No silly. You're going to be a big brother!"

Mycroft tilted his head.
"Really?"

Mother nodded.
"You are going to have a baby brother or sister to play with."

Mycroft looked at Mummy with an eyebrow raised, his young mind trying to make a deduction.
"Where is it?"

Mummy laughed and grabbed his hand.

"Let me show you."

She placed his hand on her slightly bloated stomach.

The little lump moved under his tiny fingertips and he pulled away quickly.

"That was the baby?" he asked, alarmed.

Mummy seemed shocked too. She put her own hand to her abdomen.

"Yes...yes it was..."

And then suddenly she was beaming with joy, grinning ear to ear as she looked down at her stomach.

"...It was!"

Tears were spilling from her eyes now. Mycroft got her a tissue and wiped her eyes for her.

"Don't cry, Mummy..." he mumbled, almost tearing up himself.

Mummy sniffed.
"I'm not sad, Mycroft."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
"Then why are you crying?"

Mummy held Mycroft close, one hand still over her abdomen.

"Well, Mycroft... sometimes... adults cry...because...they don't know what to say."

Mycroft pushed his eyebrows together.
"I don't understand."

Mummy laughed and wiped her nose.
"You will one day, Mycroft. One day."

Mother held tiny Sherlock in her hands, the poor child profusely scratching at his ears in his sleep.

"Mummy...?"

Mummy looked up, half asleep herself.

"Yes, Mycroft?"

Mycroft peeked up at Father in the front seat to make sure he wasn't watching and then leaned over and whispered into his Mothers ear.

"Something is still wrong with Sherlock, isn't it?"

Mummy sighed.
"Yes, Mycroft. He still has a double ear infection. But the doctors gave us medicine. He will feel better soon."

Mycroft watched the rain fall down his car door window.

"Am I not your responsibility anymore?"

Mummy raised an eyebrow, taken aback back his question.

"What ever do you mean, Mycroft?"

Mycroft swallowed.
"Father is always busy and you are always taking care of Sherlock. Father says I need to take care of myself. Says I need to learn responsibility."

Mummy shook her head.
"Mycroft...You are my baby too. You will always be my responsibility. I will always love you. But Sherlock is a tiny baby. He needs me to take care of him until he grows up and is a big kid like you. Tell you what...You want to learn responsibility?"

Mycroft nodded.

"Can you do me a big-boy favor?" Mummy smiled.

Mycroft nodded fervently.
"Yes. Anything."

Mummy leaned over and laid little Sherlock in his arms.

"Will you watch over Sherlock? Protect him like a good big brother?"

Mycroft looked down at the sleeping blue eyed, dark haired child in his arms.

"Yes. I will."

"Even when you're grow up and not my little baby anymore?"

"Yes, Mummy. I will."

36 years later

Mycroft stared blankly at his baby brothers name written in bold letters. He had always tried to look past their differences, but Sherlock never listened. He had always looked after him like he had promised mother, but he observed too much. He never intervened. He sat and watched as his baby brother throw himself off of the edge of sanity. And now, as a result of his actions, he was staring at his baby brothers gravestone. Sherlock was crazy, yes, but this crazy? Crazy enough to leave everything behind? Crazy enough to do absolutely anything to get attention? Crazy enough to give up afterwards? Even Sherlock had standards. But even now the situation seemed to be the same as when they were children; Sherlock was hurt, Mother was devastated, Father didn't care and here Mycroft was, sitting in the sidelines, unable to do anything. He clenched his fists and his jaw tightened. A lump rose in his throat as he tried once again to speak. No words came out. But he could hear his mothers voice in his ears;

'Well Mycroft... sometimes... adults cry...because they don't know what to say. You will understand one day.'

He understood now. He wished he never needed to.

But sometimes they cry because it is everything they ever wanted to say.

Mycroft cleared his throat and turned to enter his limo. Anthea sat in the seat beside him, phone to her face.

"Are you alright, sir?"

Mycroft laughed. He didn't know why. He was not happy at all. Angry, yes. Hurt, yes. Upset, yes. It was his baby brother after all. But this was his body's only reaction.

"Sir?"

He peeked over at Anthea, who had actually put her phone away.

He swallowed and cleared his throat for the millionth time today, looking straight ahead.

"Double the surveillance for 221B Baker street for me."

Anthea raised an eyebrow.
"Sir?"

Mycroft smiled.
"I wont let my brothers best friend suffer on his own. I owe Sherlock that much, no matter what he's done."

Anthea pulled out her phone and made it so.
"Done. Anything else, sir?"

Mycroft thought it over.

Yes. Bring Sherlock Holmes back from the dead.

"No. That will be it, thank you."