Author's Note: I wanted to put these in my oneshot collection, but it turned out longer than I expected... That's good, right? anyway, reviews = awesome Mycroft gifs in your inbox. Thanks!

Mycroft knew exactly what was happening. He reminded himself of patterns and figures, but this was not a sufficient distraction from the screaming.

He remembered the screaming, foremost, then the words.

"Mummy?" he felt ridiculous and childish, but did not alter the name, "Mummy?"

She wouldn't hear him. He did not allow the hovering nurse to pat his shoulder; he scooted away and stared at the etched window. His mother was on the other side, with… his brother.

A new phrase, which monopolized his thoughts:

My brother. My baby brother.

The boy stopped consulting his watch and the window. He had no notion of time, until he stood again before his mother.

"Sherlock," her breath was soft and dry.

Mycroft nodded, and tried to restrain any sort of expression. He was proud, of course, but also concerned and insistent his mother get some rest.

"I'll, er," he began, reaching forward, "I'll hold him."

His mother offered no protest. Mycroft scooped up Sherlock, and tucked the blue blanket back, so he could see the baby's face.

They stared at each other. Mycroft felt somehow indebted to the child, and understood every gentle flicker of his eyes, and confused crumple of his frail fingers. He reached to touch his hands, and memorize his fingerprints. Sentiment.

For the rest of the day, he sat beside his mother's bed, and held his brother. He provided a silent tour of the room, and watched as Sherlock's eyes tried to focus on the flickering machinery. They were grey when faced with metal, but blue against the blanket, and green when near the sterile sheets. Mycroft was fascinated; he always looked at his brother, even when he cried or slept.

Mycroft, however, did not sleep at the hospital. He remained in the room, watching Sherlock fuss in the required crib, as his mother slumped back on her thin mattress. He stayed there, on the plastic-coated chair, and listened to the stories in the machines, lights, and floor. Nurses would stop in frequently, and he would wave them away. One set down a cup of tea and a blanket, and asked if anything else was needed. Mycroft sipped the tea and shook his head. The door creaked shut.

In the morning, when they were scheduled to depart, the storm began. Thunder leaned gently against the hospital walls, and the raindrops awakened the flowers outside. Mycroft enjoyed this sort of weather, and looked fondly at his umbrella, folded beneath the chair.

His mother rustled and awoke, checking instinctively for her boys. Sherlock remained asleep, arms stretched out at his sides.

"Whenever you're ready," said the nurse in the doorway. Mycroft jumped in his seat.

Mummy nodded, and the nurse helped her from the bed and into a waiting wheelchair. Mycroft thought this was ridiculous.

Completely pointless.

The nurse placed Sherlock carefully in his mother's arms. Both women smiled.

Mycroft picked up his umbrella, and followed them down the corridor to an exit. When they reached the street, Mycroft opened his umbrella. He helped his mother stand, and watched as the nurse turned the wheelchair around, and retreated to the dry, warm hospital.

"I'll hold him," said Mycroft, "I want to."

Never was he so quick in abandoning his umbrella; he folded it and tied it shut, and threw it down in exchange for his baby brother. His mother then took up the umbrella, reopened it, and sheltered them while they considered passing cabs.

For the rest of the day, Mycroft held his brother. He traced his soft fingernails, studied his emerging curls of ginger hair, and found inspiration in his eyes. Especially when enhanced by tears.

If he cried, Mycroft would pat him then pass him, with a sigh, to Mummy. She fed him and cuddled him, but Mycroft held him. His patience was profound.

As the storm continued, and the sky darkened, he carried his brother upstairs to theirbedroom. He did not want to let go, so he didn't. He stayed awake, watched, and heldhim perfectly still.