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Mycroft only cared for one thing in his life. Sherlock Holmes. When he said he cared, he worried, he watched, he schemed to keep his baby brother alive. What did he get in return? Sneers and glares. But Mycroft knew that was Sherlock’s way of saying he cared, that he was grateful when Mycroft stepped in to save his hide.
It was a jolt when he found he could care for someone else. When he found out that Molly Hooper was carrying the newest Holmes, he was turned upside down. He would never let anyone touch a hair on that child’s head. He would do whatever it took to keep them safe. All three of them, Sherlock, Molly and the unborn child.
When the baby was born, Mycroft’s heart felt like it would explode. It would explode with joy. He saw his baby brother hold his little girl, it took everything he had not to tear up. After all that grooming, that training, Sherlock did exactly the opposite. He cared. He created a family around him. He did all the things that Mycroft warned him not to do.
The instant he held that baby girl in his arms, Mycroft realized that he was wrong. He was wrong about everything he ever said about caring and sentiment. Sherlock made sure to criticize how Mycroft held his baby girl, and normally Mycroft’s hackles raised at Sherlock’s baiting. But this time, all he could hear were the coos of the baby girl.
“Very good” Mycroft said to Molly after he handed the baby girl back to her father. Molly raised her eyebrows at him.
“She got you too eh?” she asked him while watching Sherlock fussed over his daughter. Mycroft coughed slightly, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell him” Molly told him winking at him.