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Since adolescence, Mycroft Holmes has dutifully purchased two Mothering Sunday gifts every year. This after a disastrous first attempt by his younger brother to provide his own gift for Mummy after some prodding from Mycroft. Even at a very young age, Sherlock had proven to be deeply pragmatic, which had unfortunately manifested itself in a very un-sentimental present – a piece of card with unintelligible drawings on one side that looked suspiciously like they had been cut from a larger sheet featuring plans for a pirate ship and "Thank you for giving birth" scrawled with the painstaking writing of a youngish child on the other side. As an afterthought, "Hope it wasn't too much trouble" had been added in the same careful but wobbly script, a compromise made after Mycroft suggested that he make a new card and Sherlock insisted that this one was entirely adequate.
Mrs. Holmes loved both her sons dearly, but she was a woman of delicate sensitivities and it was apparent, at least to her elder son, that she found the idea of herself giving birth being referenced on a card to be rather startling. So, with the realization that his brother was unlikely to change and the feeling that he needed to protect Mummy from such shocks, particularly on her special day, Mycroft had taken over Mother’s Day duties on his brother's behalf. It was a job he took seriously. He knew very well that Sherlock, for all his faults and what was sometimes a fairly remarkable lack of social graces, loved their mother, and it was important to him that Mummy knew it also. Perhaps Sherlock didn't know how to show his love with scented hand cream or a lovely pair of gloves or potted violets (Mummy’s favourite), but Mycroft did. Every year he knocked on Sherlock's door – his bedroom when they were children, his flat as they grew older – and surreptitiously presented him with a gift, already wrapped in flowery paper, to give to Mummy.
The years when Sherlock came with him to present their mother with gifts were the best ones. Whether he was fully engaged, telling her about the geography of pollen samples and even smiling a little here and there, or sulky and distracted as he sometimes could be, it seemed to make Mummy happy just to have him near. Sherlock's tendency to isolate himself had always been a source of particular worry for her, and she seemed to find even the simple sight of him reassuring. Her pleasure at seeing him only increased after both brothers had moved out of the house; it was painfully evident from the joy in his mother's eyes when she saw her younger son that Sherlock did not visit often. This, too, Mycroft noted and attempted to make up for with frequent visits of his own.
The years when Sherlock didn't come, well, at least there was something for Mycroft to give her, a tangible something to remind her that Sherlock surely thought of her even if she hadn’t been seeing much of him. They were both adults by then, and Mummy was getting older and a little confused – it wasn't difficult to keep things from her. A green silk scarf and a note of apology (addressed from but not written by Sherlock) successfully distracted her from the fact that Sherlock was too caught up in his detective work to come for the day. A box of chocolates from Belgium and a large bunch of roses kept her in the dark for two consecutive years about her younger son’s ugly cocaine habit, which had left him indisposed and unable to visit. At times like this, the gifts were a blessing. Sherlock remained a sweet, quiet boy in the eyes of his mother, Mummy was protected from the darker realities of her son's life, and Mycroft was able to appreciate a great satisfaction with his ability to keep the family running smoothly.
For him it had thus always been an exercise in knowing two people, this holiday. Knowing what Mummy would like but also what she might reasonably believe that Sherlock had purchased. Knowing what Sherlock might say to his mother were he to believe that saying these things in addition to simply knowing them for yourself was important. When it came to it, buying gifts to be labeled "To Mummy, Love Sherlock" made him feel closer to them both. Perhaps it is no wonder, then, that now that Mummy has been gone a good few years, his thoughts at this time of year tend toward Sherlock as much as to his mother. Is he eating enough? Is he paying his rent on time? Is he still studying tobacco ash in his spare time or has he moved on to a new obsession? Is he happy?
Of course, Mycroft has some idea about at least some of these things – he does keep an eye out, after all. He knows that the world can be difficult for someone like his brother to navigate. In fact, forget the world, sometimes Sherlock seems to have trouble even in his own bloody flat. Mycroft has seen the disturbing abundance of cadaveric remains and lack of proper food in his refrigerator. He knows that for all the days when his brother runs about with almost manic energy, chasing criminals and solving mysteries, there are other days when he plucks listlessly at his violin and scarcely moves at all. He is sure that there must be times when his brother feels lost, lonely, afraid. But he isn't sure how to involve himself. It is remarkably difficult to be available to his high-functioning but closed-off brother, especially as it is clear that Sherlock doesn't actually want his help.
There are times, especially at this time of year, when he wonders if he is doing enough. If Mummy would think he was doing enough. He cares deeply about his brother, but it’s just as he tried for so many years to teach Sherlock – you can’t just know for yourself how you feel about somebody, you also have to show it. Provided you can find an opportunity. There are fewer of those now that he cannot use obligations to their mother as a reason. He misses the simplicity of doing small tasks like this on his brother’s behalf. It's pathetic, he knows, but there are two pots of violets on the dining table at his home right now. To Mummy, Love Mycroft. To Mummy, Love Sherlock. It's a way for him to feel connected to them both – the mother he has lost and the brother who shuts him out.
It is probably the same silly sentiment that leads him to take a more active approach in monitoring his brother as March slips into April. He spends a full evening sitting in the back of a parked car just down the street from 221b Baker Street. Two days later, feeling especially bold, he takes his lunch at the sandwich shop, although he waits until his brother is out to do this. On Sunday, Mother's Day, he promises himself that enough is enough. This is the last day before he resumes his normal life, in his office and at his home, and relies only on his usual sources to remain up-to-date on his brother's comings and goings. At his request, the car pulls up again to the same spot as before, across the street and just a little down from 221b. Sherlock is at the window playing his violin, but he is not looking down into the street. In fact, his eyes are lifted up toward the dark sky. Even so, Mycroft does not watch for long before he orders the driver onward. He doesn't want to be seen.
When he arrives home, Mycroft is surprised to find a package in the letter box, carefully wrapped in patterned paper. He casts a quick glance up and down the street, but unsurprisingly there is no one there. He is almost too curious to be cautious, but naturally it wouldn't do not to consider the possibility of something insidious, even if he suspects that bombs and the like are not generally presented in gift-wrap. Luckily, as he considers what he ought to do next, he notices the label and recognizes the handwriting. Although he formerly would have calculated the chances of receiving a gift from his brother as more or less equal to the chances of receiving something dangerous, the chances of Sherlock aiding a terrorist cell by addressing the package is acceptably unlikely. Mycroft picks up the package and checks the label as he opens his front door.
It reads, "M. Of course I know you've been coming round. Stop it, it's distracting. –S." The tag looks as though it has been cut from a larger piece of paper. The back features a series of line drawings that look as though they might be part of a diagram showing the layout of some unnamed park. On the front, as a clear afterthought, evidenced by the fact that it is written in an entirely different colour of ink, the writer has added “(other)” after the “M.” Mycroft smiles wryly and rolls his eyes. But only in case anyone is watching. His smile turns genuine for just a moment as he steps inside and closes the door behind him. He removes his shoes and moves to the dining room where he sits at the table, the package set in front of him.
For a long moment, he looks without analyzing. Then he picks up the tag, turning it over a few times in his hand, thinking about the handwriting itself and the person who wrote it. His hand shakes for only the briefest moment as he moves to tear off the paper. The wrapping job is immaculate, and was almost certainly completed by someone in a shop. The paper itself, however, patterned in small violets, is personal (if a little tongue-in-cheek considering the comparison Sherlock is obviously making) and must have been chosen specifically. An exercise in caring and not caring.
The present is a tie clip that Sherlock has clearly received from someone else and is re-gifting and a tie (green silk) that, somehow, Mycroft is certain that he picked out himself specifically for this purpose. It's relatively ordinary, but of course the giver makes the whole thing very un-ordinary. Mycroft feels the fabric between his fingers and smiles once more before standing, clearing up the paper, and depositing it in the bin. His tie drawer is meticulously organized, and the tie remains there for a month or two, being a bit bright for Mycroft to work into his day-to-day wear immediately. Once he gets used to the idea of it, however, he manages to fit it into the rotation. The label he also keeps, in a drawer in his bedside table. He doesn't look at it often but he thinks about it sometimes. When he comes across it every now and again, he rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but this does little to mask the fondness with which he regards the untidiness of the quick scrawl and considers the sweetness inherent in the prickly message.