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Chapter Text

1. Old Christmas Is Past

The air was cold when Mycroft woke up. It chilled his hair and his nose, which poked out from beneath the covers, but everything underneath the covers was lovely and warm. There was a lump at his back that gurgled and squashed a little when he rolled over. It was the hot water bottle that Mrs. Barnet had tucked in with Mycroft when she had put him to bed the night before. At seven years old, Mycroft considered himself too old to have to be put to bed by a nanny or a babysitter, even if Mummy and Daddy had been out at a dinner party. And, to be fair, the new baby was almost here, and Mycroft supposed that Mrs. Barnet needed to practise.

The light that peeked through the sheer white curtains was brighter than Mycroft expected. Perhaps it had snowed in the night. Mycroft took a deep breath and wriggled out of the warm cocoon of his covers. He quickly stuffed his feet into his new bunny slippers and trotted over to the window to look out.

It had not snowed, but a thin rind of frost rimed the trees, the pavement, the bins, and the cars in the drive. Mycroft checked to make sure that neither Mummy nor Mrs. Barnet had tiptoed into his room when he wasn’t looking, and then huffed out a breath that spread in a fog over the windowpane. With his finger, he wrote in the mist 1976. That was the new year. It was just five days old, and Mycroft wasn’t sure what he thought of it yet.

He had enjoyed being allowed to sit up to midnight on New Year’s Eve, even if he had fallen asleep on the sofa and Mummy had had to shake him awake so that he could hear Big Ben chime with the rest of his family and their party guests. They had made a great deal of noise, shouting and whistling, and lots of people had kissed him, and everyone had sung “Auld Lang Syne,” which Mycroft had learned in school. The adults had passed glasses of champagne, and someone had given Mycroft a glass of grape juice mixed with fizzy water, which tickled his nose. After he had drunk the juice, Mummy had been the one to take him upstairs to bed. Mycroft had had to switch the night-light on himself, because Mummy had grown too big to bend down and reach it.

Thinking of the grape juice at the party, Mycroft noticed that he had to pee. He took his dressing gown from the hook on the door, wrapped it around himself, and went out to the lavatory. When he was finished, he opened the door, and noticed that something smelled good. He followed the delicious smell down the stairs to find Daddy in the kitchen frying something in a pan. The sight was unusual, and Mycroft blinked in surprise.

“What are you doing?” he asked, completely forgetting that it was polite to say “Good morning, Daddy,” first.

Daddy didn’t seem to notice Mycroft’s rudeness. He smiled and scraped at something in the pan. “Mummy isn’t feeling right this morning, and Mrs. Barnet is delayed because of the ice on the roads, so I’m making breakfast today.”

That was something Mycroft had never seen before. He hadn’t known that Daddy could cook at all. “Boiled egg with soldiers?” he asked.

Daddy nodded. “What about bacon, too? Is that something you like for breakfast?”

Mycroft paused, unsure how to answer. It was true that he liked bacon very much, but Mrs. Barnet almost never made it for his breakfast, claiming that it was too rich for little boys. But then, Daddy hadn’t asked Mycroft about what Mrs. Barnet usually made. “Yes,” he said. “I like bacon for breakfast.”

“Good.” Daddy scooped two rashers of bacon out of the pan and set them on a plate that held a steaming egg nestled in its little Peter Rabbit egg cup surrounded by buttery soldiers. “Go sit at the table,” Daddy said. “Your breakfast is almost ready.”

Mycroft hopped up onto his chair and remembered to unfold his napkin and spread it neatly over his knees. “Napkin on the lapkin,” Mummy always said. Daddy sliced the top off of the egg, brought the plate to the table, and set it before him. Mycroft attacked the bacon first, just in case Mrs. Barnet arrived and started to scold him.

Daddy watched him eat for a few minutes in silence. “Oh, thought you should know,” he blurted suddenly. “Mummy will probably have the new baby sometime tonight.”

Mycroft froze, a toast soldier in his hand, dripping egg yolk over his plate. “Tonight?”

“Yes. She’ll ring me at the office when she’s ready, and I’ll come to take her to hospital.”

“Oh.” Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “Does it have to be tonight? I wanted to go to the panto.”

“It’s not a choice,” Daddy said. “Babies come when they come. There’ll be pantos again next year.”

Next year was so far away that Mycroft couldn’t even begin to imagine it. He slumped in his seat and scowled. Daddy laughed.

“Buck up,” he said. “Can’t do anything about it, might as well enjoy it.” He glanced at the clock. “Listen, I’ve got to be off. The job won’t wait for Mrs. Barnet. Be a good little man, put your dishes in the sink, take care of Mummy, and let Mrs. Barnet in when she arrives, will you, Mycroft?”

Mycroft shoved a soldier into his mouth to avoid having to answer. Daddy got up, ruffled his hair, and left. The house was suddenly very quiet, the first time it had been so since Christmas Eve. Mycroft finished the last of his toast and egg and carefully carried the dishes to the kitchen. He was tall enough to reach the worktop, but his arms weren’t quite long enough to put the china into the sink, so he left the dishes next to the sink instead, trusting that Daddy would understand. At a loss for something to do, he wandered out into the sitting room.

They had taken the Christmas tree down a few days earlier. Daddy had loosened it from its moorings, and Mycroft had wrapped all the ornaments in tissue paper for Mummy to pack neatly away in boxes. The furniture had been moved back into place, but some stray scraps of wrapping paper still remained, along with the pile of Mycroft’s new toys. His prize gift that year was a View-Master and several reels to go with it. Mycroft remembered that there were quite a few that he had not looked at yet, and he hurried over to the toy pile.

He found a reel of Doctor Who images and settled down on the sofa. Soon, he was happily clicking his way through pictures of monsters and space adventures. The zing of the doorbell startled him back to reality. For a moment, a chill washed through him, and he wondered if there might be a burglar at the door. Daddy had said to take care of Mummy, and Mycroft assumed that that meant not letting burglars into the house. He set the View-Master down on the sofa, slid to the ground, and picked up the poker from the fireplace. Thus armed, he tiptoed towards the door.

The doorbell rang again. Mycroft set the poker next to the door and waited.

“Hello?” came a voice through the door. “Is anyone home? Mrs. Holmes?”

Mycroft blew out a breath and relaxed. He knew that voice. He turned the handle and opened the door to admit the plump, bundled-up figure of Mrs. Barnet.

“Oh, hello, Mycroft,” Mrs. Barnet said. “Sorry I’m late. The roads were awfully icy today.” She took off her coat and hat, and hung them neatly on one of the pegs near the door, and then looked around the entryway. “Where are your parents, then?” she asked. “Are you all alone? What’s this poker doing here?” She picked it up and carried it back to the sitting room.

Mycroft followed her. “Daddy had to leave for work, and Mummy isn’t feeling well. I thought you might be a burglar, and Daddy said to take care of Mummy.”

Mrs. Barnet laughed. “Did he now? Aren’t you a good boy. Well, I’m not a burglar, so you can stand down and I’ll get to work. How’s your mum?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I don’t know. Daddy said she wasn’t feeling well, and he said she was going to have the baby tonight.”

Mrs. Barnet nodded. “I see. Well then, I’ll go up and pop my head in. You’ve got to be extra good today for your mum. Have you had breakfast?”

“Yes.” Mycroft elected not to tell Mrs. Barnet what he had eaten. “I left my dishes next to the sink. I couldn’t reach to put them in.”

“That’s a good boy. I’ll just pop up to see your mum, and then I’ll wash those for you.” Mrs. Barnet shuffled upstairs, and Mycroft returned to his View-Master. He had clicked through all three of his new Doctor Who reels by the time Mrs. Barnet returned.

“Everything’s going just as expected,” she told him, “so you don’t need to worry about your mum. She’ll be down in a bit. I’ll just do up those dishes and then we’ll get you washed and out of those pyjamas. Baby or not, you’ve got to get dressed.”

By the time that Mycroft was washed and dressed in comfortable play clothes, Mummy had come downstairs. She was drinking tea and eating plain cream crackers, and there was a magazine open on the table in front of her. She looked up when Mycroft arrived. “Good morning, darling,” she said. “Come give your Mummy a kiss.”

Mycroft did as requested, and then stepped back to regard Mummy’s swollen figure. “Are you really going to have the baby today?”

Mummy nodded. “Sometime tonight. Your little brother or sister. Won’t that be nice?”

“I suppose.” Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “How’s the baby going to get out? Are you going to have to have an operation?”

“I hope not,” Mummy said with a laugh. “The rest is for me to know and for you to find out.” She turned to Mrs. Barnet. “Can you take him for the day? I’ve got so much to do here. Make sure he has lunch and goes to the Common.”

Mrs. Barnet nodded. “Very good. You’ll let me know if you need help, of course.”

Mummy nodded and turned back to her magazine.

Mycroft spent the rest of the morning playing with his new Christmas toys. Mrs. Barnet made him a Spam sandwich for lunch and then fetched his coat for their walk on the Common. With a sigh, Mycroft tore his eyes away from the View-Master and did up the toggles on his coat.

“Come along,” Mrs. Barnet said. She took Mycroft’s hand and they left the house. As they walked down the road, Mycroft decided to take advantage of being where Mummy couldn’t hear him.

“Are you going to come back and be nanny again?” he asked.

Mrs. Barnet nodded. “I am. With a new little one around, your mum’ll need help.”

“Will you come back and live in your old room again?”

“No,” Mrs. Barnet laughed. “Times have changed, I guess. Your mum and dad only want me days this time around. I’ll come in the mornings, and I’ll go home after tea.”

“Oh.” Mycroft tried to imagine what life would be like for the new baby without Mrs. Barnet’s comforting presence at night. “What if the baby gets frightened at night?” he asked. He didn’t want to think about a baby crying, uncomforted, all night long.

Mrs. Barnet shrugged. “I suppose your mum will take care of it. No reason why she shouldn’t. That baby will take an awful lot of her time, though. You may have to put up with me when you want her.”

“I don’t care,” Mycroft said. “I’m going to prep school next year.”

“You’ll be all grown up before you know it,” Mrs. Barnet said absently. “Now, run along and play. Get some good fresh air.”

She gave Mycroft a little shove, and he trotted obediently out onto the Common. He spied a few boys out kicking a ball, and went to join them. One of them turned out to be Harry Nethersole, one of Mycroft’s friends from school. He waved to Mycroft, and Mycroft hurried over to him.

“Hello, Mycroft,” Harry said. “Are you here to play?”

Mycroft nodded.

“This is Charles and this is Andrew,” Harry said, indicating the other two boys. Charles smiled a little, and Andrew kicked the ball in Mycroft’s general direction. Mycroft chased after it, and the four boys settled down for a good romp.

Later, while they were catching their breath, Harry showed off his new talking Dalek toy that said “EX-TER-MI-NATE!” when he pressed the button on its head. All of the boys were impressed by this toy, and they all took it in turns to push the button and listen to the toy threaten destruction.

“I got some Airfix models,” Andrew said.

“And I got both Cluedo and Monopoly,” Charles added. “What did you get, Mycroft?”

Mycroft shrugged. “A View-Master. It’s got Doctor Who.”

“Can we come over and look at it?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said. “We’re going to have a new baby tonight.”

“Oh, bad luck,” Harry said.

Harry had two little sisters, Mycroft remembered. One of them was four, and the other was two. “What’s it like, having a baby around?” Mycroft asked him.

Harry shrugged. “They cry a lot, and they wee in their nappies. And Mummy pays more attention to them than to me.”

“My Mummy said I could play with the baby,” Mycroft offered.

“Well, you can’t,” Harry said. “Babies are too little to play with, and they aren’t any fun anyway. They can’t do anything except cry and wee.”

The prospect of a new baby was looking less attractive now. “But maybe when they’re bigger?” Mycroft asked, in a last desperate attempt to salvage his future.

“I guess if you get a brother,” Harry said. “Sophie and Lucinda don’t like to do anything fun. They just play with their dolls. There’s all these Sindy dolls and horses all over the place now.”

Mycroft shut his eyes and wished for a baby brother with all his might. Then he opened his eyes and smiled. “Let’s play with the ball again,” he said. “Then I’ll ask Mrs. Barnet if you can come to my house for tea and I’ll show you my View-Master.”

Chapter Text

2. Twelfth Night Is The Last

Mummy had not been especially enthusiastic about hosting Harry and Charles and Andrew to tea, but she had put on a brave face and retreated to her bedroom while Mrs. Barnet fed them sandwiches and supervised the group inspection of the View-Master. All the boys agreed that it was a super present, and Andrew came up with the idea of making Harry’s talking Dalek say “EX-TER-MI-NATE!” just as someone clicked through to an image of a Dalek. All too soon, Mrs. Barnet rang the parents of the other boys, who came over to collect them. Mycroft watched his friends vanish with a sigh.

But there wasn’t much time to mope. Almost as soon as the last boy had left, Mummy came downstairs, wobbling and holding on to the banister, her face grey. “I think . . . I’d better ring my husband,” she gasped, and Mrs. Barnet guided her to a chair and fetched the telephone.

“Are you all right, Mummy?” Mycroft asked.

“I’m – ooh! – I’m fine, darling,” she said. “It’s just that your little brother or sister has decided to start making an appearance. Can you be a big boy and run and fetch Mummy’s suitcase from the bedroom, there’s a dear.”

Mycroft hurried up the stairs and into Mummy and Daddy’s bedroom. Next to the bed, he found the small, elegant case. It turned out to be heavier than it looked, but he bumped it down the stairs without dropping it. Mummy was on the telephone when he brought it to her side.

“Yes, now,” she said. “No, I’ve got everything ready. Yes, ring Mummy, but no one else, or we’ll never get there in time. All right. I’ll be waiting. Kiss, kiss.” Mummy replaced the telephone in its cradle and winced. Mycroft put his finger in his mouth, not quite sure what to make of Mummy’s clear distress.

Fortunately, Mrs. Barnet knew what to do. She eased Mummy to her feet and walked her over to the bench by the door. Mycroft followed, dragging Mummy’s suitcase along behind him. Mrs. Barnet deposited Mummy gently on the bench. “Now you just rest there, and you’ll be all ready when Mr. Holmes comes to fetch you.”

Mummy panted and blew, and after a few moments, she relaxed, and a flush of colour returned to her face. She glanced over at Mycroft. “You’ll be all right, won’t you, darling? It’ll only be a few nights, and then Mummy’ll be back with a new little brother or sister for you.”

Mycroft said nothing, but scowled. The baby had not even been born, and already it was causing trouble.

Mrs. Barnet laughed and patted Mycroft’s shoulder. “He’ll be fine,” she said. “I’ll stay over tonight to look after him.”

Mummy smiled, but then she turned grey and winced again. Mycroft frowned. He didn’t like to see Mummy in pain, but Mrs. Barnet didn’t seem worried. Between the two of them, Mycroft didn’t know what to think. So he stuck his finger back in his mouth and leaned against Mummy’s bench, waiting for Daddy to come and do something that would make things better.

In the end, Daddy had arrived, bundled Mummy and the suitcase out to the car, and left, pausing only briefly to ruffle Mycroft’s hair and murmur the name of a hospital to Mrs. Barnet. After they had gone, Mrs. Barnet made Mycroft clean his teeth and change into his pyjamas, but she then allowed him to sit up and watch a film on the television with her. The film was mostly about grownups in fancy clothes talking to each other. Mycroft had no idea what they were talking about, and there were no monsters, songs, chases, or anything else interesting. But Mrs. Barnet seemed to be enjoying it, and she allowed Mycroft to cuddle up to her and watch the film until his eyelids drooped with boredom. He barely noticed when she walked him upstairs to put him to bed.

The next morning dawned sunny and cold. Mycroft rolled out of bed, put on his slippers and dressing gown, and went to look at the large calendar on the wall. Today was January 6, 1976. It was Tuesday. There was something special about today, but Mycroft didn’t know what that was. He tiptoed to the door and pulled it open. The door to the nursery across the hall was open, and Mycroft remembered. Mummy had gone to have the baby yesterday. He could hear Mrs. Barnet talking to somebody downstairs, and he wondered if it was news about the new baby.

Slowly, so that Mrs. Barnet would not notice him at first, Mycroft slithered down the stairs, pausing on the landing so that he could listen and not be seen.

“Really,” Mrs. Barnet was saying. “Oh, lovely! Well, do let us know when you do. Well, I haven’t seen him yet, but I’ll get him up and let him know. What time? Very good. We’ll be expecting you.”

There was the sound of the telephone being hung up, and then Mrs. Barnet emerged from the sitting room. She spotted Mycroft and gave a startled shriek, staggered backward a few steps and rested her hand on her bosom.

“Lands’ sakes, Mycroft, you startled me, sitting there all quiet like that,” she gasped. “How long have you been up there, then?”

Mycroft shrugged. “You were talking on the telephone,” he said. “Was it Daddy? Is the baby born?”

A fond smile crept over Mrs. Barnet’s face. “Yes, that was your dad. He said that the baby was born early this morning, and it’s a boy, your little brother. Your dad was just going in to see him when he rang off, and he said he’d pop by later today. I’ll get your breakfast, and then I’ve got to get some things together for your mum. Go wash your face and get dressed.”

Mycroft went back upstairs slowly, contemplating the news. When he reached the top of the stairs, he looked over his shoulder to make sure that Mrs. Barnet hadn’t followed him, and then carefully poked his head into the nursery. Daddy had set up the furniture two days after Christmas, and Mummy and Granny had spent the week decorating, washing and folding drawers full of little white clothes, and arranging the soft toys that various relatives had given them at Christmas in anticipation. Since then, the nursery had stood still and calm and tidy. Mycroft tried to imagine a baby living in it.

“Mycroft, how are you getting along?” Mrs. Barnet called from downstairs. “Don’t dawdle!”

Mycroft tore himself away from the nursery and went to wash his face.

After breakfast, the morning positively crawled. Usually, Mycroft resisted being sent out to play in the cold and damp when he could be reading or looking at picture magazines inside. But now that he wanted to take a ball to the Common and do something, anything, that would take his mind off of waiting for Daddy to come home, Mrs. Barnet would not allow it, saying that he had to wait patiently, because Daddy could return at any moment. At least Mrs. Barnet had something to do. She was in the kitchen baking, and refused to let Mycroft help.

“Don’t you worry about it,” she said. “It’s the simplest thing in the world. You go and look at your picture books, and leave me alone, and you’ll have plum cake for tea.”

“Why plum cake?” Mycroft asked. It wasn’t that he didn’t like plum cake, but there were plenty of cakes that he liked better.

Mrs. Barnet chuckled. “For Twelfth Night, of course. I suppose you’ve forgotten in all the excitement over the baby.”

Mycroft nodded, although he had no idea what Twelfth Night was. It wasn’t something that Mummy and Daddy had ever mentioned. Bored, he wandered through the house in search of something to do, and found a bookcase that had a shelf full of small, thin books. Mycroft was not always interested in grown-up books, but these looked small enough for him. One of them was titled Twelfth Night; or, What You Will. Unfortunately, when he examined it, it turned out to be a long play written in poetry that he couldn’t understand. So he put it back and returned to his Rupert Bear books. He had long ago learned to read the short rhyming captions underneath the pictures, and now he was working through the more complicated, but more detailed, stories at the bottoms of the pages.

He was soon so absorbed in a Chinese adventure featuring Rupert, Tiger Lily, and the Conjuror that he was startled to hear the door open.

“Anybody home?” came Daddy’s voice.

“Me!” Mycroft tossed the book aside and hurried down the stairs, arriving just in time to see Daddy setting down a carrier bag and shedding his coat in the front hall. “Is the baby born, Daddy? Did you see it? What does it look like? What’s its name?”

“His name,” Daddy replied. “It’s a little boy. Your little brother. What do you think about that?”

“His name, Daddy!”

Daddy smiled. “Well, Mummy and I haven’t quite decided yet. We were thinking about Cecil, or Percy.”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose.

“Not those names?” Daddy asked. “You’re right. They’re awful. Those were what Mummy wanted.”

“What did you want, Daddy?”

“Well,” Daddy said, “What about Robert?”

Mycroft shook his head. “He can’t be a Robert. Alfie’s little brother is a Robert, and he’d say I was copying him.”

“Mm, we can’t have that,” Daddy said. “Richard?”

“After my bear?” Richard Bear had recently moved from Mycroft’s bed to a shelf because Mycroft felt that he had to set a grown-up example for the new baby, but that did not mean that Richard Bear had to lose the right to his name.

“Of course. How could I forget the adventures of Richard Bear?” Daddy pursed his lips. “Well, then, how about a family name, like yours? We could call him Sherlock.”

Mycroft considered the prospect. “Sherlock” sounded like a character in the chaptered adventure books that he was just starting to read, like somebody who could be a companion for going on walks and discovering strange insects and doors into unknown places. At the very least, “Sherlock” wasn’t boring the way “Robert” was. Mycroft shrugged his approval.

“Excellent,” Daddy said. “Sherlock it shall be. Now, Mrs. Barnet, come out of the kitchen. I’ve brought champagne, and we’ll all celebrate!”

“Champagne?” Mycroft asked. “Me, too?”

“Not you,” Mrs. Barnet said.

Daddy shrugged, but even he had to obey Mrs. Barnet. He went into the kitchen and brought out two wine glasses, a tumbler, and a bottle of fizzy water. Mrs. Barnet fetched a napkin from the sideboard, and Daddy returned to the front hall to fetch the carrier bag. Inside was a bottle of champagne very much like the ones that Mummy and Daddy had served at New Year’s. Mycroft remembered those bottles well enough to put his fingers in his ears when Daddy wrapped the bottle in the napkin. Daddy eased the cork out with a resounding pop and poured champagne into the wine glasses and then poured the fizzy water into the tumbler. He gave the tumbler to Mycroft and one of the wine glasses to Mrs. Barnet. They all raised their glasses.

“To Sherlock,” Daddy said, and they all drank.

“What does he look like?” Mycroft asked, sniffing a little as the fizzy water tickled his nose.

“He’s a tiny little thing,” Daddy said. “I could balance him on my arm with his head in my palm. And he’s very red and quite wrinkled.”

That puzzled Mycroft. “But aren’t babies meant to be all pink and white and fat?” he asked.

“They fill out,” Daddy said, “but they’re always a bit crumpled when they’re new. Don’t you worry. Sherlock will grow out of it. Now you run along for a bit. I have to write some letters.”

He took his champagne to his study and set it on a coaster on his desk. Mycroft followed him, but stood just outside the door. Daddy took stationery and his good fountain pen from his desk.

“Who are you writing to?” Mycroft asked.

“To whom are you writing,” Daddy corrected. “The masters at the schools. Just like I did when you were born.”

“Oh. Is Sherlock going to go to school with me?”

Daddy smiled. “Shouldn’t think so. The same schools, yes, if I can get his name down early enough, but not until you’ve left them. It’ll be your job to make a good impression on the masters for your brother.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means to be a good boy, follow the school rules, join in the games, and get good marks,” Daddy said.

That was disappointing. It was the same thing Mummy had told Mycroft to do even before she was going to have a baby. “When can I see the baby?” Mycroft asked. “Can I go visit Mummy with you?”

“No,” Daddy said. “The hospital only allows children to visit on Saturdays. You can see the baby when Mummy comes home.”

“When’s that?”

“Thursday morning, I should guess. Tea-time Thursday at the latest. Now go and play so that I can write these letters.”

Mycroft sighed and slunk away. Daddy was ignoring him, Mrs. Barnet wouldn’t let him go outside, he had to have fizzy water instead of tasting the champagne, and he couldn’t even see the baby until Thursday. So far, having a baby brother was no fun at all.

Chapter Text

3. Great Joy To The New

On Wednesday, the cold snap lifted, and it began to rain. It rained all day, melting the frost away and turning the entire world dreary and grey. After Daddy left in the morning, Mycroft helped Mrs. Barnet dust and tidy the nursery, polishing furniture, fluffing pillows and smoothing little quilts. “That’s a good boy,” Mrs. Barnet said. “Idle hands make mischief.”

Unfortunately, it seemed that busy hands only earned more work, as Mrs. Barnet decided that they would start polishing the silver next. She spread a towel over the kitchen table, set a load of cutlery on it, draped an apron over Mycroft, and handed him a rag and a tub of foul-smelling silver polish. She showed Mycroft how to rub the polish onto the cutlery and then went to collect the rest of the silver. This included the candlesticks from the sitting room and the dining room, as well as an ornamental tea service and several small odds and ends that Mycroft could not remember seeing before.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at an odd contraption that appeared to be all legs.

“Don’t point. It’s a stand for a serving dish.” Mrs. Barnet polished it carefully and set it aside. Then she picked up a small silver cup with an engraved foot and a curlicued handle, and a fond smile spread over her face.

“What is it?” Mycroft asked again, careful not to point this time.

“Let me clean it, and I’ll show you.” Mrs. Barnet polished the cup, rinsed it in the sink, and dried it with a soft, clean towel. Then she held it out so that Mycroft could see it. “Don’t touch it,” she said. “Your hands are dirty. But you may look.”

Mycroft examined the cup. There were words engraved on it in fancy, curly script. He squinted, and after a while, he deciphered them. “Mycroft Sigerson Barrington Holmes,” he read. “17 August, 1969. That’s me. Is this my cup?”

Mrs. Barnet smiled. “It’s your christening cup,” she said.

“Is the baby – is Sherlock going to have a christening cup?”

“Oh, I’m sure he will. He’ll get it when he’s christened, probably in the spring, when he’s big enough to fit the gown.”

Mrs. Barnet slipped the christening cup into a soft flannel pouch, and Mycroft went back to polishing the cutlery. Secretly, he hoped that Sherlock’s christening cup wouldn’t be as fancy as his own.

On Thursday, Daddy did not go to work. Instead, he spent breakfast giving Mrs. Barnet lots of instructions about food and drink. Mycroft contented himself with a bowl of cornflakes. He would have preferred an egg and soldiers, but it appeared that both Daddy and Mrs. Barnet were too busy to cook it for him. Mycroft couldn’t wait for Mummy to come home.

As if on cue, Daddy strode into the breakfast nook. He smiled and ruffled Mycroft’s hair. “I’m going out to see Mummy and the baby,” he said. “The doctor said that Mummy could come home this morning, and we’ll be back in a few hours so you can meet your brother then. We’ll have a little welcome-home get-together at tea-time, so make sure you look neat and tidy.”

With that, he was out the door.

“Well,” Mrs. Barnet said. “That’s that, then. Are you finished with your cornflakes? Off with you, and wash up. I’ll check behind your ears when you’re done, so do a good job.”

Mycroft scurried up the stairs to collect his towel and his flannel.

Mrs. Barnet let him put on play clothes in the morning, though she warned him that he would have to change into nice trousers for the welcome-home tea. There would be plum cake, biscuits, and cucumber sandwiches. Mrs. Barnet made the biscuits in the morning and let Mycroft sprinkle the tops with sugar to make them special. After the biscuits were baked, Mycroft sprawled on the floor of the sitting room with another Rupert Bear book. Time crawled as he waited for Mummy and Daddy to come home with the baby. Lunchtime arrived, and Mycroft reluctantly ate the sandwich that Mrs. Barnet prepared for him. After lunch, he put a 101 Dalmatians reel into his View-Master and clicked through it.

At last, he heard the purr of the Volvo in the drive. He set the View-Master down on the sofa and sprang to his feet. Mrs. Barnet hurried out of the kitchen to open the door. Mycroft could not stop his feet from doing a little dance of excitement. Finally, finally, Mummy entered the house. She was wrapped in a large coat, beneath which the bottom of a navy blue dress was just visible. In her arms, she carried a white bundle as though it were the most precious thing in the world. But her smile was aimed directly at Mycroft.

“Hello, darling,” she said. “Have you been a good boy for Mrs. Barnet? Would you like to meet your little brother?”

Mycroft nodded eagerly.

“Just a minute,” Mummy said. She handed the bundle in her arms to Mrs. Barnet so that Daddy could help her out of her coat. Mrs. Barnet cooed at the bundle, which made snuffly noises. Mycroft jumped up and down, desperate to see.

“Look at him, all excited about being the big brother,” Mrs. Barnet said.

Mummy laughed, and retrieved the bundle. She carried it to the sitting room and sank gracefully onto the sofa. “Come here, Mycroft,” she said, nodding at the spot on the sofa next to her.

Mycroft wasted no time climbing up onto the sofa next to Mummy. Mummy peeled away a flap of white blanket to reveal a little pink face. “This is your little brother, Sherlock,” Mummy told him.

Sherlock had a tuft of dark hair, a funny little blurp of a nose, and a squashy mouth. His eyes were swollen so that Mycroft could not tell what colour they were, and his miniature hands opened and closed, grasping at the air. He seemed uncertain and fragile, staring vacantly at nothing in particular. Confused and a little worried, Mycroft said the first thing that popped into his head. “He doesn’t look at all like the babies on the telly.”

All of the grownups burst out laughing at him. Angry and humiliated, Mycroft flopped down next to Mummy. “Well, he doesn’t!”

“Give him time, darling,” Mummy said with a chuckle. “He’s still very new.”

Grudgingly, Mycroft leaned over for another look at Sherlock. Sherlock dribbled, and all of a sudden, a distressing odour filled the air. “He smells!”

Mummy laughed. “Nappy days are here again,” she said.

Mrs. Barnet reached down and took Sherlock into her arms. “I’ll do it. You go put your feet up. The guests will be here before you know it.”

Mummy glanced at Daddy and sighed. “Are you sure it couldn’t have waited a day or so, dear?” she asked. But she allowed Daddy to help her to her feet, and they followed Mrs. Barnet up the stairs, leaving Mycroft all by himself in the sitting room.

This was not at all what Mycroft had expected being a big brother would be like. Disappointed, angry, and full of other dark feelings that he dared not name, he kicked his heels against the sofa. Looking around the sitting room, he decided that he deserved something nice to make up for having an ugly, smelly baby taking over. His gaze landed on a shelf that held a collection of little ivory figurines. There were animals, monsters, and people, some of them in strange and grotesque poses. Mummy had told him that they came from Japan, that they were valuable, and that Mycroft was not allowed to touch them, no matter how much they begged to be taken down and played with.

Well, Mummy had Sherlock to look after now. She wouldn’t have time for interesting Japanese animal figurines, and she wouldn’t notice if Mycroft just rearranged them. A thrill of naughtiness swept him onto his feet, and he tiptoed over to the shelf. He positioned a chair so that he could reach, climbed up onto it, and reached for a sculpture of a rabbit kicking a tiger in the nose.

“Mycroft!” Daddy’s sharp voice startled Mycroft, and he turned around, caught in the act. Daddy frowned at him. “Put those down. They’re not toys. You had plenty of lovely presents for Christmas.”

With a sigh, Mycroft replaced the little sculpture. Daddy nodded at him.

“Go put your nice clothes on. People are coming to visit.”

As tea-time approached, the doorbell began to ring, and friends and relatives flooded into the house. Granny and Grandfather arrived first, pinching Mycroft’s cheek before crowding around Mummy and Sherlock. Aunt Caroline and Uncle Radcliff arrived next with their daughter Florabel, who was thirteen and had recently become boringly interested in boys and clothes, and, apparently, babies who could not do anything. When the friends and neighbours began to appear, the house was as loud and confusing as it had been at New Year’s. Mycroft was bumped, stepped on, and tripped over, and when he tried to hide in the pantry, Mrs. Barnet found him and made him carry a large tray of cucumber sandwiches out into the sitting room. He set the tray down on the coffee table and darted away to rescue his View-Master from Mrs. Simpson’s baby, who was about to dribble on it.

Mummy sat in the middle of the crowd, lovely and serene in a billowy violet dress with belled sleeves and a wide lace collar. Sherlock lay in her arms, wearing a fresh nappy and a little white cotton gown under a white crocheted cardigan trimmed with a pale blue ribbon, with a crocheted bonnet and bootees to match. They were among the clothes that had arrived at Christmas and had been folded tidily in the nursery waiting for Sherlock to be born. Mycroft wriggled through the crowd and draped himself over the back of the sofa next to Mummy. He said nothing, but watched as all the guests exclaimed over Sherlock.

When Mrs. Barnet brought the tea tray out, Mummy handed Sherlock to Granny so that she could pour the tea. This set off a new round of cooing and oohs and aahs, and Sherlock was passed from hand to hand along with cups of tea. Mycroft waited for the amusing moment when someone would be offered both tea and the baby and would have to choose between them, but somehow, the moment failed to arrive. Just as Mummy finished pouring the tea, Mrs. Simpson laid Sherlock in a lined basket on the sofa next to Mummy and accepted her own cup of tea in return.

Sherlock waved his arms and legs, bumping them against the sides of the basket. His little tongue poked in and out of his mouth, and he made creaky noises that were not quite cries. Sometimes, people would stroke his cheek or pat his tummy, and he would wave an arm or a leg as if trying to bat the intruding hands away. For the first time, Mycroft found a tiny pang of sympathy for the baby. He didn’t like being pinched and prodded by relatives, either. However, nobody exclaimed over how adorable he was when he tried to avoid the hands. Sherlock would just have to learn to put up with it.

Mummy was gracious and calm, alternately drinking tea, showing off the sapphire eternity ring that Daddy had given her, and occasionally petting Sherlock.

“When’s the christening, lovey?” Aunt Caroline asked.

“We were thinking about March,” Mummy replied. “With all the daffodils.”

“Oh, lovely. What’ll you name him?”

Mummy smiled. “We’ve decided on Sherlock Rupert Vernet Holmes. A little something for everyone.”

The adults murmured their approval, but Mycroft laughed. “Like Rupert Bear?” he asked.

“Stupid. They don’t have to call him Rupert,” Florabel said. “They’ll call him Sherlock.”

“I am not stupid!” Mycroft snapped. He reached out, intending to yank Florabel’s plait, but Daddy seized his arm and stopped him.

“Mycroft, be nice to your guest,” Daddy said.

“She’s not my guest, she’s my cousin,” Mycroft replied. “And I didn’t invite her, you did.”

“That doesn’t matter. She’s still your guest. Now, apologise to her.”

The room was suddenly quiet except for Sherlock quietly squeaking to himself. The weight of the combined adult gazes bore down on Mycroft, and he tried to twist away, but Daddy turned him around again. “Mycroft, apologise.”

In his shame, Mycroft had forgotten what the apology was meant to be for, so he stared at his feet and mumbled out a quick “Sorry, Florabel.”

Daddy nodded, and Florabel gave Mycroft a triumphant smile. Mycroft didn’t quite dare to stick his tongue out at her, but he did wrinkle his nose. Florabel soon returned to petting Sherlock, and Mycroft slipped out of the gathering as soon as Mummy and Daddy weren’t looking. He climbed the stairs to his room and quickly lost himself in Winnie the Pooh.

After a while, Mycroft heard footsteps on the stairs and the grating squeal of Sherlock crying. He opened his door just enough so that he could peek out. Mummy carried Sherlock upstairs and into the nursery, cooing that she knew he was hungry and that he’d be fed in just a minute. When she shut the nursery door, Mycroft could hear that the party was still going on downstairs. He doubted that any of the guests cared that the baby had been taken away.

Still later, when Mycroft ventured out again, the noise of the party was gone. Downstairs, he could hear Daddy shutting the front door, and a moment afterward, the putt putt putt of Granny and Grandfather’s car going away. Mycroft waited, but Daddy did not come upstairs. The nursery door was shut, as was the door to Mummy and Daddy’s room.

Mycroft crept out into the hall and pressed his ear against the nursery door. He heard nothing and guessed that Sherlock must be sleeping. He moved on to Mummy and Daddy’s door and heard snuffling sobs. Little prickles of fear ran up and down his back as he pushed the door open. Mummy lay on the bed, her lovely violet dress all crumpled, crying into her pillow. Her tear-stained face turned hard when she spotted Mycroft. “Go away,” she choked out. “Leave me alone.”

Seeing Mummy cry like that made Mycroft’s tummy hurt, and he closed the door quickly. He wondered if he should ask Daddy what to do, but then he decided that Mummy would just tell Daddy to go away, and, anyway, Mycroft was still angry at Daddy for making him apologise to Florabel. He was about to return to his room when it occurred to him that there was someone else that he could visit.

As quietly as he could, he opened the door to the nursery. The room was lit by the warm glow of a night-light. Mycroft crept over to the cot and discovered that he was tall enough to peer through the bars over the bumpers. Sherlock lay in the cot, but he was not asleep. He kicked his legs and waved his arms, and a frown passed over his crumpled little face.

“Shh,” Mycroft whispered. “Don’t cry, or Mummy and Mrs. Barnet will think I woke you, and they’ll scold me.”

To his astonishment, Sherlock did not cry. He turned his head a little toward the interesting new sound in the nursery, and Mycroft found himself looking the baby straight in the eye. And, to his astonishment, Sherlock looked back at him.

For months, Sherlock had been nothing but an idea, a lump in Mummy’s tummy, without even a name. Then he had been a piece of news, existing in the hospital where Mycroft couldn’t see him. Today, he had been a funny little doll that moved and made faces and made people laugh. But now, in the dim light of the nursery, with no grownups around to tell Mycroft not to bother the baby, Mycroft realized that Sherlock was a person.

He wasn’t a very big person, and he had only been alive for two days, so he didn’t know anything yet. Well, Mycroft thought, Sherlock might know that Mummy was Mummy, and he did know how to cry. But apart from that, he didn’t know anything. He didn’t know that he lived in England, or who Rupert Bear and Winnie the Pooh were, or what a daffodil looked like. He probably didn’t even know that he was Sherlock Holmes. But, Mycroft realized, that didn’t mean that he was stupid.

Sherlock was a person, and he was a clever person. And he was Mycroft’s little brother. Mycroft slipped his hand between the bars of the cot and poked Sherlock’s little fist. Sherlock grasped Mycroft’s finger and held on tightly. Mycroft giggled.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “And I’m your big brother Mycroft. And I’m going to teach you things so that you can grow up to be clever like me, and you can play with me when you’re big enough.”

Sherlock kicked his legs and squeaked, almost as if he were agreeing to the suggestion. Mycroft giggled again. He hadn’t realized that a baby could sound interested, nor how much he would enjoy the thought that Sherlock might be interested in him.

Sherlock’s grip was surprisingly strong for someone so little. Gently, Mycroft waved their joined hands around, letting Sherlock watch, fascinated, as the strange shape moved in front of his face. Sherlock kicked, and let out a burble that almost sounded like a laugh. Mycroft smiled at him. Suddenly, having a little brother didn’t seem like such a dreary idea after all.

END