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If a man can find in himself even a speck of passion, he will be capable of finding a purpose in the life he leads, and the world he inhabits, and this is what allows him to keep living. It is on a silver platter that the church gives this purpose to the Christians, and the temple to the Hindus. Service to a greater being, is a purpose that many choose to fulfil.
Mycroft Holmes never believed in any of the great lords in the skies, neither did he have any respect for those on the earthly plane who claimed they were greater than the others of their species. Mycroft was a puppet whose strings were pulled by no God, however when a man forgoes one superstation, another is quick to trap and haunt him for sure.
Fate is the superstition that determined the purpose of the eldest Holmes son; a matter shared across many generations. It was therefore that Mycroft didn’t need to latch onto religion to find the something he was meant to achieve in his life. His future was already carved into stone much before his time.
No God played the puppeteer of Mycroft Holmes. No, only his father had the honour of doing that. For as long as Mycroft could remember, his father had been there- steering him, shaping him, disciplining him when he went wrong.
His mother had been a solace to Mycroft, with her clear disdain for her husband’s actions, and reassurance that Mycroft was right to be upset. She’d give him candies in wrinkled wrappers from her secret stash that Mycroft knew she kept in the fourth drawer of her dresser. She was a validation to Mycroft’s existence outside his father, that is, until his seventh birthday.
Mycroft loved his little brother, and did so very dearly, however Sherlock’s existence only compounded the stress Mycroft felt. He had seen his brother grow, and it truly was beautiful, but the truth he consequentially realised was ugly- Mycroft had been a grown up ever since he could comprehend instructions. He had not had a childhood.
When Sherlock was born, Mrs. Holmes had pulled Mycroft aside and whispered to him, “The purpose you must fulfil is set, Mycky and we can’t change that, and it breaks my heart for your duty in life to be forced onto you as well, but you must protect your brother at all costs.”
“Protect him?” Mycroft had asked. He hadn’t understood yet, what his mother was asking of him. It seemed absurd to him that he could offer something he had received none of for himself.
“He must not find out about your struggles, for I only raise honourable children, and this child is sure to love and care for you. You can’t cause him that kind of distress. You must protect him from your father.”
Mycroft had looked at the innocent face of the newborn baby, and nodded to his mother with a smile. He couldn’t have known that what his mother was truly requesting was for Mycroft to prevent Sherlock from being influenced by Baron Holmes… to prevent Sherlock from turning out like Mycroft.
It was a tenacious effort she took to protect Sherlock from her husband’s clutches. “You have my first born, and have no need for my second!” She’d say. She’d protect her sweet baby. Mycroft hadn’t known she could do that.
Regardless, he’d soon learned to make Sherlock’s happiness his happiness, for no matter how imperfect Mycroft was, and how much his father hurt him for it, that innocent newborn that he’d seen nine years ago, was still innocent, and so Mycroft had achieved something at least. His existence had kept Sherlock safe from the curse of the eldest Holmes sons, and so Mycroft was able to make himself continue living. Perhaps he had his duty and his purpose mixed up.