Violet Holmes could not help but glare slightly at her elder son as she cradled her newborn close to her. She loved Mycroft, of course, that was a mother's duty, but there were times when he would act as no seven-year-old child could or should.
"Yes, Èmile," she replied, desperately trying not to snip.
"With the accented 'e' and everything?"
"Yes. Sherlock Èmile Holmes, don't you like it? Sherlock for this blond hair of his, Èmile for his great-uncle Èmile Vernet. Who knows? Perhaps he will grow up to be a great painter."
The somewhat pudgy boy rolled his eyes. "My middle name is Sigerson, but I've yet to produce any wonderful poetry."
"Mycroft, honestly, can you not smile once for no reason at all? You have a healthy baby brother, so who cares what his name is?
Mycroft Sigerson Holmes regarded Sherlock Èmile Holmes with the expression of a sceptic. "It will be a pain to type on a conventional typewriter. And they're apt to murder him once he goes to boarding school."
"He's right, you know," put in the father of the boys, previously silent. He remembered why when his wife threw a venomous glare his way.