This fic is insanely INSANELY late, but HAPPY BIRTHDAY (late) TINA 3 I hope you enjoy.

Also I still suck at summaries.

To all my readers, hi! I know that I haven't uploaded anything lately. Life has been... mad. Anyway, skipping that, thanks if you're still watching out for my stuff, and if not... er... well this is awkward oops.

Stupid joking aside, this has five chapters, and all of them are actually /done/, just needs a little editing and betaing. I'll have one or two chapters out per week. Or more, if they get edited sooner. Usual disclaimers apply :)

Happy Eighth Birthday, Mycroft Holmes.

That was clearly what was written on the cake in the centre of the room, done in an interesting jungle motif that Mycroft didn't choose, but was impressed by anyway. They knew that he had been into different flora and fauna this month, and so the jungle was a very welcome idea. It had chocolate animals that zipped across the cake, due to mechanisms that Mycroft had been trying to figure out for the first part of the morning since it came in. The vanilla and chocolate marble sponge was divine, and the fondant was hiding the best buttercream icing he had ever tasted. The chef had definitely outdone herself this time.

There was a smaller one to the left that welcomed Sherlock's first year into the world. It was very unremarkable compared to his. Of course it was—it was Sherlock's first birthday. It wasn't like the child would be able to appreciate a beautifully constructed cake like Mycroft's was. It was as it should be.

Those, however, were the cakes, and cakes usually go as planned because the Holmes's have the best baker/chef in the whole of Britain. The party, however, was a different story.

It had been explained to Mycroft that they would be having just one party this year for him and Sherlock, because of 'scheduling difficulties'. Mycroft was old enough to understand that that meant Mummy and Father were having problems with their relationship again and didn't want to be under public scrutiny any more than necessary until they had it fixed. Again. And again. And again. Mycroft was used to it, but this was the first time it had ever affected him directly.

He didn't like it. He didn't want to have the same party as Sherlock. Especially Sherlock's first birthday. He wasn't one for attention, but it was hisbirthday. Everyone wanted to see the new baby, the one-year-old, more than they wanted to see the eight-year-old child that they practically saw once every year anyway, sometimes even twice or thrice.

Sherlock stole everything. He took Mycroft's first stuffed toy, a Mickey Mouse his dad brought home from the United States. He took that fluffy pillow that Mycroft loved. His first blanket. His old cot.

It didn't matter if he was too old for them, or if he happily gave them away. They were still his.

Sherlock also took Mummy's attention. Far too much. She was always there when his brother cried but not when Mycroft was crying. Whenever Mycroft's been the one to take a spill under the beech tree while his brother cries for attention, the little one gets the attention, not him.

Mummy explained that he was old enough to take care of himself while Sherlock was just a little child who has a difficult time expressing himself because he was not yet a year old. Mycroft understood—of course he did, he was a bright child, brighter than most adults. He knew that Sherlock needed that extra bit of help, and that was fine. Sherlock was his little brother. He liked the little one, with his pudgy nose, eyes as blue as the sky when the sun just set, little arms and legs that reminds Mycroft of that baby doll that Mummy got him once to take care of. Something about the 'paternal' instinct, they said, and Mycroft had to look it up to understand what they meant.

It, quite honestly, helped him to learn how to take care of his little brother.

But that didn't matter, not right now at least, since it was his birthday and it was supposed to be his day but instead, Sherlock was there stealing everything again.

And, of course, predictably, after everyone has cooed at the new baby, they went out into the foyer with his parents and everyone promptly forgot that the children existed. Mycroft was left alone with his brother, and he reluctantly pulled up a chair to sit by the cot.

"You're ruining everything you know," said Mycroft, staring into Sherlock's eyes, frowning. The baby met his eyes, and smiled. Sherlock barely made any noise nowadays, and to be honest, maybe Mycroft was a bit worried about it. But even if he'd read that babies usually babble at this point now, he knew that some of them took their time with talking, so he breathed easy while their nanny (and Mummy and Father, he supposed) worried constantly.

"It's my birthday celebration too, not just yours. But everyone has forgotten about me." Mycroft looked at the spinning aeroplanes and rockets at the top of Sherlock's cot, and wiped angrily at his eyes. He didn't want to cry. He was eight—he was too old to cry. Father said so. "I suppose, though, they have forgotten about you, too, because they're out there with their wine glasses having fun while we're stuck in the nursery."

For a second, he wondered how it would have been if he had friends his age. Maybe when he went off to boarding school. It was just a few years more. He had heard Mummy and Father talk about it.

"It's okay, though. At least you're here and my birthday's not as lonely as before. As much as Nana's okay company, it's nice that you're here, too." He placed a finger beside Sherlock's small hand, and Sherlock grabbed it in his little fist. "At least you pay attention. Happy birthday, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled at Mycroft. Mycroft smiled back, and he turned away to grab the dog-sock puppet he made last week for his brother's birthday. His brother had giggled when Mycroft first showed him the puppet, and Mycroft repeatedly told him it was a dog, and made barking sounds as he played with his brother. Maybe at least one of them could be happier today.


Mycroft blinked, and turned slightly towards Sherlock, the puppet drooping on his hand. "Sherlock?"

"My! Mycof, dog!"

A huge smile broke out on Mycroft's face, and he kicked lightly at their snoring nanny's feet. "Nana!"


"Listen!" Mycroft gestured at Sherlock, and poked his brother's nose with the puppet. Sherlock laughed. "Sherlock, look at the doggy!"

"Mycof dog-gy! My!" Mycroft's grin widened. He'd always thought he'd get to hear Sherlock's first words, probably something about Mummy, but he didn't think it would be his name.

Nana's eyes shone, and she bolted out the door to call Sherlock's parents for their child's first words. Mycroft tugged at the finger still trapped in Sherlock's palm, and grinned. He had to admit, this was one of the coolest presents that he had ever received.

A/N: Thanks to airamcg and Shwatsonlocked for beta-ing the first chapter. All mistakes are mine. More to come, thanks for reading!