"Have a bit more, for Mummy," Mummy said. She nudged the plate back toward him.
"I'm finished, Mummy," Mycroft said quietly. He was twelve years old and he felt quite full and he was very aware of what he thought of as The Decline of Mummy. He'd been aware of it for years.
"Have a bit more," she insisted anyway. "I made it 'specially for you." Her eyes pleaded with him, and he swallowed hard.
He forced a pleasant smile in place. "Perhaps a bit more," he said, glancing down at his stomach. He really did not feel like he should eat any more.
Sherlock was picking at his food, like usual, and Mycroft felt an intense surge of jealousy for only a moment. Sherlock was 5 years old. Hopefully he wouldn't even notice that Mummy's behavior was, well, not normal. Not on. Hopefully he'd never realize that Mycroft was upset by what Mummy was doing. He tried not to let it show.
Mycroft's slacks were already getting a bit tight at the waist. He sighed inaudibly. He'd be needing new ones again soon, wouldn't he?
Mummy patted Mycroft on the shoulder. "You're such a good boy."
He'd asked her once, when Sherlock was out playing, why it was him and not Sherlock. No, he didn't want it be Sherlock, but he was fairly certain his bringing the situation up wouldn't change it. He didn't think it was enough of a risk to Sherlock not to ask.
And he really, really wanted to know.
"Mummy?" he asked through the paper he was reading.
"Yes, dear?" She was sewing a needlepoint of beautiful flowers that, so far, he greatly admired.
"Mummy, why do you," he controlled the tone of his voice as well he could, "make sure I'm eating well, while Sherlock's eating habits are left without comment?"
Mummy waited for him to lower his paper to properly look at her. He did not, so she answered anyway. "I do comment," she pointed out, which was true. She just never pushed Sherlock, which Mycroft supposed is what he'd really meant. "But he's so stubborn, and he's never been one much for eating," she said fondly. "You, though, My, you're my good boy. My hungry, growing boy," she said.
Mycroft's fingers tightened on the sides of the pages, making the barest crinkling noises. "I am, at that," he said, gulping as he thought of the threat of needing new trousers. He was certainly growing at the waistline, yes. He couldn't keep his lower lip from trembling.