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There are so many pictures of Sherlock. Mycroft and Sherlock are on either side of John as he flips through an old photo album. They're both watching his reactions as well as reliving memories.
"I fell in just after that one," Sherlock notes to a picture of Sherlock walking near the edge of a lake.
"Yes, you nearly caught your death," Mycroft says fondly.
"It wasn't that time," Sherlock says, "but there was once when Mycroft had to perform CPR on me."
"You're kidding!" John stares at Mycroft in surprise. "And it went alright? How old were you?"
Mycroft smiles at John. "I was fifteen. Sherlock was eight. I'm even better at it now," he says mysteriously.
They offer nothing more, so John goes back to flipping through. "So this is your mum, then?" A young Sherlock rests his head against a beautiful woman's shoulder. They're both asleep.
"Yes." Mycroft shifts a bit closer to John, staring at the image. "There should be a few of her later on in this album. A few of father too, I believe."
"Don't act as if you don't have the albums memorized. He's always flipping through these, John," Sherlock says. "I've seen him."
"These are actually all rather good. Nice angles, good composition." John flips past some more pages filled with Sherlock including a rather sweet picture where Sherlock covered his face to prevent the picture from coming out, and comes upon a few pages of their mother, mostly resting on the couch, but also a few of her reading and one of her tending to the garden.
There are a couple of a quiet-looking man who doesn't seem to do much but sit straight and read the paper.
John turns back in the album.
"What are you looking for?" Mycroft asks gently.
"The couple that had you in them," John says. "I liked seeing you two together," he says with a smile. They actually seemed to get on pretty well, back then.
As he flips back toward the front of the album, he passes over some of his favorites. There's one with Sherlock covered in mud, sitting on the edge of the tub, fully clothed, with a large pout. There's one of Sherlock as a baby in his crib, asleep. There's one with Sherlock waving from a tree, followed by a picture of Sherlock in a cast with a hateful expression shot toward the photographer.
Finally, he sees the pages with Mycroft and Sherlock together. Mycroft holding his baby brother with an expression of wonderment. Sherlock on Mycroft's back for a horsey ride here, a piggyback ride there. Mycroft and Sherlock lost in laughter about something.
There are even a few with just Mycroft, which aren't taken nearly as well. Mycroft trying to study, but indulgently smiling. Mycroft pointing at some plant and talking about it. Mycroft looking smart in a suit before a special occassion. A picture where Mycroft is watching telly and laughing. They're not as good in quality, but they're brilliant moments to catch on film. "You took these, didn't you?" he asks Sherlock.
Sherlock smiles. "Yes, I did."
"Why are there so few of you, Mycroft? Is there another album with more of you?"
"There are other pictures with me in the other albums over there, yes," Mycroft says, as if he equates pictures of himself with being boring or of little notice. "But if you want to know why there are so few of me in this album, that's because I took most of them."
"Our parents weren't much for capturing memories, though they had their moments," Sherlock says. "It was mainly Mycroft's doing. He managed to convince them we needed a camera."
"Sherlock was always doing more things of notice than I was. He still does. I didn't do much worth capturing on film." He says it as if he believes it to be fact and nothing more.
"Sherlock disagrees," John says, noting Sherlock's expression. "I mean," John says, finding the page where Sherlock had taken a picture of Mycroft laughing, "he won't admit it, but just look at that." He hands Mycroft the album, and Mycroft eyes it more closely than he perhaps ever has before.
"Thank you, John," Mycroft says quietly.
Sherlock rolls his eyes when John looks over.
John wishes that someone could take a proper picture of the three of them. He considers yelling for one of Mycroft's "help".