"Everyone's stupid to you," she replied, not looking up from the words she was writing. "Violet Holmes."
A terribly dark shadow passed over his eyes. "Mother," he sneered, and that was definitely all he was going to say on the matter. Mother had always been Mother. Mycroft had been allowed to call her Mummy. Mycroft had been her precious perfect first born son. Mycroft had done everything Mother asked--went to a prestigious university, became an upstanding citizen with a posh job. Mother loved Mycroft, hated Sherlock. So, Sherlock hated her too. He reigned himself in--he knew he had promised to be honestly emotional, but he found it growing increasingly unpleasant by the second. He wanted to be finished with this. He ducked back behind the wall of indifference, straight faced, calm and calculating. "Are we just about finished, then?"