Chapter Text
"No!"
"Sherlock--"
"No!"
The book was suddenly pushed out of Mycroft's hands and skidded across the wooden floor. Sherlock crossed his arms and pouted. Mycroft frowned and lifted him off his lap, plopping Sherlock down on the floor.
"Don't throw books," he said harshly, picking up his prized edition. "This one is more expensive than you are."
"It doesn't have pictures," Sherlock whined. "I want a book with pictures."
"You can't read picture books for the rest of your life," Mycroft sighed. "Only babies read picture books."
Sherlock scowled. 'I'm not a baby."
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "Really?"
"No!" Sherlock yelled, as though Mycroft had said something far worse.
"Hm, well, it looks like you actually are a baby." Mycroft shrugged. "Older children read real books, not ones with pictures."
Sherlock furrowed his brow and reached for the old hardback in Mycroft's hand. "Give me."
Mycroft feigned annoyance and handed the book over. He sat down next to Sherlock, who then scooted into his lap as he opened to the first page. Sherlock stared at it for a minute before getting frustrated and throwing it down on the floor next to Mycroft's leg.
"No!"
"Sherlock, stop throwing the book!"
"I can't do it!"
Mycroft swung Sherlock around on his lap so that they were facing each other. "I could read this book when I was five. I don't think I need to remind you how old you are."
Sherlock crossed his arms again. "But you're smarter!"
Well, Mycroft couldn't really argue with that. "Only because I'm older. When you're my age, you'll be just as smart as me."
"This book's boring," Sherlock whined, slapping the top of the hardcover. "I want a good book."
"This is a good book." Mycroft frowned, picking it up again. "You've only read one sentence. You can't tell whether it's good or bad yet."
"It's stupid."
"Again, you don't know that. And it's not."
"But--"
"Do you know about hobbits, Sherlock?"
Sherlock blinked. "What?"
"Hobbits." Mycroft smiled, knowing he'd found his way in.
"What's a hobbits?" he asked warily, keeping his eyes focused on Mycroft
"Hobbit. They're people. Short people, with hairy feet and--"
"I have hairy feet!" Sherlock shoved one of his feet into Mycroft's face with a giggle. Mycroft grabbed his ankle with a scowl and moved his leg back down.
"Sure, yes, fine. I don't need to see, thank you. Like I was saying, they go on adventures with dwarves and wizards and other hobbits--"
"Wizards aren't real," Sherlock reminded him.
"They are in Middle-Earth."
"What's Middle-Earth?"
"Where they live."
Sherlock stared at Mycroft for a long time, apparently trying to determine if he was telling the truth. "Middle-Earth isn't a real place."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Isn't it?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but closed it before he had the chance. Mycroft could practically hear what Sherlock was thinking. What did he know about the world? Mycroft was much older and thus more smart. He was old enough to ride a bicycle and read Father's big books in the library. Sherlock couldn't even read this one.
He wiggled around in Mycroft's lap, leaning back against his chest. Sherlock opened the book again, sighed, and started reading.
"In--a--hole--in--the--gr--gru--Myc!" he whined, looking behind him at his brother.
"Ground," Mycroft said patiently.
"In--a--hole--in--the--ground--there--lifed--"
"Lived."
"Lived--a--"
"Hobbit."
Sherlock turned around and looked at Mycroft with wide eyes. "Hobbit!"
Mycroft smiled.