Chapter Text
Sherlock was five when he hit upon the greatest discovery of his life. He couldn’t call it a deduction because he hadn’t learnt the art at that age.
Mycroft on the other hand considered this specific day as the day that his life changed. And not necessarily for the better.
It had been raining. For days on end. The typical Great British weather. An eternal failsafe conversation topic for strangers and friends alike.
Once, a few weeks after Sherlock had turned five, Mycroft taken it upon himself to prove the correlation between bank holidays and the local weather phenomena where he lived with Mummy and Dad. And Sherlock.
Mycroft made careful notes of his observations before he attempted to devise a formulaic structure that reflected the inherent pattern he knew lay underneath. Had acquired several of Mummy’s undergraduate textbooks in the attempt. Mycroft spent weeks on his endeavour but to no avail. The maths simply wouldn’t resolve itself into the perfect set of equations.
In a rare burst of frustration, Mycroft gathered the pages upon pages of observations and calculations, stuffed them into a plastic bag and thrown it all out. A few days later, the night before their weekly refuse collection, Mycroft decided to rescue his notes.
At the crack of dawn before anyone else would awake Mycroft crept out of his bedroom, pulling on his dressing gown and slippers as he tiptoed down the stairs. A quick glance out of the ground-floor windows made it clear the ever-present rain hadn’t abated although it had lessened to resemble a light, continuous spray. Far too light to take along an umbrella Mycroft determined.
He grabbed his coat along the way and exchanged his slippers for wellingtons at the kitchen door. Having unlocked the door leading to the garden, bracing himself for the cold, Mycroft hurried to their garden shed, next to which their bin was stationed.
Wrinkling his nose as the smell of mildew and decay sprung forth when he lifted the bin lid, Mycroft leaned over and looked in.
Just the two usual black bin bags he observed his Father empty that week. The bag he’d thrown away, a little bright blue plastic thing, was missing. Mycroft was so astonished at this inconsistency that he didn’t hear the light footsteps or the second presence until they made themselves known.
“What are you doing, Mycroft?”
Woof woof.
Mycroft slammed the metal lid back onto the bin, wincing at the loud bang he made, and spun on his heels. There, only a few feet from him, stood Sherlock. And Redbeard – the Irish Setter puppy and his little brother were rarely seen apart. This cold, wet morning once more proving the rule.
“What are you doing up at this hour, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked. A quick glance at his brother’s apparel confirmed his suspicions.
Sherlock must have heard Mycroft sneak out and decided to follow him. An adventure for Pirate Holmes and First Mate Redbeard no doubt. The evidence spoke for itself in his brother’s creased pyjamas, the lack of thought for a coat and those pale blue eyes peeking out from under tousled curls, alight with curiosity.
At least the little imp had enough sense to pull on his own wellies before following Mycroft outside.
With a heavy sigh that spoke of his exasperation, Mycroft closed the distance to his brother, pulling his coat off at the same time. In a manoeuvre made more complicated by the wriggling limbs and mumbled complaints of Sherlock, Mycroft managed to both wrap his coat around the smaller boy and pick him up, balancing the smaller boy upon his hip.
“Sherlock,” he chastised when his damp cheek came into contact with cold skin. “You’re freezing! What on earth possessed you to come outside without a coat?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Oh, Sherlock-“
“And me and Redbeard thought we’d go on an adventure!”
Mycroft huffed. “Redbeard and I.”
“That’s what I said,” Sherlock complained, kicking out at Mycroft. Luckily his coat prevented Sherlock from putting much force behind the movement but he was left with a partial muddy footprint on his own pyjamas.
“Sherlock!”
“Not my fault.”
“You kicked me.”
“You picked me up.”
“You’re so insufferable.”
“Daddy says that’s what little brothers are supposed to be.”
“He’s just trying to make you feel better,” Mycroft replied. “But if you carry on like you are, you do realise Mummy and Daddy will send you back from where you came from.”
“No they won’t!”
“They will.”
“Liar, liar pants on fire.”
Mycroft, with a slow and exaggerated movement, made to check his pyjama bottoms. “No fire here, Sherlock.”
He held back an amused, indulgent smile at the sight of his little brother pouting. Sherlock had recently developed the habit of pushing his lower lip out momentarily when he sulked. Mycroft thought it was rather adorable really and kept a mental tally of the number of times he could induce that specific look.
A second, better aimed kick at his body found him dropping Sherlock, needing to press his palms against the pain and soon-to-be-blossoming bruises. The smaller boy, much to Mycroft’s relief, landed safely on his feet.
“Even Redbeard thinks you’re a lying liar,” Sherlock shouted at him before running towards the open kitchen door. “Come on Redbeard! Let’s leave boring Mikey alone to be a dull fart just as he likes!”
The Irish Setter raced past him barking and chasing after the giggling younger boy. With a pained sigh as Mycroft rubbed the tender skin on his left flank where his brother had hit him – he just knew Sherlock would continue to be a pain in his side when the little boy grew up to become the great man Mycroft hoped he could be – he started to make his way back to the house.
He closed and locked the kitchen door behind him, his dirty wellington boots neatly placed on the mat for cleaning later – once he’d had a hot shower – when Mycroft realised something was off. Slowly turning around, the first thing that he noticed was his coat, lying in a heap at his feet.
Dumped on the kitchen floor without care nor worry. Sherlock, you little arse.
The lower half of his coat was sodden and filthy. Mud, liquid and little clumps of glass clung to the wool from where it had obviously dragged along the garden when Sherlock had ran back into the house.
In addition, there were smaller marks leading off from coat and into the house proper. With a feeling akin to morbid curiosity Mycroft followed the trail of Redbeard’s muddy paw prints, groaning under his breath as the marks remained clear on both the stone kitchen floor and the wooden floorboards of their main room.
Their couch and coffee table both bore evidence of mud, obviously from where Redbeard had brushed against them. Exactly how the puppy became so bedraggled in mud in just a few minutes escaped Mycroft. Horror surged through him until he heard a muffled giggle coming from the corner of the room.
He stalked over to the side table and bent over. There he found both culprits huddled together. Sherlock was even dirtier than he had been just a few moments ago and the puppy’s tail appeared to be eagerly painting a canine masterpiece against the wall.
“Get up,” Mycroft hissed.
“What for?”
“Because one of us has to be sensible. I have to get the both of you upstairs and in the bath to clean you up,” he replied with a patience he was rapidly developing where Sherlock was concerned. “Before we can get back and clean the mess you and Redbeard made in here and the kitchen before Mummy sees!”
“It’s not that bad!”
Mycroft snorted as he took in the sight of his little brother. With Redbeard in such close proximity to Sherlock, it was unsurprising that his pale skin and once-clean pyjamas were smudged with mud. “I assure you it is, Sherlock. Do come out from under the table.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Mycroft threw a glare at his younger brother as he considered a different approach. He took a few steps back and couched down. Looking both reprobates in the eye, he spoke one single word in a low, commanding tone. “Redbeard!”
The puppy, as attached as it was to Sherlock, had not yet once failed to respond to Mycroft’s ‘ordering’ voice. The puppy broke free of Sherlock’s hold and rushed across the short distance into Mycroft’s outstretched arms. He did think it was a shame that the same tone had no effect whatsoever on his irritating little brother although the puppy’s desertion did draw Sherlock out from his hiding place.
“Right,” Mycroft announced in a smug tone. “Upstairs, now.”
“Give him back! Redbeard!”
“Sherlock, do behave. This is all rather unbecoming,” Mycroft chastised as all three-foot-five of Sherlock slammed into him. He gritted his teeth as the impact sent a sharp stab of pain along his left side where Sherlock had kicked him.
“God, you sound like an old grump,” Sherlock complained as he clawed at Mycroft, who held Redbeard to his chest and neck to prevent the younger boy hurting the puppy in his desperation.
He absently decided the two of them must look a right sight fighting in their main living room. Sherlock, all indignant spirit and fast-moving limbs, and Mycroft, damp-smelling and trying to maintain a façade of composure with a barking, grubby puppy between them.
He didn’t think it could get worse.
But then when a situation involved Sherlock, of course it could. And usually did.
“Morning, boys,” Mummy said as she walked into the room from the other entrance. They had missed the tell-tale sound of footsteps on the stairs with the distractions of their own argument. “You’re up early, Sherlock. Mikey, would you mind putting the fire on while I get a pot of tea on and then I can sort out some breakfa-“
Mycroft’s eyes – wide and unblinking – met his mother’s as they moved from Sherlock’s dishevelled appearance to the puppy in his arms to his own current state. It didn’t even occur to him to correct his mother on her use of nickname. Instead he waited for the inevitable explosion.
“Sherlock! Stop!” Mummy ordered. “Mikey, what is going on? What have the three of you been up to? You’re all absolutely filthy. Oh boys!”
By this point in her scolding Mummy had navigated around the furniture to the corner of the room where they had been fighting. She clucked as she rubbed at a drying spot of mud on Sherlock’s nose, much to his squirming brother’s irritation. Sighed as she plucked at Mycroft’s damp pyjamas and wisely kept well clear of the dirty Irish Setter, who seem rather content licking and nuzzling Mycroft’s face.
With her hands on her hips, Mummy gave Mycroft and Sherlock her oft-practised disapproving stare. “Now boys. Were you fighting?”
The two brothers replied at the same time. “No.” “It was Mycroft!”
Mummy huffed, throwing disappointed looks at both Mycroft and Sherlock. “The two of you will be the death of me,” she fussed. “Right. Mikey, take Redbeard and Sherlock to the bathroom and make sure they have a bath to get rid of all that dirt and then make sure you get yourself in the shower and into warm clothes, dear.”
“Yes, Mummy.”
“Sherlock, you will let Mikey help you and Redbeard. No complaints! I won’t have you track dirt throughout the house.”
Sherlock scowled. “Yes,” he mumbled, clearly unhappy.
“Go on up then,” she ordered.
Sherlock didn’t move, instead glaring at Mycroft as he raised his objection. “He still has Redbeard.”
“Oh! Give him the puppy, Mikey.”
Mycroft was only too happy to hand over the puppy, practically shoved him into Sherlock’s waiting arms. After a gesture from Mummy, he watched Sherlock start to back away towards the other door through which he could get to the staircase.
“It’s far too early in the morning for this level of chaos,” Mummy grumbled after a long moment where she merely observed Mycroft. “Mikey, you’re old enough to know better. You shouldn’t start fights with Sherlock.”
“I didn’t!” he protested, acutely aware at how his cheeks flushed with shame upon his mother’s admonishment.
“But you shouldn’t get embroiled, Mikey.”
“Mycroft,” he corrected resentfully. His mother merely rolled her eyes at his correction before she bustled into the kitchen while he trudged in the same direction as Sherlock, eager to get the whole sorry mess over with and into a hot shower and warm clothes himself.
His foot had just hit the first step of the staircase when he looked up and caught a flash of Sherlock’s face before the boy spun around and ran up the final few steps. His little brother had obviously waited on the stairs to listen to Mummy’s telling off. But it was the expression on Sherlock’s face that stayed with Mycroft.
It was a look that said Sherlock had been struck with the realisation that he could always pin the blame on his older brother.
And that Mycroft, being the sentimental fool that he so obviously was, would always protect him to the best of his ability.