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When Quentin is six, Mycroft goes to Uni. Sitting quietly in the corner of the foyer, the innards of a dismantled radio laid out in precise chaos between his spread legs, Quinn watches from behind thick framed glasses as their father clasps Mycroft’s hand in a strong, proud grip and hauls him in close for a hug in the sort of gentlemanly, man-to-man display of affection Father hasn’t yet realized Mycroft detests. Quinn spies Sherlock, eleven and in a sulking temper, leaning over the banister, glaring down on the goodbyes. Mummy calls to him twice, first gently and then less so, but he won’t come down. Mycroft only glances up at Sherlock for a long moment, an unexceptional look, but it is enough to make Sherlock shove away from the stair rail all together and stomp down the hall to his room. The slam of the door echoes down to the ground level clearly.
It’s a measure of the family’s acclimation to Sherlock’s swinging temperament that no one flinches at the sound.
"Sherrinford, sweetheart—come say goodbye to Myc.“
”Mycroft, mother. Please.“
"Oh, alright, very well—what a proper gentleman of the town you’re becoming, Mycroft.” Mummy flattens her hands over her eldest’s sons shoulders and brushes imaginary dust from both gently. “Sherrin, come on then.”
"He prefers Quentin,“ Mycroft corrects, and Quinn is aware (in the way that children sometimes are) that the elder is watching him get to his feet, taking his measure as he moves toward the door, careful of not crushing the delicate radio parts beneath his shoes.
Mummy lays a gentle hand on Quinn’s head as he draws close to her side and smooths back his errant curls absently, smiling down at him first and then at Mycroft. "Are all my boys to have some sort of fit over how I call them?”
"Perhaps it is your comeuppance for such avant-garde naming practices.“
"Now, Mycroft,” Father intercedes quietly.
Quinn shifts uneasily on his feet and Mycroft’s attention comes to him; he stills immediately, as if Mycroft had put a hand on his shoulder and stopped the fidgeting himself. And if Quinn notices that Mycroft nearly smiles, (it’s a barely perceptible thing, just the smallest possible twitch of his lips) he makes no mention of it; still, to Quinn’s young eyes eyes it reads like satisfaction and he lifts his chin a little proudly.
He may not be Mummy’s favorite or Father’s, but he is Mycroft’s – even if only because he will obey when Sherlock does not.
"I suspect,“ Mycroft says evenly and just to him, "that our dearest brother will be particularly insufferable in the coming days. He’ll need seeing to. You’ll look after him for me, won’t you?”
Quentin bobs his head in a nod, careful of solemnity. “Yes, Mycroft.”
"Very well – then I will entrust the task to you.“ There is a long look of consideration that Mycroft gives him, but he reaches out almost absently and Quinn quickly steps away from Mummy’s side to put himself in the way of that gesture so, when Mycroft’s hand comes to rest atop his head lightly, it seems almost organic – as if such displays of brotherly sentimentality were common to them.
Behind them, Mummy touches her fingertips to her mouth and stifles a sound like a coo, and their Father clears his throat, not nearly so gruff as he often pretends to be. Quinn tries not to pay them too much attention, peering up at Mycroft through his lenses, still and attentive.
The hand on his head gives a little pat before slipping away, falling comfortably back to Mycroft’s side as if it had never left.
"Don’t let Sherlock run the wilds while I’m gone. And do not consume anything he offers you, food, drink or otherwise.” Mycroft issues the warning with a level, firm look down the slope of his nose and a tip of his head.
"Yes, Mycroft,“ Quinn answers dutifully, if somewhat drolly. After all, he is young, not stupid; his instinct for self preservation (and no small understanding of the dangers of common-growing poisonous herbs) has served him well when trailing after Sherlock as he’s apt to do.
"And,” Mycroft tacks on, no less firmly, “do not fall behind in your studies. I expect to have a worthy Scrabble opponent when I return for winter hols. Do not disappoint me, Quentin.”
Behind his lenses, Quinn blinks up owlishly at his brother and absolutely does not fidget. He does, however, tug at his lower lip with his teeth – just for the briefest moment – in a rare show of fretting.
Then, slowly, he nods.
"Yes, Mycroft.“
There it is again, the ghost of a smile, and that same satisfaction. Mycroft does not reach out to pat him a second time, but when he nods – just once – Quentin warms with his approval.
Outside, a two-beat honk of a horn says the taxi is still waiting and no doubt that the driver is becoming impatient. Father jumps to, as if he might do something to get things under way, but there’s nothing to be done; the bags have been loaded and all that remains is to say goodbye.
Mummy sweeps in to press a kiss to each of Mycroft’s cheeks and then his forehead, murmuring something that Quinn does not catch; he sees Mycroft’s face well-enough though, stamped with an expression of careful but long-suffering patience. For just a second, watching his wife and his eldest, Father lays a hand on Quinn’s shoulder, the weight of it heavy but not unwelcome as Quinn makes note of his brother’s technique for inching out of Mummy’s arms and closer to escape.
However, with one foot over the threshold, Mycroft pauses to look back, and Quinn likes to imagine that he is lingered over for a second longer than their parents. Indeed, for a moment, it even seems as if Mycroft might say something more, but – the two-beat honk of the taxi comes again, somehow more imperious this time, an interruption.
Mycroft purses his lips and says nothing. With a short, brisk nod, he turns on his heel and heads down the walk to the idling taxi while overhead the sky rumbles with the threat of rain. Father’s hand falls off Quinn’s shoulder as he moves to stand beside Mummy in the frame of the door, the two of them leaning against each other as they bear witness to Mycroft’s exodus.
Quinn, for his part, doesn’t stay to watch. He slips quietly away from his parents, and out of the foyer, leaving the bits of his dismantled radio for the time being to make his way upstairs. He isn’t terribly surprised to find Sherlock hiding, just out of sight, on the landing, his hands braced on the edge of the window overlooking the drive.
Quentin knows he’s not imagining the petulance in the set of Sherock’s mouth, or the tuck of his brow, but he doesn’t say anything about it in particular. Instead, he leans against the wall by Sherlock’s hip, too short himself to see out the landing window, and keeps his brother company as best he can.
It takes a little while, but eventually the rumble of a car crunching down the drive tells him that at last Mycroft’s off; a minute or two later, the faint sag of Sherlock’s shoulders tells him that the taxi’s gone out of sight at the end of the property.
Still, Sherlock does not look away from the window quite yet.
"He’ll be back,” Quentin says quietly, inspecting his shoes, “for hols.”
He doesn’t have to be looking at Sherlock to know his brother is sneering valiantly. “Of course he’ll be back – barring some sort of fortuitous tragedy in the meantime, it’s obvious.” Finally, Sherlock tears his gaze from the window to look down at him. “Don’t be obvious. It’s boring.”
Quinn nods solemnly but says nothing.
They stay on the landing for a moment or two longer, not doing much of anything but holding still in the wake of their brother’s departure – until the hushed murmur of voices and the familiar, solid sound of the front door closing tells them Mummy and Father have snapped free of their vigil. Sherlock glances downward over the railing and frowns before turning smartly on his heel and marching back to his room.
The door slams closed a second time, echoing dully in Quentin’s ears.
Alone, he sits down at the top of the landing and plants his elbows on his knees, chin cupped between his two hands as he stares thoughtfully at the high window and tries to calculate – to the second – how long it might be until Mycroft comes home.