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Mycroft glared daggers down at his sixteen-year-old brother as he walked into his school headteacher’s office.
Sherlock had a bruised lip, messy hair, and slight bruising on his cheek. Meanwhile, the boy next to him had a knot on his head, a messy uniform, and a bloody nose, holding a handkerchief to it to stop the bleeding.
“Mycroft-“ Sherlock tried, but Mycroft lifted a silencing hand. “I’ll speak to you when I’m finished.” He said tightly, looking as if he could combust into flames of fury at any second.
“Hello, Mr Holmes. Please, come in.” The headteacher said politely, opening his door for the man. Inside waited the other boy’s father. Clearly, they were both in a world of trouble.
‘Oh, bloody hell…’ Sherlock thought with a sigh as the door closed.
His eyes flashed over to the boy sitting a few chairs down from him, giving him a dirty look. “Thanks a lot, you twat. Now we’re both in trouble.” Sherlock said.
"Me? What about you, you stupid prick?" James responded. "Just be thankful Mrs Collins came when she did, you'd be needing a new nose if she hadn't.”
“Ha, that’s hilarious. Almost as hilarious as that knot I left on your head.” Sherlock shot back dryly. “Serves you right for being an idiot.”
The teenagers had been arguing in the hallway, nothing that was particularly out of the ordinary.
However, once James had mentioned something about his parents ‘not even wanting to be around him’, Sherlock completely lost it.
Before either of them knew it, they were on the floor punching each other and rolling around. Soon after, they were both sitting outside the main office, waiting for their respective adults to pick them up.
“You’re an arse.” James scoffed. “All you do is walk around as if you are smarter than everyone else.” He said.
Sherlock chuckled dryly. “Oh? Is that right? Well, when all you do is act like a fucking muppet, I’m sure I seem much more intelligent by comparison.” He said arrogantly.
“It’s not my fault that you don’t have the brain capacity that I do, Moriarty.” Sherlock shrugged.
James snorted. “It’s not my fault that your parents decided to abandon you, either. So, I suppose we both have things we can work on.” He said, looking Sherlock in the eye as the other boy began to visibly get pissed.
James knew his parents were a sore subject for him, judging by his reactions whenever he mentioned them, so he kept pushing.
“Oh, except I can always get smarter. You, on the other hand, will never be enough for them. And that’s not something that’s ever going to change, mate.” James said.
Immediately, Sherlock got to his feet and tackled the boy out of his chair, sending them both to the floor.
“YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT MY FAMILY!” Sherlock shouted, landing, again, an extremely hard punch directly on the other kid’s nose. Blood immediately spurted, staining his hands and his rival’s uniform shirt in red.
Adrenaline spiking, the other boy grabbed Sherlock’s arm and bit… hard. Sherlock shouted, both out of surprise and pain, alerting the adults inside. The headteacher, Mycroft, Mr Moriarty, and the secretary came running out.
“What the hell’s going on here?” Mycroft asked, “SHERLOCK!” he shouted, trying to be heard over the panting and shouting.
Neither kid seemed to hear; both ingrained in their own world of fists and punches. The scene looked terrible, just blood, ripped clothes, and two messy mops of hair and gangly limbs.
“BOYS!” The principal shouted, voice stern with years of experience. “Stop this nonsense right this moment, before your suspension becomes an expulsion.” Still, no answer from either boy.
Accepting his fate, Mycroft stood next to the boxing match that was his brother and, very ungraciously, grabbed Sherlock by the waist and pulled him off the other boy.
Anyone would think that that would be enough to at least make him aware of his surroundings, but Sherlock was possessed, all kicks and screams and punches to the air, trying to get back into the fight.
Thankfully, Mr Moriarty had followed Mycroft's lead and was holding his own misfit away from Sherlock. Mycroft had to snap his brother out of his rage, so he lowered his mouth to his ear.
“If you don’t stop it right now, I will make you regret it.” He whispered firmly so only Sherlock could hear.
It did snap Sherlock out of it, ceasing the boy’s struggle. He was still glaring at James, his teeth gritted. He was livid, and he wanted to rip the ignoramus’s head clean off his body.
However, Mycroft made sure that didn’t happen as he placed him back on his feet. From the look in the man’s eyes, he could tell that he was in trouble.
Sherlock couldn’t help but feel satisfied after everything was said and done. Well, at least now, before he had to face the consequences. It was bloody worth it, though.
Sherlock had his arms crossed, looking out of the car window as their personal driver drove them home.
Mycroft had been chastising him almost the entire way home, but Sherlock wasn’t in the mood to listen or respond.
“You know better than to get into fights, Sherlock. I am so disappointed in you. You just got suspended for an entire week, and you’re lucky you weren’t expelled! What the bloody hell were you thinking?!” Mycroft demanded, now speaking to the back of the boy’s head.
The boy didn’t answer. He was the perfect picture of an arrogant toddler: scowl on his face, arms crossed over his chest, pout on his lips, and it didn’t help that his messy hair made him look many years younger.
“I'm talking to you, lad.” Mycroft scolded. “But I am not talking to you.” Sherlock finally said. “I’m not telling you shite.”
Mycroft knew what Sherlock was doing; God knew it hadn’t been that long since he was his brother's age, but he also knew that his father would’ve taken a strap to his arse if he ever spoke to him that way. Lifting his hand, he brought it down on his brother's thigh, hard.
SMACK SMACK SMACK!
“You don’t talk to me that way, and you definitely don’t use that language,” Mycroft said.
Sherlock yelped, rubbing his leg and looking between his brother and the driver, embarrassed of having been smacked like a little kid in front of him.
The look Mycroft was giving him stopped him from saying anything else. He turned back to the window, refusing to let his evil brother see the tears that were betraying him and coming out of his eyes.
Why was he crying? He was 16, practically a man now; he should be able to take a little punishment without crying, or so Sherlock thought.
The rest of the ride home was silent. Sherlock sulked the rest of the way, refusing to speak at all. Mycroft was quite cross with his brother, so he didn’t mind the silence at all.
When they got home, Sherlock slammed the door behind him, not even waiting for their driver to open it for him before running to the front door. He didn’t want to see his brother right now.
“Sherlock!” Mycroft shouted, getting out of the car and swiftly walking after him. Sherlock angrily grabbed his keys from his backpack and unlocked the front door. Pushing it open, he ran inside.
Mycroft closed the door behind them, watching as Sherlock ran upstairs to his room without answering him. “Don’t you dare slam that door, William!” Mycroft exclaimed.
Sherlock stopped mid-slam. He oh-so wanted to slam the door, but he knew Mycroft would, in exchange, slam his hand onto his behind, so he opted for strongly closing his door and falling face-first into his bed, crying into his pillow.
Tears of anger and tears of sadness, for stupid Moriarty, for stupid Mycroft, and for his stupid parents for not being here.
Mycroft sighed, running a tired hand over his face. He needed to calm down, and they both needed space from each other before continuing their conversation. So, he went and made himself a nice cup of tea.
He sat on their plush couch and sipped it as he read a nice book. This always calmed him down, some quiet alone time. Mycroft didn’t know what had gotten into Sherlock, but he was going to make sure he found out by the end of their little chat.
When he was done with his tea, he decided to take one to Sherlock as a peace offering. Hopefully, they both had time to calm down and could sit down to have a conversation.
He knocked on the door, earning a muffled “Go away!” From Sherlock.
Mycroft rolled his eyes and opened the door, closing it behind him. “You can continue sulking after we talk.” He said dryly. Sherlock glared at his older brother, not wanting to see him.
“You embarrassed me in front of our driver!” Sherlock exclaimed accusingly. Mycroft shrugged, unbothered. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have done what you’d done to warrant the embarrassment.” He said.
Sherlock groaned; that way, only teenagers manage to do “You’re the worst, and I hate you!” He said, giving his back to his brother.
Mycroft walked over, standing in front of him. “Tea?” He asked, holding up a dainty plate with a nice cup of warm tea. He had a feeling Sherlock still wouldn’t be in the mood to talk, but regardless, this conversation was going to happen.
Sherlock scoffed, not bothering to turn around. “No, Mycroft. I don’t want any tea, you daft-“ His insult was cut short as Mycroft set the cup aside on the boy’s bedside table and turned him around to face him.
Sherlock’s eyes widened as Mycroft revealed the first aid kit he had been holding. “Let me get a look at you,” Mycroft said, leaving no room for argument.
Sherlock groaned as Mycroft got the supplies ready, tilting his head back in annoyance.
“Oh, bugger off, Mycroft! I’m fine!” He exclaimed.
“I’ll be the judge of that. Now look here.” Mycroft ordered, sitting on the bed next to Sherlock. “I said I don’t want to. I’m fine; just go away.” He said.
“Sherlock, you’re being childish. You have blood and bruises on your face. Either you let me check them out, or I’ll have a doctor do it. Your call.” Mycroft said.
Sherlock didn't answer, but he turned to look at Mycroft, still pouting but at least cooperating.
“Take off your shirt.” Sherlock looked at him as if he had grown a new head.
“It’s covered in blood; I need to make sure it’s not yours,” Mycroft said.
Sherlock tilted his head back in annoyance, letting out a loud groan.
“UghhHHHHHHHHH!!!” He moaned. “It’s his nose’s blood!” Sherlock stated sharply. After he took a second to think about it, though, he honestly didn’t want to be wearing that shirt anymore…
With a stubborn huff, he took his shirt off and debated throwing it at Mycroft.
Not wanting to test him, though, he just tossed it aside onto his desk across the room. He crossed his arms over his chest, remaining somewhat defiant.
Mycroft scoffed and uncrossed the boy’s arms, checking him over. There wasn’t any bruising from the waist down, but his face still needed to be tended to. However, one of his arms did have a bite mark on it.
Mycroft took Sherlock’s arm and rubbed some healing salve onto it after properly cleaning it, ignoring Sherlock’s protesting hiss.
“You have a lot of explaining to do, Sherlock.” Mycroft said, gently using an alcohol wipe to disinfect the boy’s lip.
Sherock hissed, batting the man’s hands away. “Piss off, Mycroft!” He exclaimed. Mycroft had very little patience for this behaviour, so he grabbed his chin and looked him firmly in the eye.
“Smack my hands again, and I’ll smack your bum. Behave yourself, William. That’s your last warning about that.” He stated sharply.
Sherlock looked away, wincing and hissing but otherwise allowing his brother to finish cleaning him. “So,” Mycroft said, closing the first aid kit, “Are you going to talk or should I start smacking?” He asked.
That got a reaction out of the kid. “What part of ‘I don’t want to talk to you’ don’t you get? You’re not father, I don’t have to tell you shite!“ Sherlock shouted.
“I’m well aware that I’m not father, but I’m what you’ve got,” Mycroft stated. It was very hard not to shout at the brat at the moment.
“Do you think I want to be raising someone else’s kids in my 20s? Don’t you think I'd much rather be enjoying myself and going out instead of checking homework and picking up brats from school for fights that I don’t even know what they were about?” Mycroft asked, his voice raising.
”OF COURSE NOT, SHERLOCK, BUT I DO IT BECAUSE I LOVE YOU AND BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU SHIPPED OFF TO BOARDING SCHOOL!” Mycroft shouted, his emotions getting the best of him.
Sherlock simply crossed his arms, turning his head away from the man. Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes. “Very mature.” He said.
Mycroft took in a deep breath before sitting next to Sherlock. “William, look at me.” He said, keeping his voice calm so Sherlock would respond.
Sherlock begrudgingly turned to face him, though he looked down at his feet instead of into his eyes. Mycroft gently tilted his chin up, looking him in the eye. “I understand that things have been hard since mum and dad left.” He said.
“However, that is no excuse for you to misbehave and get into schoolyard scuffles! I will not accept you acting as if you have no home training!” Mycroft said.
“You are not a ruffian! Now, you’ve gone and gotten suspended.” He said.
Sherlock snapped. “You don’t even know what happened!” He shouted, standing to his feet. “You have no idea what kind of ridiculous rubbish he was spewing!” He exclaimed.
“Tell me, then!” Mycroft exclaimed exasperatedly, sick of Sherlock being vague.
Sherlock angrily pursed his lips, his nostrils flaring. He couldn’t even bring himself to tell Mycroft what Moriarty had said. So, he just scoffed and shook his head, turning his back on Mycroft yet again.
“It doesn’t even matter. You’re going to beat me up anyway.” He said dramatically.
Mycroft sighed and shook his head at the boy’s dramatics. “I’ve never ‘beaten you up’, Sherlock. That’s ridiculous and you know it.” He said.
“I will be heating your bum. Rightfully so.” Mycroft stated, standing to his feet and rolling up his sleeves, loosening his tie.
Sherlock turned back around and watched as the man neatly folded up his jacket and set it aside.
Leave it to Mycroft to act as if smacking his little brother was an act of diplomacy rather than torture.
“If you do not want to speak anymore, very well. Let’s get this over with.” Mycroft said, taking a seat back on the boy’s bed.
Sherlock gave Mycroft an indignant look. “I’m sixteen, yet you still think I should be turned over your knee?!“ He exclaimed.
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “You certainly still fit over it, so yes. I do.” He said simply. “Come along,” Mycroft said, patting his knee.
Sherlock stood his ground. “I refuse to be treated like a young child.” He said.
Mycroft couldn’t help the laugh that left his throat. “Is that so?” He asked.
Sherlock was seething at how condescending Mycroft was being. “Yes, it is so, you bloody wanker!” He shouted, unable to stop the stomp he made.
“Then,” He started, reaching and grabbing Sherlock by his bicep to pull him into his lap. “You should stop acting like a petulant child.” He said, landing the first smack.
Sherlock grunted at the swat, gritting his teeth. Instead of fighting against him and giving him the satisfaction of seeing him upset, he simply laid there glaring at the floor. He was dead set on not bloody crying.
Mycroft’s palm landed in a stinging pattern. He was very calculated with his swats and the amount of strength he was putting in. He didn’t want to injure the boy; he just wanted to teach him a lesson about not getting into fights.
“You know better than to fight your schoolmates, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, landing four swats in a row to his upturned behind.
It wasn’t the worst thing he’s had to spank Sherlock for, so this was more of a reminder that there are consequences rather than a hard punishment. Still, he wanted to make an impression upon his bum.
Sherlock grimaced as Mycroft’s hand rained hell down onto his upturned behind. His brother had a mean swing, but he didn’t need to know that.
“You are grounded for as long as your suspension lasts,” Mycroft said, never ceasing his swatting. Now this irritated Sherlock.
At that moment, he wanted to make his brother just as annoyed as he was. “So…a week? Was the math too hard for you to figure out, Mycroft?” Sherlock quipped sarcastically.
“You’re right- how silly of me!” Two could play the sarcasm game; “Take that, multiply it by four and divide it by two. I know how much you like a challenge.“ He said, not ever pausing the rain of smacks.
“That’s not fair!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Next week is bonfire night!” He whined. “Well, I guess you won’t be attending this year, will you? Maybe next year you can behave better.” Mycroft said calmly.
Sherlock yelped as an extra sharp swat landed on his upper thigh. “You pompous bastard!” He snapped. Mycroft tsked, shaking his head as he continued to heat up Sherlock’s bum.
“Wow, such naughty language for a boy arse up over my lap. Perhaps we should lose these…” Mycroft threateningly tugged on Sherlock’s waistband.
“Perhaps you should lose that haircut, you git…” Sherlock muttered under his breath. “Is that so, brother dear?” Mycroft asked, pausing his swats.
“Yes, as I said earlier, it is so. Christ, Mycroft. Perhaps you should lay off the rum…” Sherlock stated sassily. The teenager gasped as Mycroft tugged his trousers down to his knees, leaving him in his boxers.
“Anything else you’d like to add, lad?” Mycroft asked patiently. “I can be here all day.” He said. Sherlock couldn’t help himself. “Yeah, because you have nowhere else to fucking be! You no-life-having arrogant twat!” He snapped.
“Well then, if that’s how you truly feel, I suppose you won’t be needing these after all…” Mycroft said, smoothly pulling Sherlock’s underwear down to join his trousers. Then, he resumed spanking him.
As expected, the pain was much sharper this time around. Skin was hitting skin, the loud noise echoing through his room. It was stingy before, but now it had started to HURT!
Sherlock grabbed the comforter in his hands, fisting it and hiding his face between his arms. He really did not want to cry, but realized he might lose that battle.
Mycroft continued his assault on his little brother’s rear and noticed the change in Sherlock’s posture.
‘Good, a bit of humbling will do the lad some good.’ Mycroft thought. He didn’t enjoy doing this at all; he’d much rather be teasing him and just enjoying each other's company, but that’s how he was brought up; that’s how he knew their father would’ve dealt with him, so that’s what he was going to do, still, knowing this didn’t make it any easier.
“Are we getting somewhere, brother dear? Has the sass and naughtiness left your rebellious mouth? Because, as you’ve previously stated, I have no life; therefore, I can do this all day.” He said, shifting his focus to his brother's thighs and undercurve, knowing first-hand how much more than hurt and how much Sherlock hated it.
Sherlock yelped, unable to hold back. He glared at the floor, his bottom heating up with every passing swat. “Ouch! Ah! Mycroft! OW! Bloody hell!” He exclaimed, squirming.
Sherlock had hit a growth spurt lately, but he hadn’t gotten taller than Mycroft. He wished he were too tall to be put in this embarrassing position, but he had a feeling Mycroft would find a way to make it work regardless.
“Stop it! I get it, alright?! You’ve made your fucking point!” He yelled. Mycroft landed five sharp smacks on the boy’s sit spots.
“Language, William.” Mycroft chastised. “You are already going to be sleeping on your stomach tonight. I don’t suggest making it worse.” He said, his palm painting his brother’s light pink bottom a bright shade of red.
As much as he tried to avoid it, the tears that he’d been holding until that moment came out. It doesn’t matter your age; getting smacked hurts, and if it hurts, you cry, right? No judgment there. He wouldn’t judge his friends if they’d cried during a smacking.
Oh god, his friends! How embarrassing would it be if they ever found out?! He already didn’t have very many due to his peculiar personality, so this would certainly make all of them laugh at him!
“I don’t know what has gotten into you, but it ends now,” Mycroft said as he alternated between sides.
“You say I’m not father, and you’re right, but what do you think father would’ve done if he heard you speak that way? I'm pretty sure you would be having a test of the belt right now
Tears filled Sherlock’s eyes at the mention of their dad. “S-shut up!” He yelled.
Mycroft shook his head. “No, I don’t think I will.” He said, his palm continuing to land. “You are not in charge here, Sherlock. In fact, if you were in charge, you’d probably be in a young offender institution by now!” Mycroft lectured.
“OUCH! AAH! OWW! Just-AH! Stop it!” Sherlock shouted, throwing a hand back to cover his sore bum.
Expecting this, Mycroft just grabbed his hand and pinned it behind his back, never missing a beat.
Mycroft didn’t say much more; he knew his brother, and he knew that as long as he wasn’t repentant, he would keep fighting and not listening.
Then suddenly, there it was; Sherlock’s sobs had finally come out. It is not as if he wanted to make his brother cry, but usually, before Sherlock finally let go, anything you said would have a sassy comeback, and Sherlock would be thinking about how to backtalk instead of actually listening.
“I will do right by you, lad,” Mycroft said between smacks. “Even if it means giving you a bedtime spanking every night until it gets through your thick skull.” He stated.
He was bluffing, of course. He wouldn’t actually do that, but Sherlock needed to know that he took this seriously.
“It’s already hard enough as it is raising you alone, William. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat, though.” Mycroft said sincerely.
Their parents lived in Scotland due to their jobs. Mycroft had been raising Sherlock since he was 18 and his brother was 11.
He cared about him more than words could say, and that meant taking his education seriously. Sherlock went to one of the best schools in England; he couldn’t afford incidents like this on his record.
“Students have been kicked out of your school for much less, your headmaster told me,” Mycroft said, targeting Sherlock’s sit spots and under curve sharply. “I won’t have it. Do you understand me, William?” Mycroft demanded.
“If something like this or anything else that gets you suspended from school ever happens again, I’m gonna take a paddle to your behind for each day of the suspension, do you understand me?Additionally, if you talk back or are rude to me one more time, I'm going to wash your mouth out. God knows it’s been a long time since mother last did it.” Mycroft said.
He continued landing loud smacks that could barely be heard over the loud howls coming from his brother. Sherlock usually took a little bit of time to cry, trying to prove he’s all husk and stuff, but once he did, he yelled and cried as if someone was cutting off a limb.
Mycroft didn’t care if the kid needed to let it out; he wouldn’t judge. It is not as if he didn’t use to cry when he was the one over his parents’ lap.
A couple of smacks later, completely sure that his brother would still feel his reprimand for a couple of days, or at least the next one, he finished up, pulled up his brother's undershorts, and moved him so he was sitting on his lap instead of lying on it.
Without missing a beat, Sherlock’s arms rounded Mycroft, and the kid buried his face in the crook of his neck, letting out the rest of his cries.
“There, there. It’s alright, little brother. You’ve been properly punished.” Mycroft said softly, stroking Sherlock’s hair as he rubbed his back. Sherlock openly sobbed against Mycroft, clinging to him. “It h-hurts!” He cried.
Mycroft gently rocked him back and forth, shushing him. “Shhh, I know. I know...” He cooed softly, just holding the boy and letting him know he was there for him.
“I m-miss sniffle m-mum and dad!” Sherlock bawled. “I m-miss when y-you were j-just my big b-brother! N-not my g-guardian.” He cried.
Mycroft’s heart shattered as he heard this. “Oh, Sherlock.” He whispered, letting the boy cry it all out. “I miss mummy and dad, too.” Mycroft said, cupping Sherlock’s cheek and looking him in the eye.
“I know that I look out for you, but I’ll always be your big brother. That won’t ever change, no matter how much of a guardian I am.” Mycroft said.
This only made Sherlock cry ever harder against the man. Mycroft continued to hold the boy in his arms, patiently waiting for his cries to die down.
When they did, he used his handkerchief and gently wiped Sherlock’s face clean of tears.
“What provoked the fight?” He asked, his tone calm. Sherlock had already been punished, so he wouldn’t be angry with him regardless of what he had said.
Sherlock frowned as he thought of it again. “Moriarty was saying rubbish about mum and dad. About how they left because of me...” Sherlock trailed off.
Mycroft frowned, holding his brother closer. Suddenly, he understood why Sherlock had reacted the way that he did. “That’s terrible and not true. You know that, right?” He asked.
Sherlock nodded his head. “They’re still gone, and I’m still here.” He said sadly. Mycroft looked him in the eye as he spoke.
“They love us very much, Sherlock. They miss us just as much as we miss them. I know it.” He said, lightly rubbing his back.
He reached over and grabbed the teacup he had brought Sherlock, handing it to him. “Besides, it’s not so bad here. Just the two of us.” Mycroft smiled. Sherlock took the cup.
“No, I guess it’s not. It wouldn’t be better tho, if you stopped beating my arse.” He said, hiding a small smile in his teacup.
Mycroft smirked, gently running his hand through Sherlock’s curls. “Cheeky.” He teased.