Work Text:
Fifteen-year-old Sherlock inhaled and exhaled the smoke from his brother’s pipe. What? Anything his older brother could do, he could handle too.
Smoking made him feel so adult. He hated when Mycroft and his overprotective police officer boyfriend treated him like a little kid. It was completely and utterly ridiculous!
He coughed as the smoke flew out of his mouth, swearing he could feel relaxed already.
Meanwhile in the hallway, Mycroft was speaking on his phone to someone. Something to do with driving arrangements for Sherlock to go to school next week due to their regular driver taking time off for a much-needed vacation.
“Yes, thank you very much for your time. You come highly recommended to me, indeed.” Mycroft said, holding the notebook Sherlock left on the living room coffee table. He was on his way to return it to the boy, unbeknownst to Sherlock.
Why couldn’t the kid ever put his stuff away? Still on the phone, he entered his brother’s room and left the notebook at his desk. He couldn’t help but notice that Sherlock’s clean laundry was still on his bed where he left it that morning.
Sighing, he started putting it away in their respective drawers, making a note to talk to Sherlock again about putting his stuff in their place. He was closing the sock drawer when he noticed smoke coming in from the small balcony attached to the room.
“Yes, we can definitely discuss it over tea. A pub? Well, I don’t often drink alcohol…” He continued the casual conversation over the phone, slowly walking towards the balcony.
There, he saw his brat of a little brother smoking his pipe. The same pipe he had been looking for prior to this phone call!
Mycroft narrowed his eyes down at the lad, walking over and grabbing Sherlock by the back of his nape. Sherlock gasped, the pipe falling to the ground as he felt himself get dragged into his room.
“H-Hey! Stop it, Mycroft! I can explain!” He shouted, yelping as Mycroft swatted him all the way to the corner as he struggled in his hold.
Mycroft was still on the phone, responding with polite ‘mhm’s and ‘certainly’s to let the man on the other side of the call know that he was still listening. Sherlock turned around, trying to defend himself and his poor decision, but Mycroft wasn’t having it.
“Yes, that’s quite lovely indeed.” Mycroft said over the phone before glaring down at his brother and ominously mouthing the words, ‘Turn around and shut your mouth. I’ll deal with you in a moment,’ while continuing his conversation with the man.
“Yes, I’d love to discuss this some more. I can certainly make this position worth your while, and I can personally promise you that my brother will not be giving you any trouble whatsoever if you decide to take the position.” Mycroft directed the last part pointedly at Sherlock, who had turned back to face the corner and sulk.
Sherlock sulked. What was wrong with Mycroft? Why did he insist on treating him like a little kid? It’s not like he was doing something illegal; Mycroft did it all the time! And what’s with the swatting?! That was so embarrassing; he was sure the person on the other side could hear everything.
Still, he didn’t want to risk more swats, so he stared at the wall, kicking his foot on the little wood carvings that adorned the perimeter of his room. Figuring his brother was too busy with his call, Sherlock risked a very rude gesture with his hand towards his brother behind his back, followed by a “Self-righteous prick! Sodding hypocrite...”
He did not expect his brother to see, and he definitely did not expect his brother to interrupt his call. “Would you excuse me for a moment? Something requires my immediate attention.”
Mycroft hit the hold button, muting the conversation on his end and setting the phone aside before walking over to Sherlock. He grabbed him and bent him under his arm, landing a flurry of smacks to his bottom.
Sherlock gasped and yelped, kicking his legs back. “OWW! SHIT! MYCROFT-OUCH! LET ME-AHH-UP! OWW!” He cried out.
Mycroft continued to heat up his brother’s behind until he felt he would mind his fingers from now on. Then, he stood him up on his feet and pointed a finger in his face.
“Put your nose in that corner, and don’t make a sound. Unless you want the nice substitute driver to hear you getting your bum smacked, I suggest you remain silent.” He said in a low tone.
Sherlock pouted, though he’d deny it if you called him out for it.
“I-I’LL CALL CHILDREN’S SERVICES!” Sherlock threatened, glaring daggers up at his brother.
Mycroft snorted. “Very well, if you wish. In fact, I’ll dial for you so they can hear all that is transpiring. Would that make you happy, Sherlock? To let them hear you getting your disobedient bum smacked?” Mycroft asked.
Sherlock gritted his teeth, glaring daggers down at the floor as his face blushed bright red out of mortification. “G-go to hell.” He huffed, his voice cracking with humiliation.
“No, go to the corner.” Mycroft corrected sarcastically, turning Sherlock around and sending him back to the corner with a swat! “Heed my warning, lad.” Mycroft warned.
Sherlock went back to the corner, not stomping his foot and not rubbing his bum. He hated that. He hated corner time; he hated being young, he hated how easily his brother decided he needed discipline, and he was supposed to just take it.
He knew that his brother cared for him, but sometimes that blinded him to see that he was growing; yet, there he was, facing a corner like a toddler because he knew that Mycroft’s last semblance of patience had run its course and he knew better than to anger him further.
After an eternity, which was in fact 15 minutes (Mycroft wasn’t anything if not meticulous; 1 minute per year of life, that’s how it always had been), Sherlock sensed his brother sitting on his bed and staring at him, but he knew better than to turn around before he was called.
“Get over here. Now.” Mycroft demanded sternly. Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and stomping over.
Mycroft lifted an unamused eyebrow. “Turn around, uncross those arms, rid yourself of the attitude, and walk over as if you have manners.” He said firmly, not in the mood for Sherlock’s behavior.
Sherlock scoffed. “Up yours.” He said, rolling his eyes defiantly. “I am mere seconds away from taking my belt to your backside, Sherlock. I strongly suggest you think about your next actions very carefully.” Mycroft warned.
“Ello, lads! I brought home some curry from our favorite restaurant! It’s nice and hot!” Greg suddenly exclaimed as he walked into the room, a bright smile on his face. He got the lunch special, so it was cheaper!
Both Holmes brothers continued to glare at each other, neither of them giving in.
Greg looked between the two of them, feeling the tension. “…Oh, I just remembered! I need to, umm…walk the dog!” He exclaimed with an awkward chuckle. They all knew damn well that they didn’t own a dog.
“Lovely, darling. We’ll be down for dinner soon. Sherlock and I just need to have a conversation. A nice, long, serious conversation that may or may not get quite emotional for one of us.” Mycroft said, rolling up his sleeves ominously.
Greg gave Sherlock a sympathetic look before nodding. He felt bad for the teenager, but knowing Mycroft, he knew the man had his reasons. Mycroft never spanked Sherlock for no reason.
“Very well, then.” Greg said with a nod, closing the door behind him and leaving them alone. “Bloody hell, Sherlock. You’ve really done it this time…” He said to himself, walking downstairs.
Sherlock huffed. He was not in the mood to give in. It had been such a good day; why did Mycroft need it to end badly? “If you weren’t such a wanker, we could be downstairs eating a good curry. Now we’re going to eat it cold because of you.”
“Because of me? I’m not the one to decide to smoke a pipe, Sherlock”
“YOU SMOKE PIPES ALL BLOODY DAY, MYCROFT!” He shouted, finally uncrossing his arms. “You have no grounds to tell me I can’t do it! And I wasn’t even smoking; I was just trying it out!”
“Whether I smoke or not, that’s not of your business, William. I'm an adult, you’re a child. Your business is to listen to me and do as you're told.” Mycroft said
“Well, I don’t like that!” Sherlock reproached, crossing his arms back over his chest.
“Well, good thing you don’t have to like it; you just have to do it. Now, go back to the corner and come out with a better attitude before I really decide to take my belt off.” Mycroft demanded.
Gritting his teeth, Sherlock took a deep breath and turned to walk back to the corner. When he walked back, he had a clearly pissed-off expression, but he didn't stomp or huff. It was progress, Mycroft would admit.
“This is humiliating, Mycroft. I'm sure none of my friends get treated like this...” Sherlock said.
Mycroft lifted a finger to his lips, hushing him as he stood to his feet. “I don’t want to hear it, William. I am going to talk, and you are going to listen.” He said firmly.
Sherlock wanted to test him and say something else snarky, but decided against it. Mycroft was clearly not in the mood for cheek.
“You will never use a pipe, a cigarette, a cigar, a hookah, or any other smoking device while underage again. I don’t care what you see adults doing; you are a child.“ He lectured.
“If I ever see you smoking again, I’ll turn you over my knee where you stand. Do I make myself perfectly clear, brother dear?” Mycroft demanded.
“Smoking clear, brother dear.” He answered, not being able to help himself. Mycroft took in a deep breath; that cheeky boy was going to be the death of him.
“Great. And take my word for it, Sherlock, don’t test me.” He continued, towering over his brother.
“Now that that’s out of the way and we know you’ll behave yourself, we can move on to adjusting your attitude and giving you a reminder of what will happen if you ever smoke again.” Mycroft said.
“I thought you said you would punish me if you ever saw me smoking, Mycroft. Not if I ever smoked. I think you’re starting to go senile, brother.” Sherlock quipped.
Mycroft calmly walked over to Sherlock’s bedroom dresser. “So, with the hairbrush, then.” He said in response to his smart comment, picking it up in his hand and tapping it against his palm.
“It’s been a while since I’ve used her, but she’ll do.” He said, walking over to Sherlock’s bed and having a seat.
He set the hairbrush aside and motioned Sherlock over to him. “Come here, William.” He demanded, legal naming him. He only did that when he was either being really serious, or when he was pissed off.
Sherlock’s eyes almost popped out of his sockets. He knew he had to shut his mouth; he just couldn’t help himself. The brush? Was his brother serious?!
Watching his brother sit down on his bed, he was only able to shake his head. He really didn’t want the brush. He didn’t want anything, but the brush was top of his list.
“Y-You can’t be serious, Mycroft! I-“ Sherlock’s opening statement was cut short by Mycroft raising a hand to silence him.
“Yes, yes, you are too old for this. You’re an adult. You don’t answer to me. It’s unfair. This is ridiculous. You did nothing wrong. I get it, Sherlock.” Mycroft said expectantly, rolling his eyes. Sherlock could be quite predictable when he wanted to be. “You always use the same excuses.”
“They are not excuses if it’s the truth!” Sherlock exclaimed.
“Well, call it whatever you want, the result is the same. Come here please; don’t make me chase you.” Mycroft finished.
Sherlock’s hands went down to cover his backside, shaking his head nervously. “Okay, I admit that I shouldn’t have smoked!” He exclaimed.
Mycroft nodded. “Good. Now, come here. If I have to say it again, I’m adding extra.” He said nonchalantly.
Sherlock sighed, slowly shuffling over. His eyes nervously looked down at his feet, standing in front of his brother.
“Mycroft, I really don’t want to!” Sherlock whined.
Mycroft’s hands went down to his waist, undoing his pants and belt. Sherlock tried batting his hands away, letting out a protesting whimper.
Mycroft gave him a firm look, narrowing his eyes. He didn’t need to say a word to make his point known, Sherlock’s hands falling to his sides with a groan.
Mycroft bared Sherlock’s bum before turning him over his knee and wrapping an arm around his waist, keeping him steady.
“Think about why you are over my lap, young man.” Mycroft said.
“Because you’re an aging arse?” Sherlock huffed.
Mycroft nodded. “Right. No warm-ups needed with my palm, then. We can use the brush, that’s fine!” He said in a chipper tone, grabbing the hairbrush and tapping it on Sherlock’s upturned bottom.
Sherlock gasped. “W-wait! No-!” He exclaimed. It was too late, unfortunately, as the hairbrush landed immediately with a loud smack!
“OWW! Bloody hell, Mycroft! This is-AH!” Sherlock yelped.
“I don’t want to hear it. You’ve earned your place across my knee, so you’ll get the full experience. If you don’t like it, you can file a complaint with our HR department.” He said, nodding towards the trashcan in Sherlock’s corner.
Mycroft and Sherlock were quite witty and sarcastic, indeed. It must’ve been in their blood.
Sherlock groaned, biting and clutching the sheets on his bed. Tears were already falling; it wasn’t going to be long before he was a sobbing mess, and he knew it.
“You’re such a twat! I hate you!” He cried, “One day I’ll-OUCH! be big enough, and you’ll be the one-AH! G-getting a beating; see how you like that! OWW! OUCH!” Sherlock yelped.
Mycroft peppered Sherlock’s bottom with swift smacks, making sure to spread them out. “Good luck with that, little brother.” He said calmly, never ceasing the hairbrush.
Sherlock yelped, squirming. “Ouch! Stop!” He wailed. Mycroft simply tightened the hold around his waist, holding him still.
“Just wait and see, soon you'll be old and weak!” Sherlock exclaimed.
Mycroft chuckled. “Even so, I guarantee you that you’ll still fit across my knee.” He said, smacking Sherlock’s sit spots.
“OWW! You used to smoke as a teenager!” Sherlock stated.
“Ah, yes. Father certainly did a number on me, didn’t he?” Mycroft asked, his patient tone contrasting with his horribly painful smacks.
“That bloody stings! I get the point, Mycroft! Ah! OUCH!” Sherlock hollered, throwing a hand back.
Mycroft pinned Sherlock’s hand to the small of his back. “Careful, I’m sure you don’t want me to hit your hand with this.” He said, landing the hairbrush to the center of Sherlock’s now light pink bum.
“Mycroft, please!” He finally broke, sobs coming out of his mouth, making him shake with cries. “Please, just stop. I won’t do it again, I promise!”
Mycroft steeled his heart; he knew this was too much of an important lesson to let him off lightly. “Oh, I know you won’t do it again, little brother; I’m just making sure you get a reminder if you ever get tempted.” He said, aiming the brush at his brother's thighs.
Sherlock didn’t think he could cry harder, but the new pain was unbearable. He squirmed, trying to get away, but Mycroft had a firm hold on him. His cries didn’t let any more words come out; there was nothing else to do but to lie there and cry his heart out.
The worst part was that it was stupid. He knew it from the moment he found the pipe, but he just wanted to taste it, see what the big deal was.
The thing is, he knew that if he had told that to his brother or even Greg, they would’ve let him try it, just enough to get the curiosity out. But no, he had to go and hide like a toddler with a stolen snack.
“What will happen the next time you pull this, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, smacking Sherlock’s upper thighs. He was thorough, making sure that his thighs would match the same color as his behind.
Mycroft didn’t like to punish Sherlock, but the boy knew better. He knew what Mycroft’s expectations were, and he had stepped a bit too out of line.
Sherlock sniffled, his bottom lip quivering as he tried to hold it together. It was far too late for that, though, if the loud sobbing was any indication.
“…I-I’ll hiccup m-make sure to wear…a m-matching sniff bloody t-top hat…” Sherlock whimpered softly.
Mycroft couldn’t help the smirk that formed on his lips at Sherlock’s quip.
“William...” He said with a soft sigh.
Sherlock decided to give in, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I’ll g-get punished…s-severely.” He answered.
Mycroft nodded, glad that they were making progress. “Yes, that’s right.” He said. “You do it again and these will seem like love pats.” He emphasized by tapping the brush in the sensitive undercurve.
There was not much else to say. He finished the last of the punishment with some hard swats, doing a last one-over. Sheldon’s cries intensified, the sass leaving his body. He didn’t even notice that his brother had stopped.
Mycroft helped him stand up, standing him between his legs to help him pull up his clothes. Sherlock didn’t even seem to notice, sobs shaking his frame.
Mycroft pulled him into a hug, gently rubbing his back and stroking his hair as he cried against his shoulder. “There, there. It’s over now. You’ve been properly punished.” Mycroft cooed.
Sherlock openly bawled against him, clinging to him desperately.
“I'm-I-I’m s-sorryyy!” He cried into his brother's chest, gripping his shirt as if afraid he would leave if he didn’t. “ I d-didn’t m-mean what I s-said. I don’t hate you.” Sherlock admitted.
“I know, little brother.” He confronted, running his fingers through the kid's locks, “Even so, Sherlock, you still said it. You need to think before you say things that could potentially hurt people.” Mycroft reminded.
Sherlock nodded with a sniff, nuzzling his cheek against his brother and relaxing against him. “Y-You didn’t have to h-hit so hard…” He lamented softly.
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow, soothingly scratching Sherlock’s scalp. “You didn’t have to take such a hard hit, either.” Mycroft said, referring to his pipe. Sherlock remained silent, just soaking up his brother’s comfort.
He deserved the comfort and more, as far as he was concerned. Curry, included. Hell, in fact, maybe they should get that dog Greg was blabbering about. Sherlock would take as much softness as he could get.
After a couple of minutes of silence, which was hours in Sherlock-time, Mycroft got up, taking his brother with him.
“Come on, lad. Let’s go see if Greg saved us some curry.” He said, wrapping one arm around Sherlock’s shoulders to guide him downstairs.
Sherlock, whose cries were now just hiccups, nodded his head, using his sleeve to clean up his face. “Sherlock, don’t be disgusting!” He scolded lightly, grabbing his handkerchief. He faced his brother one more time, gently wiping his tears and nose.
Sherlock felt much younger than his age with the gesture, but was too worn out to refuse or even comment about it. Once Mycroft deemed his face clean enough, they resumed their track to the kitchen, where Greg had already set the table.
“You okay, love?” He asked when the brothers entered the kitchen. Sherlock nodded and turned to hide his face on his brother, embarrassment sinking in and painting his face the same color as his poor bum.
Sherlock knew that Greg and Mycroft were going to talk about what had just happened. Screw them and their stupid healthy relationship where there were no secrets!
Mycroft gently played with Sherlock’s messy curls, placing a soft kiss to the top of his head. “He’s alright. Probably quite hungry, though.” He said, playfully patting his cheek and leading him over to the table where their curry was already plated.
Sherlock gingerly sank into his seat with a grimace, squirming as his bottom made contact with the chair. “Mycroft skinned my arse alive…” Sherlock muttered, taking a bite of the delicious food.
Greg lifted an eyebrow, sitting next to the boy. “Did he, now? Well, how rude of him.” He said, rubbing Sherlock’s back.
Mycroft gasped in mock betrayal. “Gregory! How dare you try to turn my brother against me!” He teased, sitting next to them.
“It was easy, considering your sense of fashion.” Sherlock quipped with a cheeky smirk. Greg laughed loudly, and Mycroft chuckled in amusement, shaking his head.
“Careful, brat.” Mycroft teased playfully. Clearly, Sherlock had bounced back to his smartarse personality. Mycroft was glad to see it.
“Oh, pipe down, brother dear.” Sherlock joked, making Greg laugh even harder. Mycroft shook his head fondly. He had to admit, it was a good joke to end the conversation with.