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It was early on a Sunday but Sherlock was already awake. He was usually up before everyone else in the house. Usually he stayed in his room reading or playing with the few toys his Father allowed him to keep now he was ‘no longer a baby’. He didn’t go downstairs until after 8.30am, which was deemed a reasonable time at the weekends. This Sunday was different however as Mycroft was home from school for half term. When Mycroft was home he was allowed to make them breakfast. Sherlock carefully opened his door and padded along to Mycroft’s room. Mycroft knew his little brother was likely to appear in his room at any point between 6 and 8, being used to the regime of boarding school it didn’t bother him. He was just tucking his shirt into his trousers when Sherlock slipped through the door.
‘Morning Sherlock’ Mycroft said scanning the boy up and down. He’d managed to dress himself without much mishap. His shirt was half tucked in a buttoned up wrong. His trousers were on the right way and he had matching shoes on though.
‘Morning ‘Croft’ Sherlock yawned mid-sentence suggesting he wasn’t quite awake yet. Mycroft padded over to him and knelt down, righting his clothing. The hair as usual was a mess but it mattered little as they weren’t going anywhere for a while.
‘Food?’ Mycroft asked and Sherlock nodded enthusiastically, for a small skinny child he seemed to be constantly hungry. Mycroft considered his own slightly portly form and wished for the child’s metabolism.
Over cereal and milk for Sherlock and tea for Mycroft , Sherlock pauses and looks at Mycroft.
‘It’s Father’s day today’ He says his face impassive.
Mycroft thinks for a moment, ‘Yes I suppose it is.’ He says
‘What is Father’s day for?’ Sherlock asked ‘Mrs Turner made us do cards in school but one of the boys stole mine and threw it away.’ His face dropped at the thought.
‘Sherlock!’ Mycroft exclaimed ‘You need to tell Mrs Turner when the other children do things like that.’
Sherlock shrugged and turned back to his cereal ‘Just makes them do it more’ he said taking a mouthful of cereal.
‘Sherlock you should still tell someone.’ Mycroft frowned ‘What else do they do?’
Sherlock shrugged ‘Take my things, call me names.’
‘Do they ever hit you? Do anything bad?’ Mycroft asked concerned
‘They did before.’ Sherlock said nonchalantly ‘But Mr Peters saw them and told them off, so they haven’t in a while. Mr Peters is scary.’ Sherlock said this last part solemnly. Sherlock wasn’t scared of much, so Mycroft had to wonder just how scary the new head teacher must be.
Mycroft considered his brother who either by his age or his slightly odd personality didn’t seem to have developed a capacity to lie, he nodded satisfied. ‘Promise me you’ll tell me if they do anything bad Sherlock.’ He said solemnly.
Sherlock frowned ‘But you’re not here, you’re at school.’
‘You can write to me, or telephone. If you telephone after school hours the house master will come and find me, that’s what happens when Mummy rings. I shall write the number down for you.’
‘What do I say?’
‘You ask whoever answers ‘please may I speak to Master Mycroft Holmes.’ Then you tell them you are Sherlock Holmes his brother. They won’t object.’
Sherlock considered a moment and nodded, he paused clearly thinking ‘May I telephone even if nothing bad happens?’
Mycroft smiled slowly ‘Of course Sherlock. I should be glad to talk to you.’
Sherlock beamed and turned his attention back to devouring his cereal.
A while later Mycroft was washing up while Sherlock sat with the Newspaper in front of him. His reading wasn’t yet good enough to read or understand most of it but he already recognised key people such as the Prime Minister and would point to pictures and ask questions. Sometimes it was difficult, Sherlock seemed to gravitate towards the more gruesome stories, murders seeming to leap out at him. Mycroft also sighed inwardly as he saw another IRA bombing in the paper as Sherlock flicked through, explaining to a five year old, even one like Sherlock, why people felt the need to bomb innocent civilians was for him a microcosm of the futility of the situation. The only Irish person Sherlock had ever met was the man who took care of the garden here and in the village; the poor boy couldn’t compute the kindly old man with the balaclava clad figures in the paper and the images of explosions. Fire and bombs seemed to be the only thing Sherlock was scared of, he’d flick the pages quickly away from such images or change the television channel if he was watching alone, and when they watched with their parents he’d hide in the nearest cushion.
Sherlock pushed the paper aside apparently bored by it now, and rummaged under the discarded sports and business section-‘Boring’ he declared for the glossy Sunday magazine. Mycroft pulled up a chair again and was about to read the paper a little until Sherlock got bored, until he found the magazine shoved under his nose.
‘Father’s day?’ Sherlock asked.
Mycroft looked at the cover, which was indeed depicting some kind of suburban middle class idyll of Father’s day. A small boy and girl pictured with a smiling Dad while Mother looked on, presumably about to get a Sunday Roast on the go Mycroft caught himself musing bitterly.
‘Sort of.’ Mycroft said opening the magazine and flicking through.
‘Why?’ Sherlock asked. His favourite word.
‘Because I suppose it’s a way of celebrating Father’s day. I don’t know Sherlock.’
‘But why?’ Sherlock insisted
‘Because we’re supposed to celebrate the fact that our fathers have provided and cared for us.’
‘How?’ Sherlock asked
Mycroft sighed. ‘Some people cook special meals, go out somewhere as a family.’
‘We don’t ever do those things.’ Sherlock said a note of sadness in his voice.
‘People also make cards’ Mycroft offered.
‘Like we did in school.’ Sherlock brightened ‘I thought they’d run out of things to teach us.’
Mycroft chuckled, ‘You’ve only been there two years.’
Sherlock pouted ‘I know a lot. More than everyone else in school.’ He quickly followed up with ‘Not as much as you though My.’
Mycroft chuckled again ‘One day soon I think you probably will.’
Sherlock beamed, then looked down at the table. ‘My.’ He began ‘Should I make another card? Would Father want one?’
Mycroft paused, genuinely unsure of the answer. ‘I think if you want to make him one Sherlock then that is a nice thing to do.’
Sherlock paused and considered a while. ‘Ok.’ He said eventually. ‘I’m going to finish my Pirate picture in my room and then make Father a card.’
He jumped down from the chair leaving it sticking out and hurried towards the door.
‘I’m going into the village soon.’ Mycroft called after him ‘I’ll be gone a couple of hours, I promised Aunt Edna I’d drop in. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather come with me Sherlock?’
Sherlock paused and turned ‘Do I have to?’
‘No.’
‘Then no.’ Sherlock said ‘I’d rather work on my pirate story and Father’s card.’
Mycroft nodded, ‘Ok Sherlock, stay up in your room until you hear Mummy and Father down here again ok?’
Sherlock rolled his eyes ‘I know. And no using the kitchen, and be careful if I go in the garden.’
Mycroft nodded. And Sherlock assuming he was dismissed scampered off.
Exactly one hour and twenty minutes later Sherlock padded towards the office, card folded carefully in hand. He knocked.
‘Yes?’ his Father’s voice boomed from within.
Sherlock reached up and carefully opened the door; his Father was behind his desk stacks of paper covering it.
‘What is it?’ has asked looking across at Sherlock.
‘I made you this.’
Sherlock said walking over confidently and presenting him with the card. ‘Because today is father’s day, the day we celebrate the fact that our fathers have provided for and looked after us.’ He smiled proud at remembering what Mycroft had taught him.
His Father leaned over the desk and looked at the card, an expression of mild boredom on his face.
‘You’ve coloured outside the lines there.’ He said.
Sherlock fought to keep disappointment from rising in his face. ‘I-I wrote in it too.’ He said holding it open.
Siger Holmes peered over his glasses. ‘What does that say?’ he said pointing.
Sherlock turned the card slightly to face him before reading carefully and precisely from the card:
‘Thanksh you for being my Father. You provide for our family well and provide ex-shl-lent teaching to your sons. Love S-shherlock Holmes your son.’
He silently cursed himself for slipping in his pronunciation and letting his ‘little lisp’ as Mummy called it show.
‘Hmm. Yes.’ His Father held out a hand to inspect the card further. Sherlock stood on tiptoes and reached over the desk. He waited in anticipation as his Father scrutinised the card.
‘That’s not a ‘k’ Sherlock.’ His father muttered ‘You need to work on your writing.’
‘Yes Father.’
‘The time it took you to make this you could have completed some extra school work.’
Sherlock’s face fell, he looked at the floor ‘Yesssh Father.’ He said sadly, speech failing him again.
‘Don’t look down when you speak. And speak properly.’
‘Yes Father.’ Sherlock said carefully
Siger Holmes opened his mouth to speak again but was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the telephone. He picked it up ‘Yes?’ he barked. Sherlock was frozen to the spot unsure whether to move, whether that was expected or whether he was to wait until Father finished his telephone call. A Sharp glare from his Father answered his question. Grabbing the card Sherlock turned to flee the office. Being Sherlock, and not as usual in control of his unusually long limbs he stumbled and fell into the table by the door, sending him flying to the floor and the contents raining down on him. He tried to stay silent as was his norm when hurting himself, as he did so frequently. But a large wooden letter rack struck the side of his head in a painful blow and Sherlock cried out in pain.
He didn’t hear the words as his Father bellowed, only his name as he scrambled to his feet and fled the office. He ran up the stairs to the middle step where he knew he was hidden from downstairs, but would be warned if Father left his study. There was much banging and crashing and shouting. He heard his Mother’s footsteps and she too was rewarded with shouting. Sherlock covered his ears and hid his face in his knees until he was sure it was safe.
He opened his eyes to see the card on the step below where he’d dropped it. ‘Stupid’ he thought to himself. He picked it up and carefully folded it into a pocket. If Father found it down here it was sure to start more trouble. There was another bang from the office, Father still angry, and Sherlock jumped. He was sure Mummy had left, retreating to the library or living room out of the way. He could go and hide in his room, he could go and find Mummy but he didn’t want to go alone. So he curled up against the wall sniffing to himself and making up stories in his head to keep him company.
He wasn’t there long before the heavy front door clicked open. Sherlock tentatively peered around to see Mycroft returning, bag of groceries in his hand. Sherlock didn’t speak but Mycroft looked up instinctively and saw the small head and shock of curls peering around the stairs.
‘Sher?’ he asked and Sherlock ducked back behind the pillar. He heard Mycroft set down the bags and the rustle of a coat being hung up followed by soft footsteps on the stairs. They both learned to move quietly about the house. Mycroft turned the corner and looked down at his little brother.
Sherlock was a sorry sight. His face red and blotchy, his hair matted and curling in a hundred directions at once. Mycroft frowned in horror at a large red mark across his forehead. He reached down and moved Sherlock’s hair aside, Sherlock winced.
‘What on earth?’ Mycroft asked
‘It was an accident’ Sherlock said quickly. A phrase Mycroft mused should well become the clumsy boy’s catchphrase.
‘What did you do?’
‘I knocked over a table.’ Sherlock said his face tight
‘And?’
‘In Father’s study.’ Sherlock finished before his face crumpled again.
Mycroft furrowed his brow in sympathy and held out his hand to Sherlock.
‘Come with me Sherlock.’ Mycroft said and led him towards the living room where they found Mummy reading.
‘Mummy, may Sherlock and I bake some cakes in the kitchen?’ Mycroft asked
Sherlock’s face lit up. ‘We’re baking cakes?’ he asked.
Mycroft smiled down at him, ‘Yes Sherlock I’m going to teach you.’
Mummy smiled at him ‘Of course dear.’ She said ‘Clean up afterwards, I don’t want Mrs Ross complaining tomorrow. Oh and be careful you know what your brother is like for injuring himself.’
‘Mummy!’ Sherlock exclaimed
Mummy smiled affectionately at her younger son ‘Sherlock do you remember Christmas Day?’
Sherlock looked down at his shoes, ‘Yes Mummy.’ He said. He had tried to help serve the dinner and had tripped, spilled gravy and cut himself on a knife.
‘Yes Mummy.’ Mycroft said and made to lead Sherlock away.
‘Boys?’ she asked and the brothers turned in unison ‘Try not to be upset’ She said ‘I know it’s hard it’s just…the way it is.’ She looked sad. Sherlock broke free from Mycroft’s hold and ran over to Mummy. She put her book on the arm of the chair and opened her arms. Sherlock scrambled into them and let himself be hugged tight. She was warm and soft and smelled of books. He felt a kiss planted in his hair.
‘Don’t think you’re getting away with it Mycroft.’ She said holding out an arm. Sherlock heard footsteps and felt the additional pressure on his back as Mycroft leaned into them.
‘Oof!’ Sherlock said ‘Heavy Mycroft.’
Mummy giggled and squeezed both of her sons tighter. Mycroft extracted himself from her grasp and stood, straightening his shirt. Sherlock squirmed until he was sitting upright in Mummy’s lap. He reached over and picked up the book. ‘What’s this Mummy?’ he asked struggling to hold the heavy volume. ‘I can’t read this word.’ He pointed to the cover.
‘Apiology. It’s about bees Sherlock, honey bees to be exact. Fascinating species.’
‘Oh.’ Sherlock said suddenly disinterested. ‘Can we make cake now?’ he looked up at Mycroft who rolled his eyes.
‘Yes.’ He said holding out a hand ‘Come along.’
Sherlock hopped down from Mummy’s lap and took Mycroft’s hand ‘Bye Mummy.’ He said pulling Mycroft towards the door.
‘Mycroft dear.’ Mummy called after them. Mycroft let go of Sherlock’s hand and he went scampering off in the direction of the kitchen.
‘Yes Mummy?’ Mycroft said standing in the middle of the room feeling quite exposed without Sherlock next to him.
‘Thank you.’ She said a sad smile on her face ‘For looking after him. He needs a man in his life.’
‘He has a man.’ Mycroft says ‘We have father.’
Mummy’s face was unreadable but she beckoned him closer. Mycroft obeyed.
‘Mycroft.’ She said forcing a sad smile ‘You are so proper, so decent. But you live in this house.’
Mycroft dropped his head ‘Yes Mummy.’
‘It’s alright. You can be honest with me. Are you and Sherlock scared sometimes?’
Mycroft nodded his head not looking up.
‘I know.’ She said ‘I’m scared too. For you. For me. And especially for Sherlock.’
‘Nobody understands Sherlock.’ Mycroft said softly
‘You do.’ Mummy said earnestly reaching out and taking her son’s hands. Mycroft peered up at her. ‘Look after him My.’ She said ‘When I’m not around.’
Mycroft nodded ‘I will Mummy.’
‘Even when he’s really annoying.’ Mummy smiled broadly ‘Even when he breaks everything . Or when he knows it all even though he’s just five.’
Mycroft giggled ‘He won’t always be like that will he?’
Mummy smiles ‘You know what? I hope he is.’
Mycroft smiled in return. ‘May I go and make cakes now?’
Mummy nodded ‘Better had before Sherlock burns down the kitchen.’
Mycroft beamed.
There was a loud crash from the kitchen as Mycroft made his way down, followed by an unmistakable ‘oops’ and more clattering and crashing.
Turning the corner into the kitchen Mycroft was greeted by the sight of Sherlock covered head to toe in flour. His mop of dark curls dusted white, his long lashes looking grey as he peered up at Mycroft. He was clutching the flour bag in one hand while an upturned bowl to his left indicated he’d attempted to begin the recipe himself. Mycroft couldn’t help it, he laughed.
Sherlock pouted a little. ‘The bowl isn’t big enough.’ He declared ‘it wasn’t my fault.’
‘Of course not Sherlock.’ Mycroft sniggered rolling up his sleeves and unceremoniously picking up Sherlock and dumping him on the work surface. ‘No use crying over spilled flour though.’
‘Milk’ Sherlock corrected ‘The idiom is spilled milk Mycroft.’
Mycroft hummed in response as he sought out a dustpan and brush.
‘Also if you cried over the spilled flour it would congeal and make it more difficult to clean up.’ Sherlock declared.
‘You’re right Sherlock.’ Mycroft said as he swept the flour into a pile. He looked up just in time to see Sherlock beam. He picked up a tea towel and attempted to rub the worst of the flour off Sherlock’s face and hands, when he finished Sherlock shook his head and a shower of flour fluttered like snow onto the counter top.
Mycroft put his hands on hips and faced his brother ‘Right.’ He said ‘Are we ready to bake.’
Sherlock nodded, flour still escaping from his head.
‘Sit there.’ Mycroft instructed indicating the high stool next to the counter, ‘You can be the measurer’
Sherlock nodded, patiently awaiting instruction. Mycroft handed him flour and pointed to a line on the scales. ‘This much’ he said. Sherlock nodded and delicately measured out the required amount. Next the sugar, small spoonful’s of baking powder and a pinch of salt.
‘Now the wet ingredients.’ Mycroft commanded ‘Can you break eggs carefully Sherlock?’
Sherlock nodded taking his job seriously, determined not to live up to his clumsy reputation. Mycroft watched the concentration as he broke one, then two, then a third egg carefully in to the bowl. Mycroft added the butter and a splash of milk.
‘I need to do this bit Sherlock, the whisker is too big for you to hold.’
Sherlock nodded. Then covered his ears at the loud noise the whisker made. Mycroft showed him the softly whipped mixture. ‘Now we put the rest of it in, carefully.’ He showed Sherlock how he mixed the flour gently with the butter and eggs to form a gooey mixture.
‘Try it.’ He said holding out the bowl.
Sherlock screwed up his face ‘It’s all mushy’ he said recoiling.
Mycroft chuckled but felt sad as well, Sherlock had never seen raw cake mixture before. He’d been lucky as a little boy, Aunt Edna had been more mobile and had looked after him, and she’d made cakes with him and taken him to the park. Seven years later when Sherlock arrived she wasn’t able to look after him and Sherlock had been left first with a Nanny and then alone with their parents, who didn’t put much stock in normal childhood activities.
Mycroft sunk a finger in scooping out a dollop of cake mix and ate it. ‘Delicious’ he beamed. Sherlock wasn’t convinced, but not to be outdone by Mycroft he sank a tentative finger in and delicately reached out his tongue to taste. His eyes immediately lit up in delight and he reached back for more. Letting him have another taste Mycroft then took the bowl away.
‘Not too much Sherlock it’s not good for you.’ He said with a smile and cheekily took another taste himself
‘Hey!’ Sherlock exclaimed.
‘Right now to measure out the mixture.’
They methodically put the cake mix into the cake cases and readied them for the oven. As Mycroft cleared up Sherlock insisted on sitting in front of the oven, timer in hand watching the cakes cook. Mycroft assumed he’s become bored quickly but he sat transfixed until the timer pinged. He obediently shuffled away from the hot oven as Mycroft carefully took the cakes out, watching eagerly.
‘Do we put icing on them yet?’ Sherlock asked bouncing a little.
‘Shortly, Sherlock.’ Mycroft said with a smile poking the little cupcakes to check how hot they were, still a little warm for icing. ‘We need to let them cool. Help me wash up and then we’ll see.’
After cleaning up both the kitchen and Sherlock a little Mycroft tested the cakes again, almost ready. ‘You can start getting the ingredients if you like Sherlock.
Sherlock beamed and began opening cupboards following Mycroft’s calls of ‘icing sugar’ ‘vanilla essence’ and ‘food colouring’ and assembled them on the counter top.
A messy half an hour of mixing icing and a great deal of Sherlock sticking to cakes, the countertop and himself and both of them were giggling. Sherlock had a nose covered in icing that Mycroft may or may not have been responsible for and Mycroft had a smear of green icing across his face the Sherlock was defiantly responsible for. Sherlock had just scooped a large finger full of icing when a voice boomed from the door.
‘What are you doing?’
Mycroft and Sherlock froze in their tacks. Their father was standing in the doorway glaring down at them.
‘M-making cupcakes Father.’ Mycroft said.
‘You were making terrible noise. I could hear you from the study.’
‘Sorry Father.’ Mycroft said and felt Sherlock edging behind him.
‘Don’t hide boy!’ Siger Holmes bellowed and Sherlock edged back into view. ‘Now clean up this mess.’ He commanded ‘Mycroft I’m sure you have homework to do.’
‘Yes Father.’ Mycroft said.
‘And I’m sure you can find your brother something more educational to do.’
‘Yes Father.’ Mycroft repeated.
‘Get on with it then!’ Siger bellowed, and once Mycroft had begun to scamper around the kitchen moving dishes to the sink did Siger leave the doorway and Sherlock move again.
‘Don’t worry.’ Mycroft said softly so not to be heard ‘I’ll read you a pirate story in a bit.’
Mycroft hurriedly tidied the kitchen putting the dishes away and placing the cupcakes carefully out of the way, not before taking two, finger to his lips and stealing Sherlock away upstairs. They passed the rest of the day quietly, Mycroft took turns between reading Sherlock stories or playing quiet games and homework. As he worked Sherlock looked through Mycroft’s textbooks at the complex drawings, maps and other diagrams asking questions. Or reading his own books and drawing.
After a dinner, eaten under an oppressive silence that was in part due to Sherlock and Mycroft’s actions, in part due to the blazing row they’d overheard in the afternoon from Father’s study, both boys were then sent back upstairs. When he was sure Mycroft was in his room Sherlock slipped back downstairs.
Carefully checking that the door to the study and library were closed he tiptoed past into the kitchen to the cupboard where Mycroft had hidden the cakes. Taking one in his hands he climbed the stairs and made his way to Mycroft’s room again. At the door he fished the folded paper from his pocket and went in.
Mycroft was surprised to see Sherlock appear in the doorway, he’d left him quietly playing with trains in his room, another of his obsessions that could entertain him for hours. He frowned seeing Sherlock holding a cake and a piece of paper in front of him.
‘For me?’ he asked.
Sherlock nodded.
Mycroft took the cake in one hand and the card in another. The card was carefully decorated with a cake not unlike the one Sherlock held out to him now, there was no writing on the front so Mycroft opened it and took in the carefully written words. He bit his lip.
‘To Mycroft. Happy Father’s Day. Because you look after me, and teach me things, and because you love me. Love, your brother Sherlock.’
Mycroft bit down hard on his lip, unable to speak. He looked up at Sherlock whose face was open and wide eyed.
‘Is it wrong?’ Sherlock asked.
Mycroft shook his head fighting back tears ‘No.’ he managed kneeling in front of Sherlock ‘No it’s perfect.’ He pulled his little brother into a ferocious hug. ‘Thank you Sherlock.’
Sherlock said nothing but clung on tight to Mycroft’s neck.
Every year until Sherlock turned 18 Mycroft got a cake and a card on Father’s day. Even when he wasn’t at home somehow Sherlock managed it. Usually by turning up in person, and sometimes then not leaving for days afterwards. Mycroft remembers some of those cakes vividly, the ones snuck into his dormitory when they were both at boarding school, ones shared on the grass when he was up at Oxford. There were ones that cheered him up after a horrible year, after break ups and breakdowns at University, and some that were just nice, moments spent together after time apart.
Eventually the cakes died out. Sherlock’s early twenties became a downward spiral of addiction and a retreat from the world. Mycroft was still there, ‘interfering’ as Sherlock put it. But things turned sour between them. Mycroft didn’t hold any real malice and neither he wagered did his brother, but both were too stubborn to admit it.
Then on June 16th 2012 Mycroft found a cupcake on his desk, and next to it a card.