Chapter Text
The doorbell rings, making Mycroft look up from his book. A quick glance to the clock tells him is a little late for regular visits (not that there are many of those, to begin with) and so that means-
He sighs, marking the page he’s on and standing up, heading towards the entrance. Mummy and Dad are out (as usual), so it’s just him in the big and empty house. Sherlock should have arrived hours ago, but of course his little brother had found something else to entertain himself with.
And Mycroft is just about to find out what that something was.
He opens the door, offering a perfunctory smile to the police officer on the other side of it. Or at least that’s his intention, until he gets a good look at the handsome man and he finds himself struggling not to gape like a fish out of the water. He’s never been a believer of love at first sight, but this must definitely be lust at first sight.
That can’t be good.
“Good evening,” the Adonis standing at the door greets cheerfully. “Do you know this young man?” he questions, pointing at the boy he’s holding by the arm, gently but firmly. Sherlock has such a mighty pout that almost makes Mycroft laugh, but he manages to hold back his amusement, if only for the sake of appearances.
“What has he done this time?” he asks, bracing himself for whatever trouble his baby brother might be in. The boy glares darkly at him, attempting to escape the officer’s grasp, looking more than a tad annoyed.
The man tilts his head to the side curiously and Mycroft promptly stops himself from thinking how adorable he looks. “Nothing, actually. I mean, he was strolling through a not so safe neighborhood and he definitely didn’t look like he belonged there, so I thought I’d bring him home before something happened to him.”
Mycroft turns to look at his brother, eyes narrowed, but Sherlock ignores the look with practiced ease. He sighs, knowing he’s not about to get any answers any time soon. “Thank you, officer,” he says politely, attempting to smile charmingly and failing miserably. “It was very kind of you.”
The older man smiles brightly at him and Mycroft tells his silly heart now is not the time to start practicing somersaults . “My pleasure,” he says, actually sounding honest and letting go of Sherlock finally. “Have a pleasant day, Mr. Holmes.” And with that he’s gone, leaving Mycroft feeling like a right fool due all the staring he’s doing.
“You’re pathetic,” Sherlock informs him, pushing past him, already sulking. Mycroft sighs, sparing one last longing glance in the direction the officer left and closes the door, willing himself not to start yelling at his brother.
After all, experience shows that never works.
Two days later, the doorbell rings once more, effectively interrupting Mycroft’s studying time. But he’s used to it anyway, so he simply takes a deep breath and goes to open the door.
His brother is standing at the other side, with the same officer from the other day.
“What now?” he questions, mostly annoyed at his brother’s ability to get into trouble at any given occasion. Oh, why must he enjoy doing stupid things so much?
The officer blinks, sparing a quick look in Sherlock’s direction. “I’m guessing this is a normal occurrence for you then?” he asks, tone light and perhaps a tad amused.
“Unfortunately,” Mycroft replies easily, earning himself a glare from his younger sibling. “So, what has Sherlock done this time?”
“Nothing!” the boy exclaims, before the officer can even open his mouth. “I was just walking down the street, minding my own business, when this hooligan came out of nowhere-”
“Have you seen the clothes you’re wearing, kid?” the older man interrupts, sounding more fond than annoyed, which Mycroft finds most intriguing. “They don’t exactly blend in with the people living in Lambeth.”
Mycroft frowns, staring at his brother intently. Sherlock is very carefully avoiding his eyes, pouting lightly and the older brother sighs, “have you been chasing murderers on your own again , Sherlock?” he finds himself asking and the officer arches an eyebrow, unbelieving.
Oh, wouldn’t Mycroft like that that hadn’t happened before? “That was once,” Sherlock protests darkly. “Inspector Gregson promised to take my theories more seriously next time.”
The officer is eying Sherlock curiously, one eyebrow raised and Mycroft offers him a stiff smile. “What were you doing in Lambeth, then?”
Sherlock’s cheeks acquire an odd red color and Mycroft frowns, more than a little confused. He doesn’t get to ask more, since his little brother murmurs something about keeping his big nose out of his business and storms past him into the house.
“Has he really done that?” the young officer asks, taking Mycroft’s attention away from his brother’s odd behaviour. “Chase after murderers?” he clarifies, when Mycroft simply stares blankly.
“Oh, yes,” he replies. “Just once, as he said. The other ones have been petty thieves and on a remarkable occasion, a nasty blackmailer too.”
“How old is he?” the other man asks, sounding slightly concerned. “Ten?”
“Twelve,” Mycroft corrects, “he’s a little small for his age.”
The officer nods, “well, I’m glad I brought him home, then. Children like him shouldn’t be getting involved in stuff like that.”
Doesn’t Mycroft know it? “Again, thank you officer. I’m most grateful for your help.”
“Just doing my job, Mr. Holmes,” the man says, with a slight inclination of his head and an easy grin that makes things to Mycroft’s insides.
“Mycroft,” the teen corrects, berating himself for his foolishness as soon as his cheeks start burning. The officer offers him a raised eyebrow, a smug smirk on his lips. “If you’re going to keep bringing my brother back- just- well-” he’s blushing madly now and he’s not sure why he ever thought this was a good idea-
“Greg Lestrade,” the man introduces himself, offering him his hand to shake. Mycroft takes it, willing himself to calm down. “Pleased to formally meet you, Mycroft.”
“Yes, well, umm, have a good day, officer. Greg. Goodbye,” he closes the door with perhaps a tad more strength than needed and leans heavily against it, his heart beating erratically.
Oh dear god, just what exactly was that about? He’s usually much smoother than that. Then again, the police officer is unfairly attractive and-
He shakes his head, making a face. He’s made a point of not succumbing to his treacherous hormones ever before and he’s not about to begin now. Sentiment is, after all, a bunch of nonsense for which he has no time whatsoever.
And he’s not about to make an exception for a handsome police officer.
Nevermind how handsome he is.
Sherlock has already locked himself in his room and Mycroft considers the merits of taking the time to pick the lock. He knows Sherlock is not about to answer the door on his own, so he either lets him be or he forces his way into the bedroom.
Considering he seems to be doing something reckless and dangerous, Mycroft considers his duty as an elder brother to use whatever means necessary to find out what’s going on.
It takes him 5 whole minutes to pick the lock and by the time he opens the door, Sherlock is already sitting on the bed, glaring darkly at him. He’s hiding something behind him, though and so Mycroft narrows his eyes, carefully making his way closer to the little menace.
Sherlock glares, clutching whatever he’s hiding tighter. Mycroft frowns, noticing it’s his phone, “we can do this the easy or the hard way, Sherlock,” he informs him very calmly and the younger boy’s glare turns even darker. “Come on, brother mine. Just tell me-”
Sherlock attempts to get past him, but Mycroft is quicker and manages to grab him by the waist. The younger boy attempts to break free, yelling, scratching and kicking, but Mycroft manages to hold onto him and to retrieve his phone, which makes him redouble his efforts both to escape and to get the phone back.
“No, no, don’t!” Sherlock cries, as Mycroft lets go of him in order to start going through the boy’s phone, using his height to his advantage, keeping the device out of his reach. “Mycroft, please!”
Mycroft is half tempted to give it back, after hearing the actual anguish in his baby brother’s voice, but he knows better than that. Sherlock would have found his death already hadn’t Mycroft decided to meddle into his business at any given opportunity.
A quick look through his brother’s messages shows nothing, neither does snooping around his archives or browsing history and there are no mysterious calls to be found anywhere. There must be something though, judging by the mighty glare Sherlock is sending in his direction.
In a last and desperate attempt to find out what’s wrong with his brother, Mycroft starts going through his photos. And that search finally reveals something. “Sherlock, who’s this?”
The younger Holmes is blushing madly now, making yet another attempt to snatch his phone back. Mycroft frowns, looking at the picture once more, feeling more confused than anything else.
The picture shows a young boy, perhaps a year older than Sherlock, sitting at the public library. He’s wearing a school’s uniform, the clothes well cared for but very old. He’s staring intently at the book he’s reading, brow furrowed a little, tongue poking out.
He looks at his brother once more. Sherlock looks away, his cheeks still an unhealthy red tone. “Sherlock?”
“His name is John Watson and he goes to Elmgreen,” the boy confesses softly. “He’s… nice.”
Mycroft stares at his little brother, at lost of words. This- this isn’t-
Oh, he’s badly equipped to deal with this. “Alright,” he says finally and Sherlock turns to look at him defiantly, making him sigh. “I guess it is, umm, normal, for a boy your age to start, umm, noticing other people. I-”
“Please stop,” Sherlock pleads, making a face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
No, Mycroft doesn’t. He has great knowledgment of a great deal of things, but this is way out of his expertise. Being home schooled, Mycroft never interacted with other people his age and being so bright, he had started college a little too early, which had always made him stand out and left him without anything close to a friend. Since he had little interest in other people to begin with, he had never particularly minded and while he did notice attractive people from time to time-
Well. He never had an actual crush on anyone , not as his brother apparently does now.
“So you’ve been… stalking him?” Sherlock shrugs non committedly and Mycroft sighs. “Have you actually spoken to him?” a head shake. “How do you know he’s nice, then?”
Sherlock huffs, glaring as if saying isn’t it obvious? Mycroft arches an eyebrow and the younger brother scoffs. “I’ve seen him around the library, with other people. He- he spends a lot of time there; family troubles judging by-”
“Sherlock,” Mycroft interrupts him firmly. “You can’t go stalking people.”
The boy shrugs once more, looking a tad sheepish. “What am I supposed to do then?”
Well. That’s a very good question, isn’t it?
Sherlock scoffs once more, snatching his phone back, taking advantage of Mycroft’s distraction. “You’re an useless big brother,” he informs him, sparing a quick glance at the picture on his phone. “Kindly keep your nose out of my business, yes?”
“You can’t keep following him home,” Mycroft says, figuring he can say as much. “Officer Lestrade is right, you’ll get yourself in trouble-”
But Sherlock is already pushing him out of his bedroom and Mycroft figures he might as well comply.
It’s not like he has any advice to offer, really.