The Value Of Things (Sherlock BBC)
idk guys this was a much more serious fic but then I caved to my fundamental desire to write a story crammed with random anecdotes and backstory about Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes being complete brats when they were young(ish).
The Value Of Things
Sherlock BBC. Gen (brothers!). G. 2785. AO3.
Inspired by the 16 July 2011 prompt on we_are_cities.
This was after Sherlock’s seventh nanny and before his eighth. This was when Sherlock was five years old and when Mycroft was fifteen. This was during the third period of Mycroft’s life in which he tried to convince himself that he did not care about his younger brother one wit.
This was after Sherlock’s seventh nanny and before his eighth. This was when Sherlock was five years old and when Mycroft was fifteen. This was during the third period of Mycroft’s life in which he tried to convince himself that he did not care about his younger brother one wit. This was when Mummy was younger and busier and they lived in the big green country house.
“Mycroft, darling, I need to run an errand. Go and keep an eye on your brother.”
“Haven’t we got servants for that sort of thing?” he said, tossing his book aside and glaring up at her from his spot on the couch in his room.
She smiled down at him. “A different sort of errand. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
This was after they had learned the hard way that Sherlock could not be left alone, not for a minute. Mycroft picked up his book and trudged down the halsto Sherlock’s playroom. Mummy’s voice rang down the stairwell, a muffled “Good bye, boys!” and then the front door slammed shut. Mycroft walked into the playroom, stepped over a pile of building blocks, and sat down against the wall. Across the room, Sherlock was carving something into his building blocks, back turned away from the door. Lightening split the sky in the window in front of Sherlock and it began to rain. It was so pointlessly dramatic that Mycroft had to stifle a sigh.
He tried to muster up some brotherly interest. “What are you making?”
“Acer pseudoplatanus,” said Sherlock. “It’s what the block is made of.”
“How meta,” said Mycroft, rolling his eyes. He picked up his book and began to read again. Presently, he heard the blocks tumble across the floor and looked up in time to see Sherlock running at him with a long, black unopened umbrella. He ducked and Sherlock’s umbrella bounced off the wall, making a distinctive dent and falling on Mycroft’s head. Sherlock fell onto Mycroft’s back.
“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, exasperated. He shook Sherlock off. Sherlock rolled across the ground and stood up again, hands on his hips.
“Bored!” shouted Sherlock. He stomped. “I wasn’t until you came in!” He flung himself at Mycroft again. Mycroft shoved him off and half-sat on him, legs heavy on Sherlock’s skinny back. Sherlock whined and punched the carpet. “You’re boring. You make everything boring. Why can’t you be interesting?” He sighed loudly.
“You’re mad,” Mycroft said, yawning.
Sherlock put his head on his arms and went limp.
“I don’t think death will be any less boring for you,” said Mycroft. “You might as well stop holding your breath.”
“Mummy will be mad at you if I’m dead when she comes back from France,” said Sherlock into his arms.
“Mummy will thank me,” said Mycroft. “She said that if I find a way to dispose of your body, she’ll give me a dog.”
Sherlock gave a whine of despair and kicked his legs against the carpet. Mycroft eyed his book and wondered if he could reach it without moving his legs. He leaned over to grab it and fell over. Sherlock was out from under his legs like a cannon blast and running out of his playroom. Mycroft groaned and ran after him.
Sherlock was fast, but he was only five and small for his age. Mycroft caught up with him on the stairs. He grabbed Sherlock’s arm, but Sherlock pulled him down the steps and Mycroft tripped. Sherlock wrenched free and went padding off across the great hall and down the corridor to the left side of the house in his stocking feet. The first floor was wood, not carpeted like second floor, and Mycroft could hear Sherlock sliding down the corridors with ease. Mycroft ran after him. Sherlock took one last running start and slid down the hallway to crash into the double doors of the library. Mycroft nearly tripped over his own feet trying to stop on the over-polished wood. He grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder. “Come on.”
“I need a book,” said Sherlock.
“You’ve got plenty of books upstairs,” said Mycroft.
“I need a book,” Sherlock repeated. “Let me in!”
This was when Sherlock was not allowed in the library anymore. The last time he did, he started a fire in front of the hagiology shelf. The time before that, he made a fortress out of outdated encyclopedias. This was when the door handles had been moved well out of his reach and the library was kept locked at night.
Mycroft shook Sherlock’s shoulder. “Come on, Sherlock. Let’s go.”
“No!” He jumped up for the handles, but fell several inches short. “I need a book. Mycroft, let me in.”
“No.”
Sherlock turned around. His face had arranged itself into some expression that recalled a child-like innocence and adorable demeanor that he did not have. “Please, Mycroft? I know what book it is, exactly. I know where it is. I won’t run away, I promise.” He took Mycroft’s hand. “Please?”
“How do the servants for fall that?” said Mycroft, marveling. “How does anyone fall for that? You’re a terrible liar.”
“They’re stupid,” said Sherlock. He didn’t let go of Mycroft’s hand, however, just tugged. “Everyone’s much stupider than you and Mummy. Mycroft, please! I need a book.”
The “please” wasn’t manipulative this time - it was just Sherlock whining. Mycroft gave up and took the handle of the door. “Don’t let go-” he began, pushing it open, but Sherlock had already let go of his hand and was running across the room. Mycroft groaned and went after him, but Sherlock produced no matches and did not attempt to climb up any shelves. He knelt in front of the bottom shelf of one of the bookcases. It was where Mummy stored all their children’s literature, Mycroft realized. This was well after the time that Mummy realized she had boys who had little time for children’s literature.
“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, threateningly. It would be just like his brother to tear up the pages of some children’s book, possibly set it on fire or throw it in the fountain, just to prove he wasn’t like other children. But Sherlock only pulled a book from the shelf and stood up. “Okay,” he said. “I found it. We can go.”
Sherlock was very docile all of a sudden. It made Mycroft uncomfortable. Sherlock followed Mycroft out of the room, stood by while Mycroft pulled the doors shut and walked side by side with Mycroft back up the stairs to his playroom.
“What book is that?” said Mycroft. He didn’t like Sherlock when he was quiet. Something wasn’t right.
“The Cat In The Hat.”
Mycroft stopped short. “The Cat In The Hat?” he said. “Sherlock, you’ve been reading textbooks since you were four. You told the Archbishop to stop giving you picture books when you were three.”
“I like it,” said Sherlock. He was small, but he looked smaller now, standing in the high-ceilinged hallway with the book tucked under his arm.
Mycroft was suspicious. “I’ve never seen you read it.”
“I like it.” Sherlock turned and walked back into his playroom. Mycroft followed and sat back down against the wall. Sherlock put the book on the windowsill.
“You’re not even going to read it?”
“Of course I am,” said Sherlock. Mycroft picked up his book again and tried to ignore the menacing sounds of Sherlock rooting through his cupboards and toy boxes. Something horrible was coming, he was sure of it. He just hoped it wouldn’t necessitate A&E or the military this time. It was hard to deal with those people without Mummy. They never took him seriously.
“Mycroft, come here,” said Sherlock.
“No,” said Mycroft automatically. He looked up. Sherlock was standing on the couch.
“Mycroft, come here!” shouted Sherlock.
“Why?” Manipulation was lost on Mycroft, but volume hadn’t lost its persuasiveness and Sherlock knew it.
“I need you over here,” Sherlock said. He jumped up and down on the couch. “You need to sit right here.”
“Why?”
“MYCROFT!”
Thunder echoed outside, but it wasn’t louder than Sherlock. Mycroft threw down his book and stood up. “You’re not adorable,” he said to Sherlock, stepping over shards of wood and a carving knife. “Never believe anyone who tells you otherwise.”
“Oh shut up, you bloody hound,” said Sherlock. He jumped off the couch and ran around to shove Mycroft towards it. “You big bloody drooling hound.”
“I am telling Mummy about that,” said Mycroft. He sat down. This was when Mummy was still trying to teach Sherlock not to mask his intent and intelligence behind ordinary speech. This was when the servants, normally on Mummy’s side on all matters involving Sherlock, were trying to undermine her. They thought it was funny to hear him curse.
“I don’t care. She likes me better.” Sherlock went back to his cupboards. Mycroft folded his arms across his chest and crossed his legs, watching him carefully. Sherlock moved from cupboard to drawer to toy box and back with single-minded purpose. Mycroft looked at the book on the windowsill. Why did Sherlock want that book? What was Sherlock doing?
Such questions were an exercise in frustration; he’d never understand Sherlock. Sherlock made a noise of delight and pulled a top hat out of a drawer. He threw it. Despite himself, Mycroft caught it. It was vintage, a well-worn stovepipe from the late 1800s. Sherlock was fond of dressing up and had closets full of “disguises” but this was an odd accoutrement, even for him. Sherlock favored scoundrels, not gentlemen. Sherlock pointed at him. “Wear it.”
“Sherlock, why?”
Sherlock pulled a second top hat out of a drawer and put it on. It dipped comically to the side, too big for his head. Mycroft sighed and put the top hat on. His hat fit perfectly.
Sherlock was back rifling through his cupboards. Mycroft tapped his fingers against his arm. It was still raining and wind whipped water against the window. It sounded like waves slapping the side of the house. He wondered when Mummy was coming back.
“Ah!” said Sherlock. He pulled a red rubber salmon from a box. He threw it at Mycroft and Mycroft caught it. Sherlock retrieved the big black umbrella from the floor, picked up his book and ran for the couch. Mycroft tensed, expecting a full-out assault but Sherlock only jumped onto the sofa and shoved the items at him. “Here.”
“Sherlock, what-“
“Read it aloud,” said Sherlock and he sat down next to Mycroft, wiggling until he was up against Mycroft’s side. His legs stuck out from the sofa, too short to bend over the edge. He took the fish and poked Mycroft’s arm. “Read it.”
Mycroft tried to set aside the umbrella, but Sherlock screeched and leaned over him, setting the umbrella so it stood upright on the couch next to him. Mycroft stared. Sherlock settled back next to Mycroft.
“How am I supposed to hold the book with one hand?” said Mycroft.
“Will you just read the book, please?” said Sherlock. “Mycroft, you are the most awful person I have ever met. Why can’t you do things when I tell you to?”
“Because the things you ask me to do make no sense,” said Mycroft. He was getting tired of bickering with his brother. Surely it’d be someone’s bedtime soon. If he was lucky, it would be Sherlock’s. Maybe he could drug him. This was before Mummy knew that Mycroft had found her secret medicine cabinet.
“Mycroft,” said Sherlock, his features falling again into that creepy expression of child-like adoration, “please read to me?”
Mycroft gave him a look. Sherlock smiled. Mycroft sighed loudly and set the book in his lap and opened it to the first page. “The sun did not shine,” he read. “It was too wet to play. So we sat in the house all that cold, cold wet day.”
Sherlock nodded and pressed closer, leaning forward to look at the illustrations. Mycroft read on. “I sat there with Sally. We sat there, we two. And I said, ‘How I wish we had something to do!’”
Mycroft read to the end of the book. He shut the book and glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock looked thoughtful. “Read it again.”
“No,” said Mycroft. “Isn’t it your bedtime?”
“Read it again, Mycroft. I want to memorize it.” Sherlock stood up on the sofa and pushed at Mycroft’s head with the nose of the rubber fish.
“What a waste of memory,” said Mycroft, incredulous. “Sherlock, are you ill? Did you hit your head?”
“I’ll hit your head if you don’t read it again,” said Sherlock. He took the edge of Mycroft’s top hat and jammed it down on Mycroft’s head until Mycroft’s ears were squashed. “Read!”
Mycroft rolled his eyes and started again. This time, Sherlock hung off his shoulder, staring down at the book. “Again,” he demanded at the end. The next time, he hung off the back of the sofa. The fourth time, he lay upside down, head hanging off the side of the couch next to Mycroft’s leg. The fifth time he sat on Mycroft’s shoulders. The sixth time, he lay face down on the couch. The seventh time, he shoved at Mycroft until Mycroft let him sit in his lap. He didn’t bother moving the eighth time and the ninth time he spent standing up on the back of the sofa. The tenth time, he stood in front of Mycroft and recited it word for word while Mycroft read.
Mycroft shut the book and tossed it aside. “Well done.”
“I had it memorized the third time you read it,” Sherlock said, looking smug.
Mycroft took off his hat and threw it at Sherlock. “Why did you make me read it seven more times then?”
Sherlock threw the hat back at Mycroft. “You’re the Cat,” he said. “I like hearing the Cat read.”
Mycroft didn’t know what to do with that, so he stayed quiet, hoping Sherlock would elaborate. Sherlock took the umbrella from Mycroft and opened it. It was twice his size. “Can I take a bath now? I want to go to bed.”
This was when Sherlock wasn’t allowed to take baths unsupervised, after the incident with the stolen lobsters. Mycroft filled the tub for him and sat on the counter of the sink reading while Sherlock splashed around and counted the ripples in the water. Sherlock’s hat hung off one of Mycroft’s knees - Sherlock had tried to get into the bath with it. This was before Sherlock understood the value of things.
Sherlock went to bed quietly. The whole evening made Mycroft nervous and he left the door between their rooms wide open while he read. Just in case Sherlock had gotten a hold of matches or fire-arms to make up for how relatively he’d been in the last couple of hours.
Mummy came back around midnight, after Mycroft had fallen asleep in his chair. “Mycroft, darling,” she whispered. He shook himself awake. She smiled at him and touched his head. “Is your brother in bed? I’m impressed.”
“I doubt he’s asleep,” said Mycroft. He stretched. “But he is in bed.”
“What did you two do tonight?” Mummy asked. She drew back and sat on his bed. She looked tired and there was a streak of motor oil on her cheek. “Did you have fun?”
Mycroft opened his mouth and realized he had no idea how to answer her. He shut his mouth. It wouldn’t do to have Mummy think that Sherlock was pushing him around. Sherlock was just a terror.
Mummy smiled at him. “We read,” he said finally.
“Really?” Mummy did not look convinced. Mycroft didn’t blame her. She smiled again. “Well, that’s nice. It’s wonderful when my boys get along.” She cocked her head. “Oh, he’s not asleep, is he? Damn.”
She went to the doorway and peered in. Then she turned around, hand to her mouth and waved him over. He got up. Sherlock was wearing his top hat and he had the umbrella lying at the bottom of his bed. He was curled on his side on top of the covers, eyes closed, fish tucked under his head. Mycroft frowned. Mummy pulled Mycroft closer and gestured at Sherlock.
“We looked and we saw him,” Sherlock mumbled. “The Cat in the Hat.”
Thunder rang outside. Sherlock slept on. Mummy burst into giggles, closed the door to Sherlock’s room and kissed Mycroft good night.
This was after his seventh nanny and before his eighth, when Sherlock was five years old. This was when Mycroft was fifteen and he failed for the third time to convince himself that he did not care one wit about his younger brother.
The Value Of Things
Sherlock BBC. Gen (brothers!). G. 2785. AO3.
Inspired by the 16 July 2011 prompt on we_are_cities.
This was after Sherlock’s seventh nanny and before his eighth. This was when Sherlock was five years old and when Mycroft was fifteen. This was during the third period of Mycroft’s life in which he tried to convince himself that he did not care about his younger brother one wit.
This was after Sherlock’s seventh nanny and before his eighth. This was when Sherlock was five years old and when Mycroft was fifteen. This was during the third period of Mycroft’s life in which he tried to convince himself that he did not care about his younger brother one wit. This was when Mummy was younger and busier and they lived in the big green country house.
“Mycroft, darling, I need to run an errand. Go and keep an eye on your brother.”
“Haven’t we got servants for that sort of thing?” he said, tossing his book aside and glaring up at her from his spot on the couch in his room.
She smiled down at him. “A different sort of errand. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
This was after they had learned the hard way that Sherlock could not be left alone, not for a minute. Mycroft picked up his book and trudged down the halsto Sherlock’s playroom. Mummy’s voice rang down the stairwell, a muffled “Good bye, boys!” and then the front door slammed shut. Mycroft walked into the playroom, stepped over a pile of building blocks, and sat down against the wall. Across the room, Sherlock was carving something into his building blocks, back turned away from the door. Lightening split the sky in the window in front of Sherlock and it began to rain. It was so pointlessly dramatic that Mycroft had to stifle a sigh.
He tried to muster up some brotherly interest. “What are you making?”
“Acer pseudoplatanus,” said Sherlock. “It’s what the block is made of.”
“How meta,” said Mycroft, rolling his eyes. He picked up his book and began to read again. Presently, he heard the blocks tumble across the floor and looked up in time to see Sherlock running at him with a long, black unopened umbrella. He ducked and Sherlock’s umbrella bounced off the wall, making a distinctive dent and falling on Mycroft’s head. Sherlock fell onto Mycroft’s back.
“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, exasperated. He shook Sherlock off. Sherlock rolled across the ground and stood up again, hands on his hips.
“Bored!” shouted Sherlock. He stomped. “I wasn’t until you came in!” He flung himself at Mycroft again. Mycroft shoved him off and half-sat on him, legs heavy on Sherlock’s skinny back. Sherlock whined and punched the carpet. “You’re boring. You make everything boring. Why can’t you be interesting?” He sighed loudly.
“You’re mad,” Mycroft said, yawning.
Sherlock put his head on his arms and went limp.
“I don’t think death will be any less boring for you,” said Mycroft. “You might as well stop holding your breath.”
“Mummy will be mad at you if I’m dead when she comes back from France,” said Sherlock into his arms.
“Mummy will thank me,” said Mycroft. “She said that if I find a way to dispose of your body, she’ll give me a dog.”
Sherlock gave a whine of despair and kicked his legs against the carpet. Mycroft eyed his book and wondered if he could reach it without moving his legs. He leaned over to grab it and fell over. Sherlock was out from under his legs like a cannon blast and running out of his playroom. Mycroft groaned and ran after him.
Sherlock was fast, but he was only five and small for his age. Mycroft caught up with him on the stairs. He grabbed Sherlock’s arm, but Sherlock pulled him down the steps and Mycroft tripped. Sherlock wrenched free and went padding off across the great hall and down the corridor to the left side of the house in his stocking feet. The first floor was wood, not carpeted like second floor, and Mycroft could hear Sherlock sliding down the corridors with ease. Mycroft ran after him. Sherlock took one last running start and slid down the hallway to crash into the double doors of the library. Mycroft nearly tripped over his own feet trying to stop on the over-polished wood. He grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder. “Come on.”
“I need a book,” said Sherlock.
“You’ve got plenty of books upstairs,” said Mycroft.
“I need a book,” Sherlock repeated. “Let me in!”
This was when Sherlock was not allowed in the library anymore. The last time he did, he started a fire in front of the hagiology shelf. The time before that, he made a fortress out of outdated encyclopedias. This was when the door handles had been moved well out of his reach and the library was kept locked at night.
Mycroft shook Sherlock’s shoulder. “Come on, Sherlock. Let’s go.”
“No!” He jumped up for the handles, but fell several inches short. “I need a book. Mycroft, let me in.”
“No.”
Sherlock turned around. His face had arranged itself into some expression that recalled a child-like innocence and adorable demeanor that he did not have. “Please, Mycroft? I know what book it is, exactly. I know where it is. I won’t run away, I promise.” He took Mycroft’s hand. “Please?”
“How do the servants for fall that?” said Mycroft, marveling. “How does anyone fall for that? You’re a terrible liar.”
“They’re stupid,” said Sherlock. He didn’t let go of Mycroft’s hand, however, just tugged. “Everyone’s much stupider than you and Mummy. Mycroft, please! I need a book.”
The “please” wasn’t manipulative this time - it was just Sherlock whining. Mycroft gave up and took the handle of the door. “Don’t let go-” he began, pushing it open, but Sherlock had already let go of his hand and was running across the room. Mycroft groaned and went after him, but Sherlock produced no matches and did not attempt to climb up any shelves. He knelt in front of the bottom shelf of one of the bookcases. It was where Mummy stored all their children’s literature, Mycroft realized. This was well after the time that Mummy realized she had boys who had little time for children’s literature.
“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, threateningly. It would be just like his brother to tear up the pages of some children’s book, possibly set it on fire or throw it in the fountain, just to prove he wasn’t like other children. But Sherlock only pulled a book from the shelf and stood up. “Okay,” he said. “I found it. We can go.”
Sherlock was very docile all of a sudden. It made Mycroft uncomfortable. Sherlock followed Mycroft out of the room, stood by while Mycroft pulled the doors shut and walked side by side with Mycroft back up the stairs to his playroom.
“What book is that?” said Mycroft. He didn’t like Sherlock when he was quiet. Something wasn’t right.
“The Cat In The Hat.”
Mycroft stopped short. “The Cat In The Hat?” he said. “Sherlock, you’ve been reading textbooks since you were four. You told the Archbishop to stop giving you picture books when you were three.”
“I like it,” said Sherlock. He was small, but he looked smaller now, standing in the high-ceilinged hallway with the book tucked under his arm.
Mycroft was suspicious. “I’ve never seen you read it.”
“I like it.” Sherlock turned and walked back into his playroom. Mycroft followed and sat back down against the wall. Sherlock put the book on the windowsill.
“You’re not even going to read it?”
“Of course I am,” said Sherlock. Mycroft picked up his book again and tried to ignore the menacing sounds of Sherlock rooting through his cupboards and toy boxes. Something horrible was coming, he was sure of it. He just hoped it wouldn’t necessitate A&E or the military this time. It was hard to deal with those people without Mummy. They never took him seriously.
“Mycroft, come here,” said Sherlock.
“No,” said Mycroft automatically. He looked up. Sherlock was standing on the couch.
“Mycroft, come here!” shouted Sherlock.
“Why?” Manipulation was lost on Mycroft, but volume hadn’t lost its persuasiveness and Sherlock knew it.
“I need you over here,” Sherlock said. He jumped up and down on the couch. “You need to sit right here.”
“Why?”
“MYCROFT!”
Thunder echoed outside, but it wasn’t louder than Sherlock. Mycroft threw down his book and stood up. “You’re not adorable,” he said to Sherlock, stepping over shards of wood and a carving knife. “Never believe anyone who tells you otherwise.”
“Oh shut up, you bloody hound,” said Sherlock. He jumped off the couch and ran around to shove Mycroft towards it. “You big bloody drooling hound.”
“I am telling Mummy about that,” said Mycroft. He sat down. This was when Mummy was still trying to teach Sherlock not to mask his intent and intelligence behind ordinary speech. This was when the servants, normally on Mummy’s side on all matters involving Sherlock, were trying to undermine her. They thought it was funny to hear him curse.
“I don’t care. She likes me better.” Sherlock went back to his cupboards. Mycroft folded his arms across his chest and crossed his legs, watching him carefully. Sherlock moved from cupboard to drawer to toy box and back with single-minded purpose. Mycroft looked at the book on the windowsill. Why did Sherlock want that book? What was Sherlock doing?
Such questions were an exercise in frustration; he’d never understand Sherlock. Sherlock made a noise of delight and pulled a top hat out of a drawer. He threw it. Despite himself, Mycroft caught it. It was vintage, a well-worn stovepipe from the late 1800s. Sherlock was fond of dressing up and had closets full of “disguises” but this was an odd accoutrement, even for him. Sherlock favored scoundrels, not gentlemen. Sherlock pointed at him. “Wear it.”
“Sherlock, why?”
Sherlock pulled a second top hat out of a drawer and put it on. It dipped comically to the side, too big for his head. Mycroft sighed and put the top hat on. His hat fit perfectly.
Sherlock was back rifling through his cupboards. Mycroft tapped his fingers against his arm. It was still raining and wind whipped water against the window. It sounded like waves slapping the side of the house. He wondered when Mummy was coming back.
“Ah!” said Sherlock. He pulled a red rubber salmon from a box. He threw it at Mycroft and Mycroft caught it. Sherlock retrieved the big black umbrella from the floor, picked up his book and ran for the couch. Mycroft tensed, expecting a full-out assault but Sherlock only jumped onto the sofa and shoved the items at him. “Here.”
“Sherlock, what-“
“Read it aloud,” said Sherlock and he sat down next to Mycroft, wiggling until he was up against Mycroft’s side. His legs stuck out from the sofa, too short to bend over the edge. He took the fish and poked Mycroft’s arm. “Read it.”
Mycroft tried to set aside the umbrella, but Sherlock screeched and leaned over him, setting the umbrella so it stood upright on the couch next to him. Mycroft stared. Sherlock settled back next to Mycroft.
“How am I supposed to hold the book with one hand?” said Mycroft.
“Will you just read the book, please?” said Sherlock. “Mycroft, you are the most awful person I have ever met. Why can’t you do things when I tell you to?”
“Because the things you ask me to do make no sense,” said Mycroft. He was getting tired of bickering with his brother. Surely it’d be someone’s bedtime soon. If he was lucky, it would be Sherlock’s. Maybe he could drug him. This was before Mummy knew that Mycroft had found her secret medicine cabinet.
“Mycroft,” said Sherlock, his features falling again into that creepy expression of child-like adoration, “please read to me?”
Mycroft gave him a look. Sherlock smiled. Mycroft sighed loudly and set the book in his lap and opened it to the first page. “The sun did not shine,” he read. “It was too wet to play. So we sat in the house all that cold, cold wet day.”
Sherlock nodded and pressed closer, leaning forward to look at the illustrations. Mycroft read on. “I sat there with Sally. We sat there, we two. And I said, ‘How I wish we had something to do!’”
Mycroft read to the end of the book. He shut the book and glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock looked thoughtful. “Read it again.”
“No,” said Mycroft. “Isn’t it your bedtime?”
“Read it again, Mycroft. I want to memorize it.” Sherlock stood up on the sofa and pushed at Mycroft’s head with the nose of the rubber fish.
“What a waste of memory,” said Mycroft, incredulous. “Sherlock, are you ill? Did you hit your head?”
“I’ll hit your head if you don’t read it again,” said Sherlock. He took the edge of Mycroft’s top hat and jammed it down on Mycroft’s head until Mycroft’s ears were squashed. “Read!”
Mycroft rolled his eyes and started again. This time, Sherlock hung off his shoulder, staring down at the book. “Again,” he demanded at the end. The next time, he hung off the back of the sofa. The fourth time, he lay upside down, head hanging off the side of the couch next to Mycroft’s leg. The fifth time he sat on Mycroft’s shoulders. The sixth time, he lay face down on the couch. The seventh time, he shoved at Mycroft until Mycroft let him sit in his lap. He didn’t bother moving the eighth time and the ninth time he spent standing up on the back of the sofa. The tenth time, he stood in front of Mycroft and recited it word for word while Mycroft read.
Mycroft shut the book and tossed it aside. “Well done.”
“I had it memorized the third time you read it,” Sherlock said, looking smug.
Mycroft took off his hat and threw it at Sherlock. “Why did you make me read it seven more times then?”
Sherlock threw the hat back at Mycroft. “You’re the Cat,” he said. “I like hearing the Cat read.”
Mycroft didn’t know what to do with that, so he stayed quiet, hoping Sherlock would elaborate. Sherlock took the umbrella from Mycroft and opened it. It was twice his size. “Can I take a bath now? I want to go to bed.”
This was when Sherlock wasn’t allowed to take baths unsupervised, after the incident with the stolen lobsters. Mycroft filled the tub for him and sat on the counter of the sink reading while Sherlock splashed around and counted the ripples in the water. Sherlock’s hat hung off one of Mycroft’s knees - Sherlock had tried to get into the bath with it. This was before Sherlock understood the value of things.
Sherlock went to bed quietly. The whole evening made Mycroft nervous and he left the door between their rooms wide open while he read. Just in case Sherlock had gotten a hold of matches or fire-arms to make up for how relatively he’d been in the last couple of hours.
Mummy came back around midnight, after Mycroft had fallen asleep in his chair. “Mycroft, darling,” she whispered. He shook himself awake. She smiled at him and touched his head. “Is your brother in bed? I’m impressed.”
“I doubt he’s asleep,” said Mycroft. He stretched. “But he is in bed.”
“What did you two do tonight?” Mummy asked. She drew back and sat on his bed. She looked tired and there was a streak of motor oil on her cheek. “Did you have fun?”
Mycroft opened his mouth and realized he had no idea how to answer her. He shut his mouth. It wouldn’t do to have Mummy think that Sherlock was pushing him around. Sherlock was just a terror.
Mummy smiled at him. “We read,” he said finally.
“Really?” Mummy did not look convinced. Mycroft didn’t blame her. She smiled again. “Well, that’s nice. It’s wonderful when my boys get along.” She cocked her head. “Oh, he’s not asleep, is he? Damn.”
She went to the doorway and peered in. Then she turned around, hand to her mouth and waved him over. He got up. Sherlock was wearing his top hat and he had the umbrella lying at the bottom of his bed. He was curled on his side on top of the covers, eyes closed, fish tucked under his head. Mycroft frowned. Mummy pulled Mycroft closer and gestured at Sherlock.
“We looked and we saw him,” Sherlock mumbled. “The Cat in the Hat.”
Thunder rang outside. Sherlock slept on. Mummy burst into giggles, closed the door to Sherlock’s room and kissed Mycroft good night.
This was after his seventh nanny and before his eighth, when Sherlock was five years old. This was when Mycroft was fifteen and he failed for the third time to convince himself that he did not care one wit about his younger brother.