Holmes for Christmas

Christmas Eve

"Mother!" The child's anguished cry echoed through the house. "Mother!" It came again, this time accompanied by the sound of running footsteps.

Mrs Holmes sighed and put down her pen. An hour of peace, was that too much to ask? Her husband had had to rush out on an errand, leaving her with the two Christmas-hyper children. She closed her eyes for a second. It was only mid-afternoon, and she was already desperate to go back to bed.

"Mother!" The cry came a third time, and she opened her eyes just in time to see her eldest son charge into the room.

"What is it, darling?" The teenager's face was twisted into a look of fury that no one under the age of forty should have been able to create.

"Sherlock has broken my computer." The boy's voice was somewhere between a sob and a shout.

Mrs Holmes resigned herself once more to being the peace broker between the two young warlords that were currently running her life. Roll on the start of the January term. She allowed Mycroft to lead her to the back door in the kitchen. Through the window, she could see her youngest son, the seven year old Sherlock, kneeling over the now obviously dead laptop computer. The second boy had his back to them, crouching in the snow-covered yard, with his head of dark curls bent intently over the destroyed machine, examining it closely.

She opened the door, letting in a blast of frigid air.

"Sherlock! Come inside, now please." The boy stood up solemnly and walked into the house. Despite being seven years younger than his brother, Sherlock was already taller than Mycroft, with a wiry frame and curly brown hair that was laced through with snowflakes. His blue eyes were clear and calculating as he looked up at his mother.

Mrs Holmes put on her stern, motherly voice.

"Sherlock, have you ruined Mycroft's laptop?" The boy before her nodded, as if the fact was completely self evident.

"Why did you do such a nasty thing?" Sherlock shrugged. His mother sighed. She had never once got a straight answer from her youngest regarding any of his actions.

"Apologise to your brother." Sherlock switched his gaze from his mother to Mycroft, who had the kind of smirk on his face that only a victor can wear.

"Apologise, Sherlock. Now!"

"I'm sorry Mycroft."

"Good. Now, go and amuse yourselves in your rooms, the pair of you. And Sherlock, no more experiments today please."

Mr Holmes turned his collar up against the increasing flurries of snow. The bitter wind bit at his face and stung his eyes. He would have taken the car, but Sherlock had removed the break lines on the evening he had arrived back from boarding school.

In his gloved hands, he clasped two large bags. He had nearly given up on getting his boys their presents in time for Christmas. It had become tradition that Sherlock and Mycroft only received one large or expensive gift from their parents, and then several smaller ones from family and friends.

At first, he had found it odd that neither boy had bought the idea of a fat, jolly man in a red suit that brought gifts down a chimney to children who were good. But, after several years, he had got used to it.

He jogged the last few steps up to the front door, glad to be out of the wintery weather. He closed the door, and looked up to see two expectant faces peering at him through the banisters. Sherlock's face, he noted was covered in soot, and some of his hair was still smouldering. Mycroft had an odd expression on his face. He seemed to consider himself too old to be excited by Christmas, but the lure of the two bags was still too powerful to resist.

Mr Holmes shooed the boys back upstairs. Now, he was faced with the dilemma of where to put the gifts until the next morning. Sherlock had the uncanny ability to get where even water couldn't – he seemed to be able to move like smoke through key holes and under doors. It didn't matter if a room was locked and bolted tight; Sherlock would be able to get inside.

Mycroft, on the other hand, was a sneaky opportunist. If a door was left open for a minute unguarded, or a cupboard was left unlocked and forgotten about, Mycroft seemed to be able to sense it, and his fox-like senses would lead him straight to the contents. Mr Holmes wondered how both of his children had developed such bizarre personalities and skills.

He decided not to take any chances this year, and lock the gifts in his office safe. The boys were expressly forbidden from entering the room, and although he doubted that the rule was strictly adhered to, only he knew the combination to the safe.

After he had secured the presents, he found his wife looking particularly frazzled in the sitting room. He kissed her on the top of the head.

"Remind me why we do this to ourselves every year," she sounded tired.

"Because your sister organises the summer gathering, and tricked you into doing the Christmas one." He straightened up. "And I think Sherlock has been at the matches again." His wife sighed.

"Those boys are going to be the death of me."

Sherlock was bored. He had read very book in his room. He had read every book in Mycroft's room. He had even read all of his parent's books and magazines. He was also annoyed, having singed his hair when he set fire – accidentally this time – to Mycroft's bed. He lay on the floor, starring up at the smiley face he had painted on his ceiling. The paint had run, and made the face look like it was crying. Sherlock didn't cry, unless the situation called for it. A crying seven year old does not make a likely suspect for a bag snatching after all.

He wondered what his father had got him for Christmas. He contemplated going and having a look. Not knowing something was practically torture for Sherlock. He couldn't stand the feeling he got when someone else knew more than he did.

When he wanted to know what alcohol tasted like, he had crept into the kitchen in the dead of night and tried some of his father's whiskey. It had left him feeling fuzzy and lightheaded, and he had decided to try and keep away from it whenever possible.

When he had wanted to know what cigarettes were like, he had stolen some from his headmaster's study. They had made his eyes water and his throat sting, but it hadn't been an entirely unpleasant experience. He still had seven hidden in the hollowed out window frame in his room.

When he had wanted to know what it felt like to fire a gun, he had taken his grandfather's pistol, and had spent an afternoon shooting holes into the big old oak tree at the bottom of his grandparent's garden. The gun was now lying under the loose floorboard in the corner of his room, along with a small box of ammunition.

He was just so bored.

Sherlock rolled onto his stomach, and caught sight of his violin out of the corner of his eye. What would Mycroft be doing? Would he appreciate a bit of Mozart to help him? Sherlock wriggled to his feet and snatched up his bow.

Mycroft was in fact reading a report on North Korea that he had liberated from his father's desk. He had always been intrigued by his father's secretive work, the shadowy figures that would occasionally appear in the house, the snippets of conversation he would get second hand from Sherlock, who had taken to sneaking around in the crawl spaces of the old house.

When he had asked his other about his father's job, she had told him his father held a minor position in the government. Mycroft had sounded out the prospect in his head. Mycroft Holmes; minor government official. It was definitely something to work with. Wanting clarification, he had put the same question to his uncle. The man had laughed and said:

"Mycroft, my boy; your father is the British government."

Mycroft Holmes. The British government. He liked it.

Mycroft had just got to page 94 of the report, when the wailing of a violin started up. Damn his little brother. Why did Sherlock have to be so odd? Why couldn't he just accept that as the older brother, Mycroft was allowed to hand out orders to him? Sherlock had never quite grasped this concept, which made Mycroft annoyed. He consoled himself with the thought that he would make something of his life. Sherlock would have to practically invent a job to ever be good at anything. Not Mycroft though. He had it all planned out.