This is a commissioned work from lokiafterdark

Jellicle. What kind of word is that anyway? It sounds like some nonsense word Sherlock used when he took to speaking in code when he was four.

The boy in question, now aged seven, is currently drooling on Mycroft's shoulder. They've only been awake for three hours, but train travel always puts Sherlock to sleep within the first few miles. More than once, when the younger boy had gone without sleep for too long, their father had taken Sherlock to London and back on the train to get him to sleep. The last time, as Dad carried the sleeping child into the house, Mycroft asked why they didn't just give him a big dose of cough medicine or a shot of whiskey. He earned a week without his bicycle for his troubles.

The train rounds a sharp curve and Sherlock slumps in the other direction, his head landing on the window sill with a soft thud, his mouth still agape. Mummy and Dad, seated across the aisle, are busy talking about the recent outbreak of crop circles with the couple in front of them (well, Mummy is talking and Dad is nodding along) and don't notice. Excellent, since they'd probably accuse him of shoving his brother.

He considers putting Sherlock's jacket under his head but decides against it for fear of waking him. Sherlock was in rare form this morning, chattering away about the swarm that the beekeeper had moved to a new hive and how he got a glimpse of a queen, which lead to a dissertation on the life cycle of the honeybee compared to the bumblebee. All Mycroft wanted to do on rainy mornings like this was to sit with his newspapers. He takes one from every major city in the West and a few in the East—his Mandarin is coming along nicely—and goes through them immediately after breakfast.

Instead of sitting by the fire with the dog at his feet and a cup of tea at his side, he's careening toward London on this drafty train to see a musical that is sure to be ghastly, if the source material and the soundtrack that Mummy had made them plow through are any indication.

Sherlock and Mycroft rarely find common ground these days, especially with Mycroft away at school, but one thing they agree on is that an emergency trip to the dentist would be preferable to Mummy's arts enrichment excursions.

Sherlock would gladly go to the symphony and Mycroft quite enjoys art museums. However, their mother's taste in art could be summarized in her taking them to a musical about dancing cats, and that the last time they'd been inside an art museum was for a Norman Rockwell exhibit. She also quite enjoys photographs of babies dressed as fairies or sleeping in giant flowers.

"Mycroft," his brother yawns ten minutes later, waking up and rubbing the crease mark on the side of his face. "How much longer?"

"You've been asleep for an hour, and fell asleep ten minutes after we left, so you tell me."

"Thirty five minutes," Sherlock says after less than a second's hesitation.

"Excellent," Mycroft says. He hands Sherlock the cinnamon sweetie that the lady in front of their parents had given them earlier. The boy unwraps it and pops it into his mouth, swinging his legs joyously.

"Oi!" A man with a very red and very bald head turns around in the seat in front of Sherlock's. "Stop kicking the seat."

A look so fleeting that only Mycroft notices passes across Sherlock's face. A slight narrowing of the eyes and tightening of the mouth, over in a flash as the boy decides not to kick the seat back again out of spite. Instead, he pastes a gloriously wide grin on his face.

"Sorry about that, Mister."

The furrows in the man's bulbous forehead melt away. "Well, just mind you don't do it again. That's a good lad." He puts his earplugs back in and turns around.

Sherlock's smile vanishes

"Well?" Mycroft whispers

"No," Sherlock says, crossing his arms. "You always win."

"It's because I'm not only older but smarter. But if you keep practicing you'll be half as good as me someday."

His brother sighs dramatically, shooting his breath upward so that his fringe lifts from his forehead.

"He's a surgeon."

"Wrong."

"But what about the cuts on his fingers?"

"Not fine enough to be from scalpel blades and surgeons don't cut themselves that often. Think, little brother."

Sherlock screws his face up. He should have immediately filed details about the man away somewhere in his memory place, but the boy can be dreadfully lazy at times.

"Chef?" he says finally.

"Very good. I'm afraid I'm out of candy, but you can ask the lady over there."

"She doesn't wash her hands after the loo but I suppose it's okay since they're wrapped in cellophane." Sherlock giggles. "The candy. Not her hands."

"Focus, Sherlock. Is the man in front of us married?"

"Yes but he doesn't wear his ring to work."

"Good. What else?"

"I'm bored," Sherlock says. His foot jerks out but he stops himself from kicking the seat at the last moment.

Mycroft shakes his head sadly. "You're giving up that easily?"

"Yes and I'm going back to sleep." With that, he curls up in the seat, pulling his jacket over him, and within a minute does just that.

Mycroft looks past his brother out the window as the rural landscape gives way to the suburbs. The sun looks as though it may make a brief appearance.

Sherlock turns over in his sleep, pulling his jacket up to his chin. "Murder," he murmurs, a smile flitting across his lips.

Their mother's voice filters through the background noise. "I'm just saying that I wouldn't put it past the boy, he's exceedingly clever with shapes and numbers and is out roaming all hours," Mummy says to the lady with the sweeties.

"He is quite small still," Dad chimes in.

"It was obviously the McAllister brothers," Mycroft says, wearily. "Their crop was failing anyway and they're charging people to come gape at the silly circles. Really, Mummy. Sherlock?"

"You're absolutely no fun at all, Mikey," she says.

"Of course not," he replies, smiling at her. He sits back in his seat, closing his eyes and steepling his hands under his chin. "Next stop, the bloody Jellicle Ball."