AN: Woohoo! Another Holmes childhood fic :D I thought I'd do some chapters here about little Sherlock learning to play the violin, but mostly from Mycroft's POV. Not the kind of thing I would normally write, but if anyone could let me know whether or not it works, that would be grand! :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, thank gawd. I wouldn't want to have to write a sequel to that monstrous cliffhanger…

The clock chimed one o'clock. It was an expensive chime – you could tell by the way its deep, sonorous notes lingered in the air and shook little motes of dust from the glass cases that lined the room. How ironic that a music shop should be so deathly silent, all instruments imprisoned in transparent cases as though they were wild, exotic animals only to be looked upon, never to be touched. As though the twitter of the flute, or the bellow of the trombone was somehow a threat to society.

There was nobody in the shop, other than the shopkeeper, who twitched behind the counter at the sudden noise and quickly trained his eyes on the entrance (a small, engraved, black door that would have looked charming and quaint, were it not for the heavy industrial bolts and locks studded down the side).

He liked the stuffy, oppressed atmosphere of his store, and it troubled him deeply to think of his fellow shop owners bedecking theirs in that dreadful, new eighties fashion. This was a Victorian building and he'd be damned if it bowed to the colourful, hippy-ish fads of the sixties, or leaned towards the tasteless trends of the recently passed seventies. No, the musty reds and purples would be staying, along with the antique flowery wallpaper and the velvety carpet to muffle any offending footfalls. It attracted a certain type of customer, you see. Not to mention it was easier to hear someone coming…

Tinkle, went the bell.

'Ah, good afternoon, Mrs Holmes,' went the shopkeeper. He hastily brushed biscuit crumbs off the counter. 'How are you today?'

The lady smiled warmly as she removed her scarf. It couldn't be denied that she was very easy on the eye, he noted: a bundle of sleek, shoulder-length black curls framed a round, pale face, and from underneath her prim coat peeped the hem of a patterned knee-length skirt. But she was in no way delicate looking – taller than the average woman, and now in her mid-forties, she seemed incredibly comfortable in her own skin. The beginnings of crow's feet gave her expression a welcoming quality, but there was a gleam of sharpness in those large, brown eyes.

'Oh, yes, yes, fine, thank you, George,' she replied, a little distractedly. 'Although I'm afraid I'm not alone today…'

At that moment, an adolescent boy strolled through the entrance behind her, a similar knowing smile indulging his features. He shared his height and intense, chocolate-brown eyes with his mother, but his posture seemed colder and more business-like. The shopkeeper repressed a shiver – it was like looking at a middle-aged man trapped inside a teenager's body.

'Ah, young Mycroft. A pleasure as always.'

Stepping out from behind the counter to shake hands, George couldn't help wincing as the portly teen chuckled. 'Such politeness. Not something you often see these days.' Then Mycroft turned to his mother and muttered, 'Sherlock's still hanging around outside…'

Mrs Holmes dropped her smile and pursed her deep red lips with irritation. 'One moment.' She opened the door again and leaned out of the aperture to give the shouted command, 'Sherlock darling! Will you come inside now, please!'

A smaller, younger boy then loped into the shop, barely caring where he put his feet to the point that several times he narrowly missed crashing into the glass cabinets. A scowl was visible underneath the mop of black curls tumbling over his forehead – someone had clearly tried to gel them back, but to no avail.

Despite both children being dressed smartly in black trousers and tidy jumpers, this boy lacked the neatness of his sibling - maybe because he was so incredibly thin that even the custom-made clothing just hung off him like a clotheshorse. Mrs Holmes gently placed a gloved hand on each bony shoulder and steered him towards the counter.

'This is my other son, Sherlock.'

George bit back a laugh. Sherlock? Poor child. Mind you, this was the Holmes family; they could have named their children after chocolate bars for all they cared. He extended his hand once again and smiled encouragingly, but the child wouldn't even give him eye contact.

'We… need some help, George' sighed Mrs Holmes, and this time, there was a hint of sorrow in her voice as she gazed at the man earnestly. 'He's seven years old and he doesn't, well, he talks – sometimes – but he's so incredibly shy. Our doctor suggested that maybe music would be a solution, you know, to express himself… I know it's quite late to start now, but,' she glanced at Mycroft, 'my other son plays the piano so beautifully and I thought we might have a musical streak in the family…'

'Yes, indeed,' George nodded vigorously. 'Yes, learning an instrument can often help a child, as you so eloquently put it, express themselves.'

'Well…' Mrs Holmes bent down until her face was level with Sherlock's. 'Why don't you pick an instrument, darling? Any one you like.'

'I highly recommend one of our flutes – whoops, sorry,' George felt something bump into him and realised he'd very nearly tripped over the boy in his haste to point out the most expensive items on sale. Sherlock seemed oblivious, however. 'Or – or a saxophone, that's quite unusual, or perhaps a harp –'

'My son is quite capable of making his own mind up, thank you.'

'Ah, yes, yes, quite right.' George scurried back to the counter, but kept watching the boy carefully and prayed the clumsy child wouldn't stumble close enough to anything to break it.

Sherlock wandered about the store for a while, before finally coming to a halt and half-heartedly prodding a delicate cabinet window. George craned his neck to look, but he already knew the contents. He grinned. Mrs Holmes didn't look so happy.

'Oh, the violin. A wonderful choice. Mrs Holmes, your son has excellent taste.' He caught her slightly troubled expression. 'Of course, it takes a lot of practice for the music to be enjoyable… I hope your neighbours don't live too close –'

'Not for several acres, no,' replied the mother smoothly, smile returning. 'No, that's no problem at all.'

The shopkeeper dipped under the counter and cheerfully retrieved a giant tome of a book. He licked his finger and began to flick the pages. 'We do have a splendid model here… a high bridge gives the player an easy –'

'Yes, yes, we'll take the most expensive one you've got.' Mrs Holmes was already drawing out her wallet with the resigned air of someone who has done this many times before. 'Come, Mycroft, Sherlock. We're going.'

There was a sudden snap of something priceless breaking behind them.

'I'll pay for that too,' she said wearily, without looking round.

Mycroft turned to his brother in the back seat of the car. Taking care to keep his voice low so that his mother couldn't hear from the front passenger seat, he hissed, 'That was a stupid thing you just did, Sherlock.'

The younger boy remained staring out of the window, apparently intent on watching the endless patchwork of fields whiz past. Lips barely moved as he murmured his reply. 'What's wrong with the violin?'

'Oh, nothing, nothing.' Mycroft raised his eyebrows and turned away. 'In fact, once you've had lessons and mastered it to the same standards as my piano playing, I'm sure Mummy would love to hear us play a duet.'

The response was a snort of disgust and Mycroft heaved a sigh.

'You know I'm not talking about the violin.'

Sherlock visibly stiffened. 'How did you see?'

'Ohh…' Mycroft leaned back in the leather seat, closed his eyes, and tried to recall the excitement he'd felt upon first realising that his little brother shared those gifts of sharp observance and intelligence that he himself possessed. Finally, he had thought, here was somebody who could understand him and maybe even challenge him after so many years of trying to befriend useful, but otherwise ignorant, people of his own age.

True, Mycroft had relished the power he held over his duller, awe-struck classmates at school, but it was just tedious never to have an intellectual conversation with someone under the age of forty and, well, even the adults now came to regard him with a mixture of fear and ridicule. Mummy had tried her best to entertain her first-born, but it wasn't the same. It was lonely being a fourteen-year-old genius.

But with the right guidance, Mycroft had believed he could mould Sherlock's talents and transform him into the perfect ally and a proper little gentleman too, just like Mummy wanted. He had enthused about the responsibility of tutoring and caring for his protégé, and the respect and gratitude he would no doubt receive in return. After all, what child wouldn't want to become like Mycroft?

How naive he had been.

And how utterly infuriating it was to find that darling little Sherlock had no interest whatsoever in becoming another polite and respectful member of the family, but would rather use his skills for more questionable purposes… such as robbing harmless civilians.

'I'm your brother. I don't need to see. I know.' Mycroft held out his hand. 'Give it to me.'

With an overly dramatic groan, Sherlock dug out a small, round object from his trouser pocket and dropped it into Mycroft's gloved palm. It was a pocket watch – Patek Phillipe by the looks of it – and bore no signs of damage or disrepair, other than displaying the incorrect time. The engraving had the surname of the shopkeeper, but a different Christian name. He felt his stomach drop. Almost definitely a valuable family heirloom, then. Mycroft decided it might be best not to divulge quite how valuable it was.

'Mm.' He lifted the heavy, gold item up to the light of the window. It wouldn't do for him to admit he was impressed by his brother's slight of hand, but from the way he was fidgeting, it looked as though Sherlock would soon explode if he didn't get to brag about his achievements. 'Go on, then. When did you take it?'

'When I bumped into him,' gabbled Sherlock, breathlessly. 'It was in his jacket pocket. So easy. And then I broke something afterwards to make it look as though I was just clumsy.'

'Yes, I did wonder where the sudden bout of inelegance came from… you'll have to give this back, of course.'

'Finders keepers.'

Mycroft frowned. His brother clearly had no idea of the object's value, but he could be dangerously reckless at times. At all times, in fact. Shy? Mummy had no idea. He decided to try a different tack.

'It really wouldn't do for our family name to be associated with petty thievery,' he said carefully. 'Mummy would be so cross.'

'Can't prove it was me.' Sherlock wiggled his fingers from inside his mittens. 'No fingerprints.'

Morality and guilt wouldn't work then. Fear it was. 'So… I assume you noticed he already had a watch on his wrist?'

Still bathing in the glow of his own cleverness, Sherlock smirked. 'Well, yes.'

'Mm. So what was the purpose of having another watch in his pocket?'

'Maybe he really liked it?'

'Yes, he wanted to keep it with him at all times, but for sentimental reasons? Or because he had a break-in last week and wanted to ensure the safety of his most valuable possession should the thieves come back?'

'Break-in?' A flicker of doubt passed over the little boy's face. 'Oh, the tiny bits of broken glass still on the floor…'

Mycroft allowed himself a laugh. 'Very good. Or last week's newspapers would have told you, if you ever read them.'

'What's the point of this?'

'Oh, brother, you see, but you don't observe,' he drawled. Ah, what a good line. 'You saw the sheer number of new locks and bolts on that door, but you should have observed that this shopkeeper was clearly paranoid. And rich. Paranoid and rich enough to purchase a brand new surveillance system in the last week maybe. So, you didn't see the video camera, disguised rather badly behind the biscuit tin on the counter, recording your every move. Video footage as criminal evidence is due to become very fashionable this decade, I've heard.'

Sherlock gazed at him in horror. 'He filmed me?'

'Don't worry, I'm sure the police will go easy on a seven-year-old child.' Mycroft turned his gaze to his own window. He allowed Sherlock to squirm for some seconds before addressing him again with a grim smile. 'But if it bothers you, I can have Petra return the watch discreetly and cover the costs of any inconvenience.' Not a typical job for an au pair, but then, theirs wasn't a typical family.

Sherlock looked away from him awkwardly, the returning scowl revealing how annoyed he was with himself for having shown such emotive weakness.

'No, no need to thank me,' Mycroft added drily, noting the pronounced silence.

There was a muffled grunt of gratitude.

'And you can repay me by practicing that horrid instrument as far away from me as possible.' Mycroft sniffed. 'I hate the violin.'