My first Kids!fic of Mycroft and Sherlock! It was very entertaining to write, to say the least..Please let me know what you think! Reviews are loved, petted, and are given a wonderful home in my heart! If enough claim that I didn't disembowel this subject too horribly, I'd love to add to it with more stories.. Also, a VERY SPECIAL THANK YOU TO: elixile (Eli!) for being an excellent Brit-nit-picker..and dealing with my dreadful grammar…please enjoy! :)

The Heffalump Factor

The deep, trivial ticking of the clock was the only peaceful noise that met Mycroft's ears as he worked. It was very dark outside now in the Holmes' manor- and long past a decent time to be doing anything of the matter that required working. But alas, here he was, standing over his desk, his hand furiously gripping his pencil in the madding state of someone about to discover the entire secret of the universe! Or, at least, to fourteen year old Mycroft- finally accomplish his math homework.

It wasn't so much that math was hard of course; just more work. He went to school, didn't he? He did work in his upper level classes, wasn't that enough? Why did it possibly need to tediously continue on at home? Further more, why did he even need to get up at such ungodly hours to go to such a place, only to come home and do more mindless work? And why did each and every problem take up an entire page? So many questions, so little time to sleep. By now all this pencil moving was making his hand cramp horribly. Not to mention, he was being forced to do work in an environment that housed the menace that was-

"Mycrooft!" Came the high cry, which seemed to echo across the long halls and permeate the carpeted flooring. Mycroft jumped when the sound crashed into his eardrums, and now his pencil had veered off the page. His mind surged in anger. Great, now he'd have to force his aching hand into a decent position for erasing- and then go about the act of erasing-

"Mycroft! Mycroft!" Closer now. Mycroft narrowed his tired eyes, and lowered his dull pencil, pressing his fingers to his tense temples. My- God. Why didn't Sherlock sleep? Is it his young mind too unaware of the easy going pleasures he enjoyed? My little brother is so ungrateful...Mycroft scoffed to himself.

"Here you are!" Mycroft's little brother Sherlock ducked around the door's frame, bright eyed- and with a strange smile across his thin, young, childlike features. It seemed like only a second had past, and the annoyance was beside him. Mycroft sighed dramatically, questioning the ornate ceiling,'Why him? Why now?'

"Ah! You look done!" Sherlock cried happily, his wide eyes drinking in Mycroft's still, rubbed red fingers caused from the stress of the pencil pressing into his skin. "Will you-"

"No." Mycroft gave a small smile to himself- his voice was beginning to change, and this time that 'no' came out exactly as he had wanted:- deep and full of authority. Ah-ha! Certainly that would keep him out of whatever troublesome task Sherlock was ask-

"Don't lie! I know you're done!" Came the shrill, defiant response. Mycroft quickly looked down at his little brother.

"And how do you possibly know that?" Sherlock's impossibly wide stare transferred from Mycroft's hand and his work page, and then to his pencil, and then back to Mycroft's own face. It was interesting, to say the least, to watch his little brother's calculating look- but Mycroft wasn't the least bit worried that Sherlock would find anything to build off of.

"You're…tired." Sherlock said, testing, as if he was about to dip his toe into some freezing water. Mycroft rolled his eyes. No shit, Sherlock. He commented in his own mind, a bit too foul-mouthed even for his own liking, but he was just so tired.

He could feel it though, Sherlock wasn't done. Sherlock was never done.

"And your pencil, it's been used down to a dull point. If you were to continue your homework, you would have sharpened it." Mycroft raised his eyebrows. Was his little brother actually this dull?

"But," Sherlock's eyes rounded, and his smile suddenly thinned. "You're also very lazy, so, you wouldn't have sharpened it even if you had to continue; so, from the redness on your hands, I can guess that you just wanted to finish your work without getting up. With that being said, you only pressed harder for the same laded effect. And, seeing your pencil is extremely dull, your hands red- and that paper filled up, I can tell that you're done."

Ah, so Sherlock does actually pay attention. Fantasic. Mycroft blew out a breath he didn't other wise know he was holding, somewhat bitterly.

"What is it that you want, Sherlock?"

"Read to me." His little brother made a show of holding up a thick covered book. Mycroft drew a red palm across the bridge of his nose. This was so ridiculous.

"You're not even going to add a 'please' to that?" He drawled.

"Read to me," Sherlock insisted, his dark eyes persistent.

"Go have Mummy read it to you." Mycroft answered monotonously, trying to ignore the pest completely. Sherlock crossed his short arms, fumbling with the book and huffed.

"I can'tttt. This one is too hard…." The impervious child whined, his teeth clicking annoyingly. "And she's not here! You're supposed to be watching me, remember? Mummy said!"

Mycroft paused for a moment as Sherlock's pestering whine broke through to him. Oh. Yes, that was it! He was supposed to be watching Sherlock. Mycroft quickly glanced at the tantrumsous seven-year old at the height of his knee. Well, Sherlock didn't look injured, or poisoned, or ill. And he couldn't possibly be dead and still be this annoying- so Mycroft considered his baby sitting technique a job well done.

"Sherlock, let me make something extremely clear to you." Mycroft quickly grabbed up his assignment in his hand, and strode on his long legs to the door, passing his shorter brother, who was watching intently and curiously from his spot near the desk. Mycroft quickly scoffed and elegantly flicked the light-switch off, and then strolled down the lit hallway-, leaving his little brother buried behind in darkness.

Thoroughly pleased with himself, and thinking Sherlock would get the message crystal clear, Mycroft made his way up stairs and to his room, dropping off his homework before making his way into the washroom. Once there, he stripped off his shirt, and was just beginning to wash his face for bed when suddenly he jumped at the unfocused image of someone out of the corner of his water-filled eyes, nearly hitting his head on the medicine cabinet above- spraying water droplets everywhere and getting soap in his eyes and hair.

Sherlock stood by the door, the book still clutched tightly in his small, long fingers.

"I don't understand." His small mouth pursed into a confused expression. "You didn't make anything clear at all! You only made the room dark."

"Sherlock..." Mycroft hissed out, feeling around blindly for a towel. "What the dark was imply was that 'No, I will not be reading to you.'"

"Oh." Came the soft, surprised response. "Why not?"

"Because I'm tired," Mycroft muttered.

"I got that part," Sherlock countered.

"- a feeling you don't ever seem to feel." Mycroft continued, glaring. " Also, Mummy never read to me."

Sherlock's mouth turned up impishly at the corners. "Did you ever ask her?"

Mycroft groaned exasperatedly, and shook his head, hoping that all of the soap was out of it. "It's not that I didn't ask her- it wasn't necessary!"

Sherlock only smiled larger. "Jealous, Mycroft?"

Mycroft unconsciously knotted the towel between his knuckles. "Sherlock, I want to go to bed. Goodnight."

He quickly made his way back out into the hall, and then into his bedroom, slamming the door. There was a brief, relaxing silence, in which Mycroft was nearly certain he could get away with sleeping- when suddenly Sherlock's voice came from behind his bedroom door.

"Mycroft!"

Mycroft turned over, facing the opposite window.

"Mycrrrrooft!"

He then slid a pillow over his head.

"Myyyycroft!"

And then added several more, deciding that if he couldn't sleep, he'd might as well just suffocate.

There was a pause, and Mycroft's eyes were just sliding closed-

"Please...?" Sherlock's voice was quiet now. Mycroft suddenly threw the pillows off of himself, and opened his bedroom room, squinting his eyes against the light. There of course, his little brother stood, now clad in pajamas and his dark hair wet.

"Sherlock, why is your hair- n-never mind. Look, if I read to you, now- as in, only once tonight- no, scratch that,- ever; will you promise to leave me alone?" Sherlock opened his mouth, but Mycroft quickly cut him off- "As in, will you let me sleep? I know sleep is a foreign thing to you, but if you let me, I promise I won't inform Mummy of how late you actually stay awake."

Sherlock quickly nodded his head, and shoved the book into Mycroft's hands, and then quickly ran over towards his bedroom. Mycroft rolled his eyes; gray irises challenging the ceiling as to obtain some type of justified meaning of Sherlock's existence.

Sherlock quickly leapt into his bed, curling up in the sheets. Mycroft only stared back contemptibly, pulling up a chair to the side of the bed. He then weighed the book in his hands. Yes, this was really going to happen. Sherlock stared back expectantly, suddenly making Mycroft wish he had the nerve to beat his little brother with the book's cover-

Oh my God, am I holding Winnie-The-Pooh? Mycroft couldn't believe his eyes. "Sherlock."

"What?"

"Sherlock, I know you can read this! This is childish. Come off it!"

Sherlock's eyes then went impossibly huge and wide. "No! No! I can't! I mean, some parts, of course, but this chapter, I really can't!"

Mycroft sighed. Winnie-The-Pooh. If he had any dignity left by the end of the night, he would be surprised.

"Right, whatever." Sherlock nodded happily to his older brother's words, his dark hair bouncing a little as Mycroft continued. "What chapter are you having trouble with?"

"Chapter Five," Sherlock recited back, "In Which Piglet Meets a Heff...Heff..."

Mycroft quickly opened to the proper chapter. "A Heffalump?"
He stared stonily at his little brother. "Seriously?"

"Yes!" Sherlock cried, bouncing a little from his spot on the quilt, "I'm so very curious to what they are!"

Mycroft wondered briefly if locking one's little sibling in a cabinet would still be considered 'babysitting'. "Right...," Mycroft thumbed at his nose, and then began in a unamused voice: "One day, when Christopher Robin and-"

Wait!" Sherlock suddenly yelled out, flicking his hand at his brother in his dominant and controlling manner. "Do the voices."

Mycroft wrenched. "The voices?"

"Yes! Mummy does them. You know, of the characters!"

Mycroft continued to stare in disbelief. "This isn't happening..."

"So will you?" his little brother bounced excitedly. Mycroft blinked slowly.

"No."

"But-"

"Sherlock, have you considered the fact that you're lucky enough that I'm actually reading to you?"

"Yes- but-"

"No." Mycroft smiled that same small smile as before, for his voice had changed again at just the right moment. Sherlock did not object, and for a good, long while, Mycroft droned on and on in a very bored fashion, or rather like one that is going through some sort of slow torture. Suddenly, Sherlock spoke again when some strange, curious notion hit his developing brain, and he blurted out-

"So,Christopher Robin, coming out of that huge tree, is like 'Doctor Who'?"

Mycroft stared stonily at his little brother. "What?"

"'Doctor Who'! And his spacecraft, the TARDIS! I bet it opens up into another dimension of time and space!" Sherlock explained with a glow in his ever-rounding eyes. He stretched his arms as wide as they could go- (though, granted, it wasn't very far.) as he talked.

When Sherlock finished explaining, Mycroft simply stared, and pressed the palm of his hand over the side of his face.

"That's it, I'm alerting Mummy to how much telly time you're getting."

"No! Seriously, how do you think he even gets there?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft gritted out testily, "I don't think it really matters!"

"Well it does to me- and!"

Mycroft quickly cut off his brother before he began another explaining rant. "Sherlock! Would you let me please finish?"

Sherlock sighed again, and crossed his arms stubbornly.

"Thank you."

Mycroft quickly read on, and on, before finally, he spotted insight into Pooh and Piglet wanting to trap a Heffalump, (almost narrowly admitting that he was beginning to be slightly curious to what the creatures were himself, but he only blamed it on his sleepiness,) when suddenly Sherlock objected again:

"Why would they build a pit to capture one? It's so very stupid!"

"It's a Very Deep Pit," Mycroft found himself defending the children's story. He was also finding it harder for him to grip the book properly.

"It doesn't matter!" Sherlock threw his short arms up in the air above his head, and Mycroft nearly laughed at his expression.

"Why doesn't it matter?" Why am I discussing Winnie-The-Pooh with my seven-year-old brother? Mycroft lamented to himself.

"Because they can fly!"

"And how did you managed to find-"

"Because it's obvious!" Sherlock scoffed again, flopping himself down on the bed. Mycroft merely rubbed his blearily eyes- and then...a very...very...curious…clever...and, dare he say it,

evil...idea, came to him. A not so very nice idea. But...at least in the end, he could sleep.

Mycroft closed the book, and Sherlock suddenly gave him a very nasty look- like he had just snapped one of his violin's strings. "What are you doing?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft set his eyes on Sherlock's very intently, his fingers into locking together as he leaned forward. "What if I told you a secret?"

Sherlock did his best to not look interested, but his ears pricked. "About what?"

"About Heffalumps, you know they're based off of real life creatures, don't you?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up almost instantly. "What? They...are?"

Oh how adorably gullible, Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Yes," Mycroft could feel his voice changing once more, becoming lower. It was going so smoothly now; he had captured Sherlock's attention to say the least...

"Oh yes, and, if I let you in on this secret- will I not have to finish the chapter?" Sherlock studied his older brother carefully, before cupping a small hand under his chin, mesmerized.

"Sure."

Perfect. "Let's see...Heffalumps. Yes, in the story, they're rather nice things...but in real life they're very nasty creatures. Native here, if I can recall correctly. And it was very clever of you to find out what you did about them," Mycroft purred. " They can fly. Also they love the dark."

Sherlock's eyes were round and glinting now as Mycroft continued. "Did you know they are scaly though? With long, bony tails, sharp wings, blood red eyes and little sharp teeth?"

Mycroft watched contently as his little brother swallowed. "Really?"

"Oh yes. Sherlock, you should know that children stories only soften reality. Like, Little Red Riding Hood, for example. In the end the wolf still ate everyone and, like Heffalumps...well...do you know why they're even called 'Heffalumps?'"

Sherlock slowly shook his head, his little eyebrows furrowing in thought.

"Because, when they eat, they only consume lumps of flesh."

"Flesh?" Sherlock's eyes widened. Mycroft only smiled back.

"Of course. Any flesh, I rather think. Anything that's full of warm blood, and will stay still in the dark."

Sherlock's eyes flickered towards his bedroom window, and Mycroft felt his cue to leave.

"I suggest you start reading The Brothers Grimm sometime. Delightfully real fairytales..." Mycroft stood up, and made his way to Sherlock bedroom door, before turning off the switch with a faint click. "Well...that's all the secrets I know for those terrible things. Good night!"

And with that, he shut the door.

A few hours later, Mycroft was sound asleep, laying orderly in the twisted sheets, and dreaming of things long-far away from the fears he might have caused his little brother, or other wise. Mycroft didn't hear the screaming for quite a while...

"Mycroft! Mycroft!" Came the shrill, echoing cry and the light footpads of Sherlock down the hall. "It's going to eat me!"

Mycroft's bedroom door flew open with a loud bang as it smashed into the wall, and Mycroft's eyes snapped open, his heart in his throat.

"What-?"

For once, in the few times Sherlock ever touched anyone, Mycroft looked down to find his little, shaking brother, attached onto his leg. Mycroft merely ignored this pressure however, and thought about simply going back to sleep- but there was a persistent tugging on his pant's leg as Sherlock trembled.

"Sherlock," Mycroft asked in his most bored voice, "what are you doing?"

"H-h-h," Sherlock huffed, his breath caught in his skinny chest. "H-h-effalump! I...I saw one!"

Mycroft suddenly jolted more awake, and had to bit his tongue to resist the suddenly over-whelming notion to laugh hysterically. He had scared Sherlock! What a fun night!

"Oh did you now?" Mycroft purred, pulling his leg away from Sherlock's grasp and raising from his bed. "In your bedroom, I imagine?"

Sherlock only nodded rapidly in the moonlight that flooded the bedroom. Mycroft merely laughed a low chuckle. "Right, well, let's go take care of it, shall we?"

Mycroft slogged down the hall, and moved into Sherlock's room, flicking on the light. Nothing, of course, was there. Sherlock stood just behind him, poking his small head around the door frame.

"Sherlock, nothing is in here."

"It is! I swear it is! You...you just have to turn off the light again..."

"Alright," Mycroft suddenly flicked off the light, and then moved around Sherlock's room in the darkness.

"Hm…nope…nope…there's nothing- oh wait!"

There was a silence, and Sherlock could hear his heart pounding harshly in his ears. He couldn't breathe.

"Mycroft? Myrcroft, what is it?" Sherlock whispered into the shadows.

Then suddenly, something large and dense leapt at him from the darkness, crushing him to the bed- Sherlock screamed as loud as he could!

And, with his little life flashing before his eyes, Sherlock expected it all to be over! But no tearing pain of his limbs leaving his body ensued, no gushing of blood, or nasty little teeth or claws -– just… Sherlock being crushed into his older brother's chest. Mycroft's bellowing laughter was shaking his small frame.

Sherlock suddenly realized that he had fallen for a very cruel joke.

"You're so mean, Mycroft!" Sherlock cried, the words bubbling out his chest in shock. "I'm going to go tell Mummy on you!" He sniffled his threat, his gray eyes full of wet tears, and they rolled onto Mycroft's shirt. Mycroft carefully held Sherlock away from him in the darkness, a slow smile spreading across his face as he gazed at his tormented little brother.

Sherlock sniffled, taking in another huffing breath- trying to be a 'big boy', as Mummy patronizingly called it.

Mycroft laughed again, reaching up to gingerly tease his little brother's dark curls of hair, before pulling his hand back quickly, acting as if he had never touched him at all. Mycroft, just as much as Sherlock, was adverse to touching people, but in the moment something had been forgotten and it had passed; like the mere seconds a water droplet keeps form as it strikes a still pond, before it is dissolved, to be lost in the ripples forever.

The two pulled away, one looking down and the other craning to look up. This familiar pattern of subconsciously marked distance was becoming more and more prominent as the two were growing older. Sherlock sniffed again, and wiped his eyes with the back of his small hand. Mycroft only smiled, delighted, in return. Sherlock would have none of that, however.

"Y-you shouldn't look so happy about it! Y-you, you really s-scared me! You're such a meanie!"

"Oh Sherlock," Mycroft purred, loving how his voice had dropped lower once again, his back now to his younger brother as he made his way to the door.

"You have no idea."