A/N: A new story focusing on Sherlock and Mycroft's childhood and what changed between them. There are lots of quotes and references in this and no copyright breaches were intended. I own nothing and make no profits.

"I am looking for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and it's very difficult to find anyone."

"I should think so — in these parts! We are plain quiet folk and have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner!" Mycroft chuckled. Sherlock pouted and pulled the book out of Mycroft's hands.

"Fold the page!" Mycroft reminded him. Sherlock complied, and then clambered onto Mycroft's lap.

"I lost my watch," Sherlock admitted, holding up his bare wrist.

"There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something," Mycroft smiled. Sherlock grinned and wriggled.

"Stop with the quotes," he demanded half-heartedly.

"About your adventure- I should like to know about risks, out-of-pocket expenses, time required and remuneration, and so forth," Mycroft smiled. Sherlock considered.

"You'd be no good," he decided. Mycroft gave his best faux-offended face and gasped.

"How rude. Why not, pray tell?" he requested.

"I require someone with nerves of steel and very large hobbity-feet," Sherlock shrugged, looking down at his own slightly out of proportion feet. Aged eight, Sherlock was all out of proportion- long limbs and big feet, and not a tad of fat on his bones.

"Alas, I cannot help, for I am simply a wise old wizard, my little hobbit," Mycroft smiled, removing Sherlock from his lap and patting his head, "On your way, my big-footed friend."

"But Gandalf-!"

"I believe that my name is Mycroft," Mycroft interrupted with a slight smirk.

"I'm bored!"

"And I have to read up on my history homework," Mycroft replied, though slightly sternly.

"Fine. After dinner I am setting my trolls on you," Sherlock countered.

"Dinner? Mutton today, Mutton yesterday, and blimey it don't look like mutton tomorrer!" Mycroft winked, and Sherlock ran away, laughing to himself at his brilliant brother.

Over dinner, Mummy praised Mycroft for his grades and his immaculate school report. She moaned at Sherlock for ruining his school shirt.

"It was my fault, mummy, I sent him to the greenhouse to fetch my old coat," Mycroft swiftly intervened as Sherlock moved to reply.

"Still, he needn't have gotten his shirt quite so muddy," Mummy replied, casting a disapproving look at Sherlock.

"My fault also," Mycroft lied, "I asked him to check if the strawberries were out yet."

Mummy just hummed.

That night Sherlock wandered into Mycroft's room, clad in his too-big pajamas with a book under his arm. Mycroft looked away from his mirror where he'd been thinking very nasty thoughts about his reflection and smiled.

"Someone looks ready for bed," he commented.

"I want this one tonight," Sherlock demanded, holding up the book. Mycroft frowned slightly.

"What is the magic word, Lock?"

"Please?" sleepy Sherlock asked, climbing onto Mycroft's bed and curling up into a ball.

"What is wrong?" Mycroft asked quietly, moving to close his door and crouch next to the bed. Sherlock grumbled and pulled the covers over his head.

"Read the book," he muttered.

"Fine, but we are discussing this, Little Hobbit," Mycroft replied, extracting the book from Sherlock's grip and sitting at the head of the bed.

"No," Sherlock grumbled, crawling up the covers and curling up against Mycroft's side. Mycroft opened the book and grinned.

"French," he commented.

"I need to know it," Sherlock replied, still sulking.

"Why?"

"You talk to your friends in it," Sherlock shrugged, "I'm your friend."

Mycroft chuckled gently and rolled his eyes.

"Une fois il y avait quatre enfants dont les noms étaient Peter, Susan, Edmund et Lucy. Cette histoire est quelque chose qui s'est passé pour eux quand ils ont été envoyés loin de Londres pendant la guerre à cause de l'air-raids..."

It did not take too long for Sherlock to calm down, and eventually he was mouthing the words along with Mycroft, trying to learn them. Mycroft finished the second chapter and closed the book.

"Time to talk, my hobbity friend," he smiled.

"Don't wanna," Sherlock muttered. Mycroft scooped his brother onto his lap and tucked Sherlock's head under his chin.

"I'm not looking at you now, you can talk," he offered. Sherlock paused for a moment.

"Mummy hates me," he finally replied. Mycroft's stomach dropped to his knees and he froze, giving Sherlock all the answer that he needed. His little eyes began to fill.

"Time for bed!" Mycroft declared, lifting Sherlock over his shoulder and spinning him around until Sherlock was reluctantly squealing. He carried Sherlock into his room and tucked him into bed, sitting with him until Sherlock's dark little eyes slid shut.

"Mauvaise aura raison, quandAslanvienten vue, Au son deson rugissement, les douleurs ne seront plus, Quand ilmontre les dents, l'hiver rencontresa mort, Et quand il secoue sa crinière, nous aurons le printemps nouveau," Mycroft murmured, settling back against the headboard.