Disclaimer – Obviously I don't own these characters, this story is based off the BBC adoption of Sherlock.

A/N – I just like child Mycroft and Sherlock and imagine Sherlock was a very difficult child to deal with, tried to be as in character as possible with the BBC presentation of Sherlock. Enjoy!

"Okay. Right. Fine," Violet Holmes took a deep in an effort to calm herself, but couldn't quite rid herself of an uncontrolled edge to her voice as she stood over her son and doesn't understand how an 8 year old can look so childish and petulant yet haughty and superior at the same time. She gave up on her child at that moment. Loved him still, but gave up all the same, and for the first time in a great many years she snapped. "You are impossible, Sherlock; you are absolutely impossible. I… you are just completely -" her palm met his cheek in a sharp slap.

For a moment she stared down at her hand, and then walked away, mind already focused on the prescription pills in the bathroom cabinet upstairs.

Sherlock stood in the centre of the front room his face flushed red with anger, the only evidence of the spectacular strop he'd thrown minutes earlier. He brought a hand up to his smarting cheek in surprise, and watched his mother stride from the room. Unsure what to do he remained motionless for a minute more and stared at his brother on the sofa and wished that he would look at him and give him some clue as to what has just happened.

Because Mycroft refused to look up from his book Sherlock eventually flopped onto the opposite end of the sofa and knew that something had just changed forever but he couldn't quite fathom out what. He ran over the details in his head. She often closed her eyes and took deep breaths (to the count of ten usually, sometimes twenty but this time thirty – significant? Yes) when she dealt with him. But she always stayed the course of the tantrum and remained with him until his brain stopped pushing information and data around his head faster than he can process it and he can finally just think. It was the first time she struck him, but the initial shock had faded and he wasn't particularly bothered by that action as much he was about why. He's lashed out like that many times before but she has never before lashed out back at him.

Another thought nagged him, and he recalled the look in his mother's eyes in the second before she left and he spent some time trying to match this look to some kind of emotion and draws up blank.

While he was pondering, Sherlock's peripheral vision caught his brother gazing at him, catalogued the look and throws it in with the rest of the information swirling around his aching head. With his brow furrowed and his eyes unfocused and yet still seeing everything Sherlock didn't notice Mycroft setting his book aside and leaving the room (but if asked later if he remembered the instance he would be able to pull the memory out of a jumble of catalogued recollections). He simply sat and tried to control his breathing while his mind ran through all the emotions he can remember feeling and mentally recalling the definitions of ones he hasn't.

He was still trying to find one that would suitably describe that look when he registered a soft 'thunk' of something being set beside him on the arm of the sofa and felt the cushion dip as Mycroft resumed his former position.

Sherlock returned from his thoughts and glanced at Mycroft reading his book before inspecting the bowl his brother has placed by him. For a moment he simply looked, and then he smiled slightly, picked up the bowl and began spooning warm melted chocolate into his mouth.

Mycroft couldn't help but smile into his book when Sherlock shuffled around in his seat before he threw himself back against his big brothers side in a manner that was at once annoying and endearing.

Sherlock sat leaning against Mycroft's side for a long time in contented silence, occasionally dipping the spoon back into the bowl before spending the next five minutes lazily lapping at it with his tongue.

After the spoon had clattered back into the bowl and Sherlock was merely sat being still and quiet for once, Mycroft dropped his arm from the back of the sofa to rest across Sherlock's chest and pulled him that little bit closer and held him there in an easy embrace. He kept reading as he felt Sherlock let his head rest comfortably back and turned it just enough so that he could burrow his face half against his brother and half into the back of the sofa.

When Mycroft heard his little brothers breathing settle and felt his chest rise and fall in a deep, even pattern that could only come with sleep he finally tore his eyes away from his book and looked down at the bundle of often barely contained energy snuggled up to him. He dropped his head to plant a kiss on top of a mop of unruly black curls.

Unlike his mother, Mycroft has never and will never give up on his little brother.

Years later Sherlock glared at Mycroft who kept a blank expression as he placed a bowl beside his sulking brother on the arm of the sofa before he settled down at the opposite end and opened a newspaper.

Sherlock had kept the sulking and silence up for 3 days since he had been forced off cocaine and was through the worst of his withdrawal symptoms. But the anger was ebbing and his brain was scrambling his thoughts back into some semblance of order and Mycroft still knows him too well he thought because he had never been able to resist melted chocolate.

Picking up the bowl and spooning a dollop messily into his mouth, he hid a smirk and glanced slyly across the sofa. Spoon in his mouth he threw himself without warning and with quite a bit of force back against Mycroft, who didn't manage to suppress a grunt as Sherlock's lanky body collided with his side. Re-dipping the spoon, Sherlock stretched himself the full length of the sofa, pressing his feet against one end and effectively squishing Mycroft against the other.

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his annoying and still maddeningly endearing little brother, who was too thin and bony and purposefully irritating but who for the first time in many years had the colour back in his cheeks. He couldn't help but wrap an arm around Sherlock's emaciated shoulders and pulled him just that little bit closer because he had spent too long not knowing and wondering and had ultimately almost lost the one person he both adored and couldn't stand.

Sherlock made an unconvincing noise of disapproval at the contact he had not initiated, and purposefully dripped 4 little splodges of chocolate along the sleeve of Mycroft's very expensive designer suit.

Mycroft pretended not to notice and continued to read the paper while Sherlock continued to push his luck and carried right on dribbling chocolate up Mycroft's sleeve.

Somewhere in between actually smearing chocolate into the fabric with the back of the spoon and writing the Greek alphabet, Sherlock fell asleep.

Mycroft sighed as he observed the damage to his suit but gave a small smile for the fact that Sherlock was obviously not going to ever bother growing up, which was fine because it was just too predictably him. It was the first time in two months of very little sleep and arguments and screaming that he felt like Sherlock would be okay.

Anthea arrived an hour later and found her employer fast asleep with his head resting atop his brothers black curls. She only hesitated for a moment before taking a picture.

Two hours later Sherlock pick-pocketed her phone. The next day Mycroft returned the shattered components to her.