A/N: Hullo! Sorry for the delays and/or inconveniences, but this story is currently being revamped! Yay (or nay)! Stay tuned for slightly different, or completely new chapters. Cheers.

5-11-13 (dd/mm/yy): Made Sherlock three years older, because Sir ACD lore. Practically rewrote the entire chapter, though the majority of it is the same (Update: 7-11-13, it's really not anymore towards the end *lightning flashes* *evil laughter*). Also, I was recently informed that generally the word "cooties" isn't used the way we Americans use it on the other side of the pond. So I fixed that boo-boo. Tell me if you find any more snags. They will be gladly fixed. Though I'll most likely come back to this regardless. At some point.

Saturday, 15 November 1986

"Sherlock! How many times have I told you to stay away from the road!"
"Sod off you pompous clot!"
"Excuse me."
"There's no excuse for you!"

Mycroft felt his lips form a tight line, not so much from the insult, but more from the fact that his brother was far too cheeky for his age. Sherlock grinned back at him, eyes bright and challenging. His breath came out in small clouds ahead of him, and the tip of his nose was slowly turning a deep red, along with his cheeks. The small boy curled his fingers in his gloves, obviously trying to keep them warm despite the biting air. Mycroft's brow furrowed and he gently raked his eyes down the form of his little brother, biting his lower lip all the while.

"Oh, you're stupid and deaf now, ah?"
"Sherlock," he sighed, exasperated.
"Myc'oft," Sherlock chided back.

Mycroft tried not to crack a smile - no matter how small - at that. Ten years old, and his little brother still couldn't say his name quite right. He often wondered if Sherlock had a genuine problem, or if he just didn't care enough to correct himself. Most days, he figured it was more likely to be the latter.

A sudden movement brought Mycroft back from his reverie - he hadn't even noticed he had slipped away, staring blankly at a nearby streetlamp. Blinking rapidly, he looked to where his brother had been, only to find that Sherlock was missing. It took Mycroft less than a moment to spot him, walking briskly, already several yards down the pavement.
"Where are you going?" he called, crossing his arms.
"Away from you, you bloody git."

Where Sherlock got that mouth, Mycroft would never know.

"Do you kiss mum with that mouth of yours?"
"I'm not the one who still kisses my mummy goodnight." Sherlock retaliated, his voice teasing.

Mycroft felt the tips of his ears grow hot. Cautiously he glanced up and down the street, cringing internally. "There's nothing wrong with kissing your mother, Sherlock," he hissed. "She'd kiss you too if you didn't pitch a fit and flail about like you're having a seizure."
"Maybe I am. Girls aren't my area."
"Mummy isn't a girl."
"She has the proper anatomy," Sherlock countered, and with that he stalked off with his hands in his pockets and his head held high. If Mycroft squinted a bit, he could almost imagine that little boy sauntering down the street was him. Despite the slightly paler skin and dark brown curls, the two Holmses looked strikingly similar. They had the same mannerisms - Sherlock even walked with his left shoulder a little further back than his right, and his right foot turned in scarcely with each step - and the only major differences in their faces were their noses and eye colour. "I'll be home before dinner," Sherlock called back. Mycroft could practically feel the defiance in his tone. Nearly the same attitude as well. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

After standing on the stoop with the door wide open in nothing but a plain button-down and thin trousers for roughly ten minutes, Mycroft allowed himself a violent shudder, then slipped back into the house. He figured by the time he grabbed a quick bite and dressed properly, he could be well on his way to the library by noon. He was in dire need of a new leisure book, and all the reading material the Holmeses happened to own had been meticulously picked through from cover to cover more times than he could count. Of course, Mycroft knew very well he had better things he could be doing instead (like homework), but the thought of a quick shower, a hot cuppa, and a good book was starting to sound very tempting...

It was well after one in the afternoon by the time Mycroft finally left, bundled tightly in a warm-enough coat, with his blue striped scarf wrapped loosely around his throat. It was a relatively quiet afternoon, and Mycroft found himself alone in the streets. The only thing to break the crisp silence was the scraping of scattered dead leaves against the pavement and the hush of his own breath as it came out in clouds. If he had more of an imagination, he might have made them out to be smoke and thought himself a dragon. Maybe then he could keep himself warm, but, lacking fire-breath, he settled for shoving his hands in his pockets. His right curled tightly, wrapping his thin fingers firmly together, though his left gently fondled his wallet. The poor thing was wretched; the leather had been well-worn over time, and had gone soft. Some of it flaked, while other parts were slightly fuzzy. It used to be his father's, before the man decided it was too plain for his position in the British government (though the only reasons Mr Holmes had been able to claw his way to the top were luck and blackmail). He had high hopes that his genius sons would follow in his footsteps. So far, only Mycroft seemed willing - though he was determined to rise to the position based on his own skill. Sherlock, on the other hand was, of course, completely uninterested.
"Leave the politics to those with high ambitions and low IQs," the curly-haired boy was fond of saying. "Like Myc'oft."

Mycroft smiled slightly at the memory, but only allowed the corners of his lips to show it. A sudden gush of wind blew a few unruly locks of hair into his eyes, and he pushed them off of his forehead with a small huff. If he had cared more, he would have thought that it was time for a haircut. With little contemplation, he took a right down a side street that was equally deserted as the road he was on and would give him a straight shot to the library.

It was neither big nor small. Neither fancy, nor was it plain. The beloved library was in that blissful middle ground where everything is perfect and right, and everything that a library should be. There was a quaint little placard next to the glass doors that read "Public Library" in white lettering. Mycroft's miniscule smile widened slightly as he opend the door and stepped inside.
It was the smell, mainly, that sent him into a state of tranquility. All those books in one place, the scent of new and aging paper, the aroma of fraying fabric and ancient leather-bound covers, the fragrance of the ink, both printed and handwritten. There's not many that understood them as Mycroft did as he trailed his fingers across their spines, making them whisper and shush, because this is a library after all, and it would only make sense for the books to remain quiet as well.

As he combed over the fiction section, hunting for a good mystery novel - one more than twenty chapters and nine-hundred pages this time - he heard a small commotion in the next section over. Reference. At first he ignored it, continuing his search like a sniffer dog searches for a hidden criminal. But a quiet groan (more like a desperate whine) piqued his curiosity, and he dared a peek through the gaps in the books between them. It was a boy, and a rather unremarkable boy at that. He was on the shorter side, but seemed on the brink of a growth spurt, even though he had to be around Mycroft's age (which was seventeen). He was high on his toes, straining for something just out of his reach. Mycroft couldn't make out the cover.

"Aw come on you bloody-" the boy mumbled as his fingertips grazed the edge of the shelf the book was perched on. "I have a report due on Monday and I haven't even started it yet..."
The voice rang out in the near-silent space, even though it was just below a proper whisper. Mycroft's ear twitched and his brow furrowed. He felt like he should know who that was, but the boy seemed completely unfamiliar, which wasn't exactly surprising. Mycroft had never been necessarily social, and had never made an effort to notice any other human beings except as an absolute last resort. The Holmes blinked, then went back to the books in front of him. He thought he saw something of interest on the top shelf, but the stretch didn't seem worth it. With a sigh, he opted for something closer to eye-level. But, after combing through most of the titles, he decided to head back home. Teenagers who had procrastinated on weekend homework were suddenly filing through the doors in rather large groups, laughing loudly without regard for anyone already there. Mycroft hated crowds; they gave him the jitters. Sighing for a second time, he decided it was time to bolt. The jolly ring of the bell as he slipped outside the front entrance satisfied and soothed him all at once.

Mycroft didn't know it, but his sigh had caught the attention of the boy in Reference. Covertly, the boy had glanced over his shoulder, pretending to look over a large dictionary sitting open on a pedestal in the opposite aisle. Mycroft had intrigued him in that one glance. And why shouldn't he? Mycroft was tall and dashing, and his dark-but-not-quite-black long coat only accentuated this. The unimposing lights from above cast all the right shadows on his pale face, and made just the right highlights shine in his perfectly wavy red hair. His cesious eyes were sharp and bright, gleaming with an inner cleverness. In general, the air around Mycroft was filled with mystery and, while he wasn't aware of it, demanded attention. He was truly a striking figure, and that boy in the library certainly acknowledged him as such. The enchantment didn't last long, however.
With a sudden jolt, the boy became startlingly aware of his own plain-ness. Desperately, he watched as Mycroft disappeared somewhere among the throng of people swarming into the building. When he had lost sight of the young man with the auburn hair, deep brown eyes focused on his tan hands, the fingers worked crooked over the years; his thin, plain dark blue jacket and ripped jeans that looked like they had seen both world wars and then some. He was painfully aware of his plain-looking face, his slightly crooked teeth and thin lips, his unruly brown hair that had just enough curl to make it stick up at all angles. In a very human way, he wished he looked better, that he was better, and a nagging voice made him feel very insecure. Mycroft had weasled his way into not only his subconscious, but also his conscience, and there the Holmes would stay, nothing but the impression he had left in this poor boy with the soulful brown eyes.
At least for the time being.

Mycroft had the rest of the afternoon to himself. Sherlock was most likely romping about the countryside just outside of their "village", as Mycroft liked to call it. His mother was working, and his father was away on business, which was normally the case. They did have a stray cat, but it wasn't allowed inside, and even so, Biscuit was nowhere to be found.

Already bored out of his mind, Mycroft reluctantly slid his key into the lock and opened the front door. The house was hauntingly empty, seeming to stretch for miles even though it just just over 1,400 square feet. Which wasn't actually all that big when you lived in the same house as Sherlock Holmes. Even when he was gone, he filled the place with his own personal charm. And by "charm", Mycroft often meant "mess".
Ah! Now there was an idea.

Three hours later, the house was clean, dinner was in the oven, and Mycroft found himself bored again, though he was too tuckered out by that point to do anything about it.
When Sherlock finally came home, porcelain face stained with red, he found his brother plopped down on the burgundy loveseat, eyes staring at something that wasn't there. The sight only stalled the boy for a moment before he kicked off his shoes and shrugged off his coat, dropping it onto the floor behind him. His gloves followed shortly after.

"Sherlock, wash your hands," Mycroft said, still staring ahead at some unseen thing.
Sherlock was already halfway up the stairs. "Yes, mum."

Mycroft let out an annoyed sigh, but refrained from saying anything. Instead, he picked up Sherlock's abandoned clothing and put them in their proper places. He had just managed to set the shoes on the mat and hang the coat on the hook (with the gloves in the pockets), when his mother opened the door and slipped inside.
He has impeccable timing, Mycroft thought, not without a little bite of venom.

His mother's dappled blue-grey eyes flitted around the front room. She had noticed the cleanlier state of the house, but remained silent. Habitually, she turned to Mycroft. Immediatlely, he bent down a bit, allowing her to place her lips gently on his forehead before she let him take her heavy frock. He hung the garment to the far right of his and Sherlock's coats, then sidestepped to let his mother to take off her own shoes. Without a word, she headed towards the stairs, undoing her meticulously pinned strawberry blond hair. Mycroft thought he saw a shimmer of grey towards the roots, but it may have been a trick of the light. Soon enough, she disappeared around the corner at the top of the staircase, and free of any obligations for the moment, he dropped back into his former spot.

Ten minutes later, Mycroft was both exhausted and frustratingly alert. His mother appeared on the stairs to his right, just a blur lingering in his peripheral vision. She paused mid-step, sniffing the air. Lazily, Mycroft lifted his head from his hand and looked towards her direction, waiting to be addressed. He didn't have to wait long.

"Mycroft, did you make dinner?"
"Yes, Mummy."
For a long moment they looked each other over. Mycroft took notice of the loose, more relaxed bun her hair was in, her baggy t-shirt and dark blue track suit bottoms, and her bare feet. He liked seeing his mum this way - relaxed, at ease. His eyes flickered back to her hair, which was just two shades lighter than his own. Personally, he liked it better when she let it down. It would hang perfectly over her shoulders and down her back, rippling softly between her shoulder blades. It wasn't quite curly, but had more of a gentle wave to it, and when Mycroft was little he had loved to run his fingers through it. He had vivid memories of how soft it was, the gold streaks that would appear magically in the sunlight, the scent of apples that lingered around her...

Mycroft blinked and the vision was gone. He was a little sad about it too, but he swallowed that down quickly. Dwelling on those memories wouldn't bring them back - at least not in the way he wanted. He blinked again, clearing his eyes of stray thoughts. His mother was still staring at him, her head tilted. Her brow was furrowed, trying to figure out why in the world her eldest had done more work in one day than he had in the past two months. Her tired eyes, however, told a different story, a one of thanks. Another moment passed, and the woman smiled softly, and Mycroft was almost taken away again.
Almost.

"I'll get Sherlock. Set the table, love."
Mycroft nodded and rose to his feet.

The dinner table was quiet. Sherlock was busy trying to connive ways to get out of eating his peas, their mother was lost in thought, and all the while, Mycroft was watching them both, picking distractedly at his plate. Sherlock would frown, poke two or three little green spheres around, then would glance at their mother. After he did that three or four times, the boy would sit straight as an arrow, knead his fingers together and rest them in front of his plate, cogs turning in his funny little head. He would then huff, pick up his fork again, and start the whole process over. The more Mycroft watched, the more he started to realise how much Sherlock resembled their father.
Alastair Holmes could be seen everywhere in his youngest son. Generally, Mycroft and his brother had the misfortune of sharing the same face, from the bright inquisitive eyes, to the prominent cheekbones. But Sherlock definitely possessed their father's nose and Cupid's bow lips; the thicker, darker, curlier hair; the same furrowed brow (the actual frown he shared with his brother); the same ambition and pride (though this was more innocent in Sherlock than in their father). Even their hands were the same - fine-boned and slender.
Sherlock hadn't completely escaped their mother's genes, however. The youngest Holmes had Lucielle's fairer skin, her grace, and her soft expression - at least when he wasn't in a mood.
Mycroft, on the other hand, was all his mother. He had her fine, red hair; her hawk-ish nose; her slightly less defined mouth and bluish eyes (Sherlock's were more green). He shared her temperament as well: mild; passive; watchful, unless they were daydreaming. All that he had gotten from his father were his height and the distinguished look about him, the one that demanded attention.
Mycroft suddenly tilted his head to the side, another thing he had gotten from his mum, alerting Sherlock to the fact that he was being watched. The both of them scrunched up their faces, but for very different reasons: Sherlock because he didn't like being watched; Mycroft because he had one thing running through his mind.
What if he grows up to be like Dad?

Lucielle snapped to attention then, cutting of his amplifying dread.
"Sherlock," she said, and the boy looked expectantly at her, "how has school been going? I can't remember the last time I asked."

Oh no.

"Boring," Sherlock huffed dramatically, slouching in his seat. Here we go, thought Mycroft. "Everybody's an idiot- I thought these classes were supposed to be more interesting!"

It took every ounce of self-control Mycroft possessed to keep from rolling his eyes - just the other day Sherlock had come to him asking about mathematics.
"It's not hard Sherlock, here, look," he had started to say, taking the paper from him.
"I know it's not hard, it's useless."
"That's not the point-!" Mycroft had tried to explain, before a door was slammed in his face. He had sighed irritably. It wasn't useless, Sherlock simply wrote it off as such because he didn't understand it. Mycroft could see it in his brother's eyes that day. That was the thing with Sherlock - unless he was passionate about it, everything flew over his head.

Everybody's an idiot - sure.

Keeping his thoughts safely stifled in the back of his throat, he focused on his mother as she eyed her other son's dark curls.

She really was beautiful. Born to a French mother and French-English father and given the name Lucielle Anne Mortier, she had a certain air about her that Mycroft couldn't place. Something foreign, but something that reminded him so much of home, of comfort. He couldn't help but love his mother. She was soft and kind, with fair skin and perpetually rosy cheeks, tired eyes that were somehow always smiling, and a sort of charm that engulfed anyone that came near. Perhaps that charm stemmed from her voice, which was gentle and soothing, and boasted the slightest bit of an accent that was perfect for her berceuses, her lullabies. It especially came out in the tone that she reserved for her sons, and her sons only.

"I don't know what else I can do for you love, I've already moved you up four years." At Sherlock's pout, she raised a brow. "I think you'll survive." Mycroft chuckled, but quickly swallowed it. He received a sideways glance, but nothing more.

Another silence passed. Mycroft actually ate some food, then resorted to violently stabbing the remainder of it. Lucielle went back to her thoughts, beautiful eyes focused on the twinkling stars outside - it was a perfect night for stargazing. Maybe she could get the telescope out, show her boys a few constellations, murmur stories to them. Scraping noises were coming from Sherlock's general direction, leading Mycroft and his mother to believe the youngest was finishing his meal.

Mycroft tried his best to remain distracted by his own train of thought, but it refused to stay off of one particular track. It was like a black hole had opened up to his right, drawing him in. He paused for a moment, and just when he opened his mouth to ask his question, he felt something bounce off of his chest. When he looked down to see what it was, something small, round, and green hit him in the forehead. Mycroft lifted his head just in time to see Sherlock pull back his spoon, carefully loaded with a single pea, and aim. That one hit his cheek with a splat before it fell to his plate. He grumbled quietly, preparing for a snarky comment or verbal accostation, but luckily for his brother, their mum had spotted that one.
"Sherlock Alastair Holmes."
Sherlock stilled instantly. One of Lucie's brows raised, and Mycroft had to hide his smirk behind his napkin. "Off to bed with you. Now."

If it had been anyone else under any other circumstance, Sherlock would have been glad to go to bed, because that meant he would be free from the table. But neither of the boys liked being scolded by their mother. With a flash of hurt in his eyes, Sherlock slid back from the table, pushed in his chair after he had gotten up, and sulked upstairs where he would wait in his room until Lucielle came up to kiss his nose (the only kisses he ever accepted from her), and sing him a berceuse until he was drowsy. He would then wait until she smiled, kissed his cheek (which he only slightly resisted), and wished him bonne nuit and fais de beaux rêves before he fell asleep.

While Lucie had her eyes dreamily focused on the now-empty staircase, Mycroft took the opportunity to clear the table and set the dishes in the sink, running the tap a bit to allow it to fill up. Not too much, just enough to cover the bottom layer of dishes. At first, he watched the water as it came out of the faucet, but the sight was far from even remotely interesting. Instead, he turned and leaned against the counter, the granite pressing into the small of his back, and waited for his mum. It was the beginning of what had been a nightly ritual. Lucielle would meticulously scrub her dishes until every inch sparkled, and Mycroft would carefully dry them and put them away with care.

When the last glass was in its place, Mycroft rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day.

"If you'll excuse me Mum, I should get to bed," he murmured. Lucie smiled softly at him. She had been thinking about crawling into bed herself, but she would have to wait. There was always more work to be done.
He let his mother kiss his cheek and offered a small peck in return before he climbed the stairs, gripping the rail to assure he didn't fall in his drowsiness. It didn't take him long to brush his teeth, slip out of his clothes, and exchange them for warm pyjamas, despite the fact that he had to fumble in the dark (he had forgotten that his light bulb had burned out).
Before he allowed himself to collapse onto his covers, he cracked his curtains, just enough to see a sliver of night sky.

It was a relief to fall into bed. His body went limp immediately, melting into the usually hard mattress, and his eyes were heavy and ready for sleep. Mycroft's breathing started to slow, and his head lolled to the side. A quiet wind blew outside his window. Mycroft exhaled.

Out of nowhere came a pair of chocolate brown eyes framed by dark lashes, then a flash of a crooked, yet charming smile. Mycroft's eyes flew open. Where had that come from? He groped repeatedly through his foggy memories and came up blank each time. It was slightly alarming. Who could that have been? Someone he had met? Or had his imagination conjured up the image on its own? He had never seen such beautiful brown eyes. It- it unsettled him. Brown had always been his least favorite eye colour - it was muddy, dirty, and rarely had any more depth than a puddle, at least when it was true brown. But these eyes... they had been so clear, so bright and expressive...

Mycroft had lied awake for hours in the silent darkness, until he heard his mother come upstairs to sing to his brother. Her words floated from Sherlock's room across the hall, through his door, and to his attentive ears. He held onto each note for dear life, eyes fixed on the countless suns floating in the infinite void outside his window. Finally, sleep embraced him. But those eyes would still haunt him.
At least for the time being.

themoreyouknow [with "ish" pronunciation]

berceuse (bayhr-ssuhz) - lullaby
bonne nuit (bohn n'wee)- goodnight (said when it's actually bed time)
fais de beaux rêves (feh-duh-bo-revv)- sweet dreams (informal- though why would you want the formal? who are you saying sweet dreams to?)