Disclaimer: Neither Sherlock nor Doctor Who belong to me.

Until The End of Time

Summary: Sherlock Holmes has always been brilliant. Even at a young age, he knew that he was the smartest child in London; save for his brother. Sherlock knew that the other children thought of him as daft. He knew that the funny man with the bowtie really was daft. He knew that police boxes could fly through time and space. He knew that the safest place in the universe was in his brother's arms. He knew that no matter where they went, Mycroft would be there to protect him. Until the end of time

Author's Note: I have seen many wonderful Wholock stories that involve Sherlock traveling with the Doctor, usually accompanied by John. But few have shown Sherlock traveling with Mycroft. I saw the opportunity and took it. For the majority of the story (save for the first three 'prologue' chapters) Mycroft will be fourteen and Sherlock seven. So basically it's an epically emotional coming-of-age story that's filled with brotherly-feels. Oh and the Doctor will be there! It's going to be sappy. It's going to be cliché. It's going to be absolutely brilliant! It's going to be Sherlock, Mycroft, and the Doctor—three children traveling through time and space in a blue police-box. What could go wrong?

Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes knew what was at stake. He anxiously squeezed his brother's hand. In turn, Mycroft gave him a reassuring smile. The brothers kept to the shadows, their hearts thundering with anticipation. After what seemed like ages, the two finally reached their destination—the kitchen.

"Right," Mycroft whispered, "Come on, Sherlock."

The small boy climbed onto Mycroft's shoulders. Mycroft teetered for a moment before stumbling over to the cabinet. He stood on his tiptoes, allowing Sherlock to open the door and reach for the tin. Unfortunately, it was too heavy for a five-year old to hold.

"Watch it!" Mycroft hissed.

Too late—the tin slipped and shattered as it hit the floor. Sherlock quickly slipped down and the two brothers grabbed as many biscuits as they could carry. Mycroft tilted his head and they hastily raced out of the kitchen.

Silence and stealth forgotten, the brothers bounded up the stairs and quickly entered the nursery. Mycroft shut the door and leaned against it. There was a tense moment before Sherlock pointed out, "Father's going to notice. Biscuit tins don't just leap from the shelf."

Mycroft hushed him as they heard approaching footsteps. He pocketed the biscuits and the two rapidly buried their noses into the nearest books. The door opened and their father entered, bringing himself up to full height.

"Father," Mycroft said, feigning a sense of innocence, "What's wrong?"

"The biscuit tin is on the floor," Mr. Holmes remarked with a scowl, "Do you know anything about that?"

"No, sir," Mycroft replied, "Perhaps it was rats."

"Sherlock," Mr. Holmes crossly said, "Did you see anything?"

Sherlock shook his head and remarked, "No, sir. We were reading."

Mr. Holmes grunted before swiftly walking away.

Mycroft let out a sigh of relief and handed Sherlock a biscuit. He anxiously nibbled on it and returned to his book. It was an excellent one about two older brothers who solved mysteries.

Mycroft glanced up and blabbed, "They find the jewels in the water tower."

"Naturally," Sherlock replied, "Going to the mansion was a stupid idea."

Mycroft chuckled at his brother's deduction before grimacing as he realized that biscuit crumbs were scattered amongst the pages of the book.

"Oi," Mycroft cried, "Why don't you read one of your own books for a change?"

Sherlock frowned and glanced over at his dusty shelf. It was piled high with bright and colorful picture books, many of which hadn't been cracked.

"Fair point," Mycroft muttered.

"Why does Father keep buying them?" Sherlock asked, frustrated, "I keep asking for him to buy me chapter-books and he keeps looking at me like I'm daft."

"Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft said, fiercely, "You are not daft!"

He ruffled his brother's dark brown curls and enthusiastically said, "You're the brightest student at primary school. You're brighter than the professors. You're brighter than Father."

"Brighter than you?" Sherlock asked, his blue eyes shining.

"Don't be daft," Mycroft scoffed.

Sherlock smiled in shy admiration. He then caught sight of his toy-chest and pulled out two wooden swords. His smile turned into one of hopefulness.

Mycroft sighed and said, "Not now, Sherlock. Oh, don't give me that look! Father's study is right below us."

"We could put pillows on the floor to muffle the vibrations," Sherlock said, pleadingly.

Mycroft softened, his own silver eyes sparkling.

"We could whisper!"

"Who ever heard of a whispering pirate?"

"Please, Mycroft?" Sherlock whined, "Please!"

Mycroft was silent, fingering the wooden sword.

"Mycroft?"

"That's Captain Mycroft to you," Mycroft growled, "Avast!"

"Engard!" Sherlock cried, raising his sword. The two began to playfully fight.

"Sherlock," Mycroft exasperatedly said, "Pirates don't say en…Sherlock!"

For his brother had fallen backwards into the wardrobe. It made a terrific crash and immediately caused the brothers to tense. The door flew open and their father reentered.

"Father," Mycroft squeaked.

"What is this racket?" Mr. Holmes barked, "What's the meaning of this?"

"Sorry," Mycroft mumbled, "Sorry, sir."

"Sherlock," Mr. Holmes ordered, "Get ready to turn in. Pyjamas and teeth brushed."

"But I'm not Sherlock," Sherlock argued, "I'm a pirate!"

Mr. Holmes' temper flared, "Pirates? You're not playing that rubbish again?"

"It's just pretend," Mycroft muttered. He ran a hand through his thin and fair hair, trying to sum up enough courage to explain his reasoning for having fun.

"Enough!" Mr. Holmes cried, "Mycroft Holmes, you are twelve-years old! You should hardly be spending your time doing such mundane things as playing pirate!"

"But it's fun!" Sherlock argued.

"I don't have time for this," Mr. Holmes said, rubbing his brow, "I have a very important conference in the morning. I blame this nursery. Mycroft, a boy your age should really have a room of his own. Don't you think?"

"No!" Mycroft cried, horrified, "Father, I don't want…"

"Don't be ridiculous," Mr. Holmes said with a wave of his hand, "I really should have planned this sooner. You're getting too old for…pretend. It's time that you took on some responsibility."

"But Father…" Mycroft tried to argue.

"It's settled," Mr. Holmes said, twisting his mustache in a most unattractive way, "You may move into the spare room this weekend. It shouldn't take too much effort. After all, you won't be taking any of these…toys. In the meantime, off to bed with the both of you."

He whirled around and stomped away, stepping on Mycroft's wooden sword. Mycroft sadly picked it up. When he lowered it, he found that Sherlock was giving him an odd expression. An expression that Mycroft had only seen several times; the last of which he had seen while standing next to a coffin in a musty church.

"Sherlock," Mycroft slowly said, "You alright?"

All at once his brother's face crumbled. Sherlock raced around and pelted through the large house, blinking back tears.

"Sherlock!"

Before Sherlock knew it, he had made it outside. There was no one to stop him or ask him why he was upset. The Holmes family didn't live in a relatively busy neighborhood. In fact, it was rather secluded. Nobody stopped to ask one another about their lives. The large and elaborate rowhouses framed the street and paralleled a quaint little park. Sherlock knew that he oughtn't to cross the street without Mycroft or another adult. He glanced both ways before starting to dash across the pedestrian crossing all the same.

A shrill sound of a horn was only drowned out by Mycroft's scream. Sherlock brought his hands up and was shocked when nothing hit him. He looked up and saw that the car had stopped mere paces from him. Sherlock gave a start, realizing that the lampposts were flickering along with the traffic lights. The next thing he saw was his brother's relieved face as Mycroft embraced him. Sherlock was still for a moment before dissolving into tears.

"What were you thinking?" Mycroft cried, "Blimey, do you have any sense?"

"What happened?" Sherlock managed to ask, using Mycroft's sleeve to wipe his eyes.

"You ran out in front of a bloody car!" Mycroft said, still quite pale, "Christ, it could have crushed you."

"So why didn't it?"

Mycroft slowly let go of him as he realized that he didn't know. By now, others were running up the street to try and see if they could help. And yet one man caught their eye. The man was standing on the other side of the park gate. He held something funny in his hand—a trinket of sorts. Then again he was a funny looking man. He had a tweed jacket and trainers with a red bowtie of all things. A funny man with a bowtie.

Sherlock was also staring at him, his head slightly tilted as the gears and cogs of his mind raced. The man winked before turning and disappearing into the park.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, softly, "I think that it was him. He saved me."

"What are you talking about?" Mycroft asked, sharply.

"He stopped the car," Sherlock said, looking thoughtful.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, a touch of fear in his voice, "That's impossible."

"Come on!" Sherlock insisted.

Without further ado, he ran over and wrung open the gate.

"Sherlock, get back here!" Mycroft cried, "What's gotten into you?"

Sherlock didn't listen and raced up the cobblestone path. He glanced around before spotting a dense thicket of trees. He slowly peered through the branches and gasped, "Whoa!"

He pushed the branches aside and walked into a small clearing. For a moment, he could only stare. Finally, Sherlock managed to whisper, "Mycroft, you have to see this!"

Mycroft joined him and also gasped. The two brothers stood side-by-side and stared at the brilliant blue police box. Mycroft put an arm around his brother's shoulders. For a moment, they were merely entranced by its beauty.

"What is it?" Mycroft finally asked.

"She's a Tardis."

The two brothers turned and saw that the funny man with the bowtie had returned. He was beaming up at the box, "And she's mine."

"A what?" Sherlock asked.

The man's smile widened and he repeated, "Time and Relative Dimension in Space."

The two boys didn't understand. A calm silence fell upon the clearing in which they seemed to be sizing each other up.

"Thank you for saving me," Sherlock finally mumbled, bouncing on his heels.

"We don't know that he did," Mycroft muttered.

Sherlock tilted his head and softly said, "It was you, wasn't it? You stopped the car. I know that you did. How did you do it?"

"Well," the man looked modest as he explained, "I just…I used my Sonic Screwdriver."

"Sonic Screwdriver?" Mycroft scoffed, wondering what nonsense the man was prattling on about, "Come on, Sherlock."

"Sherlock?"

The man suddenly looked fascinated by the two boys, "Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, taking a step towards his brother.

"And you're…Mycroft?"

"Who are you?" Mycroft demanded.

The man gave them a kind smile that reached his eyes as he said, "Well, I'm the Doctor."

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and Mycroft glanced at Sherlock and both brothers firmly demanded, "Doctor who?"

Author's Note: I promised myself that I wouldn't put 'the thing' in. I think we all knew that I was lying. So can you hear the escalating drums? Can you see London's Eye spinning?

I would greatly appreciate reviews!