Mycroft: 14 Sherlock: 7
"Eat it," the older boy instructed simply.
"No," the dark haired boy looked up coolly, crouched in front of what appeared to be a discarded pizza or maybe nacho's, on the pavement.
"Eat it," he instructed again.
"No, you're always hungry, you eat it!"
"Come now…for science."
"That only worked once," the smaller one huffed, "and you tricked me… mummy said that you can only eat ground found food if it's only been there for five seconds." He pokes the remnants with a stick. "Besides it's clearly been here for at least four days."
"Three," he corrected with a tsk, "And the five second rule is hardly anything to go by."
"You're forgetting that it rained," he peaked up from his curls at his brother's looming form.
"Indeed," he nodded, "However, you've failed to take into account the direction in which the wind was blowing in relation to the location of the building it's by."
"You can't possibly know that off hand, 'Croft," The seven year old stands haughtily.
"Sherlock, really…" Mycroft looks at him in slight condensation, "If you read the news paper, you'd know that information… also if you observe," He points up, "there's an awning."
Sherlock tilts his head back sharply taking in the offending object, before a petulant pout crosses his features.
"Eat it," Mycroft orders over the dining room table.
"Um… No," Sherlock replies evenly eyeing the biscuit that had fallen to the floor.
"Mummy worked really hard on this Christmas meal Sherlock, now eat it!" He steels him with superior stare.
"No," he replies haughtily, "And I believe Sylvia was the one doing the work."
"Now Mycroft, I will not have you ordering your brother about at the dinner table." Madame Holmes scolds mildly, Sherlock smirking in satisfaction, "Though I do wish you'd at least eat a little…"
"When's father coming back?" Sherlock asks, before taking a small bite of food.
"Not till tomorrow, cher," She replies dismissively, turning to John, "So I've heard you're a doctor, when you're not gallivanting about with Sherlock." She smiles warmly as her and John converse.
"Eat it!" Mycroft seethes over the table while Mummy is distracted, "Or at least pick it up."
"Fine," Sherlock snaps quietly, picking up the offending biscuit before chucking it at his brother's head.
"You are such a child, Sherlock, really," He rubs his head where he was hit, making sure not a hair was out of place.
"I am?" He asks credulously, "You're the one trying to get me to eat things off the floor again."
"Excuse me," Madame Holmes rises from her chair, "I'm just going to check on the dessert," She eyes her sons suspiciously as they are locked in an epic glaring contest.
John's not sure what happened in her brief absences from the dining room; but the next thing he knew food was flung, a scuffle ensued and Mycroft was sitting on an irate Sherlock.
"Get your over weight, immature, arse off me," Sherlock grumbled, flailing about.
"I'll have you know I've actually lost weight," Mycroft huffed.
"You obviously weigh more now than you did last time this happened," He huffed, trying to breathe under the weight.
"Now be a good Sherlock and eat the bloody biscuit!" Mycroft ordered shoving the bread at his brother's face.
John watched on, unsure of what exactly to do or even what to think about the scene playing out before him; it was all quite comical, really. That is, until Madame Holmes came back into the room.
"Mon dieu!" She shook her head before calmly going off on her now frozen sons, the litany of French pouring out of her.
It would have sounded quite lovely to the untrained ear if there wasn't clearly anger behind each syllable she uttered.
:)REVIEWS(: are much appreciated... Also this will prob be added to when idea's strike, circling around when Sherlock and Mycroft where growing up.