A/N: I'm scared to post this because everyone will hate Sarah, and that wasn't the point… She just doesn't want kids, and it's biasing her towards Sherlock and Mycroft. And she didn't think that Mycroft's listening in… She's not a bad person...

Mycroft held onto Sherlock and read from Gray's Anatomy to keep the toddler from running around. John looked nervous, and was jumping about, cleaning here, stirring here… His girlfriend obviously did not like the house dirty; they had been going out for at least a year, and John still made sure to clean up before she came over.

Sherlock squirmed in Mycroft's lap when the older boy stopped reading.

"Hold still, Sherlock. We've got to be good tonight. If John's girlfriend doesn't like us-"

"She doesn't like me!" Sherlock stuck out his tongue and squirmed, "Put me down!"

"No, Sherlock. We have to be good, so John still wants us…."

Sherlock pouted, but held still. "John wiw aways wan me. He migh not wan you."

Mycroft stiffened and held Sherlock tightly. "Come on, were did we leave off?"

The doorbell rang and Mycroft heard John cut off a curse. Sherlock tried to jump out of Mycroft's lap, but Mycroft grabbed the younger boy's wrist and held on tight. They followed John to the front door, and Mycroft stood up straight. John opened the door, hugging the woman. She kissed John softly and John moved aside to let her in.

Sherlock stuck her tongue out at her, and Mycroft squeezed his wrist hard, a clear "stop it". The woman's face hardened, but she put on a fake smile. "I've already met Sherlock, so you must be Mycroft. My name is Sarah." Her dislike was screaming in her tone.

John ushered them all into the dining room. Mycroft helped Sherlock into his booster seat before crawling into his own chair. Dr. Sarah sat down across from Sherlock, next to the head of the table.

John brought the food out, laying out the pasta on the table before serving both Sherlock and Mycroft. John let Dr. Sarah serve herself before serving himself and sitting down.

Mycroft and Sherlock were quiet as they ate; Dr. Sarah and John discussed how work had been that week. Mycroft was almost relaxing when Sherlock finished his food and interrupted their talk.

"I want pie."

Dr. Sarah paused, having been cut off midsentence.

"I don't have any pie, Sherlock," John said, picking up a serviette and wiping sauce off of Sherlock's face. Sherlock squirmed and whined.

"But I want pie!"

"Sherlock. I don't have pie."

"Yes, you do! Mycroft said that we were having pie because you smelled like that bakery down the street and you only smell like that bakery when you get pie!"

John glanced at Mycroft, who sunk down into his seat a little. "I'm sorry, John… At least you got Sherlock's least favorite flavour… Well, if you got Dr. Sarah's favorite flavour, blueberry."

John put the serviette down when Sherlock's face was clean and picked the small boy up, trying to calm him down. Dr. Sarah stared at Mycroft.

"How did you know blueberry was my favorite flavour, Mycroft? I don't think I've ever told John that; we've never had pie together before."

Mycroft could have hit himself. Stupid! He had messed up, again! And Sherlock wasn't helping by being so whiny. Mycroft sunk a bit lower in his seat.

"At your work… A man brought some pie in for one of your coworkers and you stole it. You wouldn't have stolen it if it wasn't your favorite flavour…"

Dr. Sarah stared at him a bit more, her dislike increasing. Mycroft looked down at his lap. John had vanished into the kitchen with Sherlock. They were silent for a beat, and then John and Sherlock returned. John put the pie on the table and served Mycroft and Sherlock a piece. Sherlock moved the plate over to John's place and crawled into John's lap. Mycroft ate his pie silently, looking down at the table.

John and Sarah returned to their conversation, John occasionally ruffling Sherlock's curls. Mycroft got up after his finished his pie. "May I be excused?" he asked quietly, looking down at his shoes. He could tell by the way that John shifted to look at him that the man was worried about him.

"Yes, you may."

"Thank you." Mycroft ducked out of the dining room into the hallway, and sat down quietly next to the door to listen to the conversation. It was like he was being a real spy, almost. Mycroft almost smiled when he thought of Anthea. She was his first friend, ever.

Mycroft sat up straighter when he heard John shoo Sherlock off to play with his toys. Sherlock's footsteps let out into the living room, though, not towards the hallway.

"Are you sure you really want kids, John?"

Mycroft held his breath. This is the conversation he had wanted to listen to.

"You know I've always wanted children, Sarah."

"Are you sure you want these children, then? The younger one seems like quite a handful and the older one is… odd."

Mycroft flinched and looked down at his lap. He was odd. Not normal. Neither was Sherlock, but Sherlock was three. He had time to change. He could learn how to not see all the details. How to block it out. Mycroft couldn't. He had tried, once, when he was seven, but had failed.

"Sarah, I love these kids. They're my sons. And if you're just going to call them names, you can leave." John was angry; angrier than Mycroft had ever seen him, even when Sherlock knocked over his great great grandmother's vase.

"You would pick these kids over your girlfriend?"

"They're my family, Sarah. They're my children."

Dr. Sarah sighed and stood up. Mycroft could hear the chair legs scrapping along the floor. "Well, John. I hope you can raise your family without me."

Mycroft got up silently and tiptoed back to his room so John wouldn't know he had listened in. He sat down on his- no, John's, they hadn't been adopted yet – bed and looked down at the floor. He wanted to cry. Would that be weird, if he cried? Maybe. Anthea had said that too. That he was weird. She had said it nicely, but she had still said it.

Sherlock appeared at the door, coming in to get some more toys to play with in the living room, and ran over to Mycroft, hugging him around his waist. Sherlock could tell that Mycroft was upset. Mycroft hugged Sherlock back. "It's okay, Sherlock. Nothing's wrong. Go play."

Sherlock looked up at him intensely for a moment, before letting go of him, grabbing some toys and leaving the room.

It was about one in the morning when John roused them both, in a hurry.

"Mycroft, just pull on a coat and shoes, and help Sherlock." John was gone again, going around and gathering things. Mycroft got out of bed quickly. John was obviously highly upset. Mycroft shook Sherlock until he knew the toddler was awake.

"Sherlock, get up. Hurry!"

The three year old whined and cracked open an eye, looking at Mycroft before rolling off the bed. Mycroft pulled a coat and shoes onto Sherlock before doing the same himself. He was just finishing tying his shoes when John burst back in. He was holding a bag, and he picked up Sherlock and took Mycroft's hand.

They rushed out of the house and caught a taxi, John telling the man directions and to hurry. They got out about ten minutes later. The place they were at was surrounded by police cars with the lights on, and covered in police tape. A pretty woman let them in.

Mycroft held on tight to Sherlock's hand. They were at a crime scene. Sherlock was fascinated, looking at everything with wide eyes. Mycroft made sure that they were close to John.

Detective Lestrade was on the ground, holding his foot. John stopped in front of him, looked him over and smacked him so hard the detective almost fell over.

"You bloody idiot. I get a call at one in the morning saying you're injured and to get over there right now, and it's because you got shot in the foot and you don't want to go to the hospital? I almost had a bloody heart attack!"

Mycroft held on tightly to Sherlock's hand, watching John lean down and look over the foot. Suddenly, Sherlock was being lifted up, away from Mycroft. Mycroft whirled around to hit the person who was kidnapping Sherlock-

"Relax, Mycroft, it's just me."

It was Anthea's dad, detective Dimmock. Sherlock leaned against the man, tired, but wanting to look at everything. Mycroft relaxed, and yawned, suddenly tired.

Detective Dimmock took Mycroft's hand and led him away from John. "You two don't need to see him operating on Lestrade's foot." Mycroft followed quietly, slowly, but the detective never asked him to speed up. When they got to a police car, detective Dimmock opened the front side door. He pushed down the seat and pulled out a blanket. Sherlock had already fallen back asleep. He ushered Mycroft into the car and got him to lie down, putting Sherlock next to him. He covered them with the blanket and closed the door. Mycroft could hear him talking to another police officer, a woman, as he fell asleep.