AN: Hi! This is number three of my second bulk upload, or number 8 of my Sherlock whump stories. I do think there is something very sweet about Mycroft and how protective he is (even if I am still royally ticked off with him following S2E3). I especially like the idea of Mummy Mycroft coming to the rescue of little Sherlock, and I know it's been done before, but I couldn't help jumping onto the bandwagon. Can you blame me?
Here, Sherlock is 7 and Mycroft is 14. Obviously it's pre-canon.
DISCLAIMER: Still don't own Sherlock Holmes, though it is an impossible dream that one day a certain Mr. B. Cumberbatch will be mine. Owners of the franchise respectively for the purposes of the material used here are Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC. All original ideas and characters belong to me, so do not steal.
"Sherlock, I'm going to ask you again, and you're going to tell me truthfully this time. Who hurt you?" Mycroft was trying, very trying in fact, especially when it came to his brother. He just wished the boy would reciprocate his efforts with a modicum of civility, especially when he was acting in his best interests.
Said boy folded his round little arms, glaring up at Mycroft with his curious blue-gray-green eyes, one of which was almost entirely swollen shut by an ugly black bruise. His lip was split, his curly black hair even more wild and unruly than it usually was, his little uniform ripped and muddy. It was obvious, even if you weren't a Holmes, that he had been beaten up, though thankfully not by anyone too much older than him who could have done some serious damage.
Still, he had been damaged. Sherlock. Mycroft's little brother, and now the elder Holmes sibling was desperate for revenge and the victim in question really wasn't helping.
"I told you My, I fell."
Mycroft fixed his brother with a look, torn between the urge to throttle something or just pick up his brother and cuddle him and keep him safe, no matter how much he knew the seven year old would resent the action. It'd make him feel better.
"Sherlock. You and I both know you cannot lie to me about such things. I am perfectly capable of deduction, and it is clearly from your state and your clothing that you were attacked by six children, probably around twelve or thirteen, on your way home through the park. I'm also aware that you don't want to admit this, because you think if you confess you got hurt in the park then you'll be made to go to and from school in the car and be forced to lose some of your precious freedom and the ability to observe and experiment on the flora and fauna you come across on your walks. That, and your pride has been hurt by the fact that you were bested by a group of people you consider moronic at best, and you're not sure exactly why they hurt you in the first place." During Mycroft's little speech, in spite of his best efforts, Sherlock's good eye had begun to water, and his bottom lip to tremble. He took a deep, wet breath through his mouth and tried to keep to his resolve in a way that a seven year old should never feel he ought to.
Mycroft felt a wave of affection overcome him, and he dropped to his knees, pulling his brother to him in a tight, comforting embrace. To his surprise, Sherlock returned the gesture, showing more than anything else could have done how truly hurt and upset he was. Mycroft was subjected to another rush of concern and affection and he pulled the younger boy still closer, gently stroking his thick, curly hair, occasionally picking out a twig or a bit of mud that had caught in it. "Oh Sherlock." He murmured gently. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. They're the ones in the wrong. You didn't do anything. And I won't make you go in the car if you don't want to."
"Promise?" Sherlock sniffed. Mycroft chuckled. It would be Sherlock's walk that eventually clinched the matter. He scrolled through his options mentally, and came to a conclusion he believed would more than suit the both of them.
Sherlock was quiet for a moment, and then one of his little hands (already delicate and slender, well adapted to the violin he was learning to play) reached up to rub the tears from his good eye, and he mumbled a list of names into Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft memorized them easily and stood, kissing his brother gently on the forehead as he did so before leading him into the kitchen.
"Alright then, that wasn't so hard was it?" Sherlock didn't reply and Mycroft sighed, picking him up and setting him on the counter, next to the sink, dropping a tea towel over his shoulders.
"What's going to happen about my walk?" Sherlock sounded worried but stubborn, and Mycroft turned to him with a smile, having run a cloth under cold water, he began to gently dab away the blood crusted on the side of his little brother's face.
"I'll come with you. Naturally."
Sherlock looked at him through narrowed eyes, assessing the truth of this statement and how it would work for him. Then he gave his big brother a small, shy smile. "Really?"
Mycroft smiled right back. Neither Holmes brother would let anyone else see them being quite so gentle, but the rules changed when they were alone together. They were safe with each other.
A few weeks later, Mycroft and Sherlock were walking back through the park, Mycroft having picked Sherlock up at his primary school. It was something of a detour for the elder Holmes, but he didn't really mind. Besides, the exercise might help the diet.
Autumn was rolling in, and Sherlock had managed to set fire to his coat (again) so all he was wearing was the blue scarf Mycroft had got him for Christmas. It was really too long for him, but Mycroft had wanted it to last, and at least it was something, though he couldn't help worrying his little brother would catch a cold as the season grew.
Said brother was running about madly, crouching randomly and examining sticks and bugs and footprints with an oversized magnifying glass he carried with him everywhere jammed into his pockets.
"My! My! Come look at this!"
Mycroft smiled, wandering over to where his brother was waving frantically with a wild grin. Sherlock had found a bird's nest in one of the bushes. It was empty now, wrong time of year, and the little boy was carefully, with all the delicacy of a fine artisan, extricating the construction from the bush. Mycroft dropped his umbrella to help the boy and they both stared at the little creation, brilliant minds mapping out the intricate pattern of twigs that held the thing together, identifying the species of bird (sparrow) to whom the nest had belonged and estimating how long the nest had been empty.
Sherlock, eyebrows furrowed in an exaggerated expression of concentration, eventually said, hesitantly, big blue-grey eyes looking up into his brother's, "six weeks and three days?"
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, tutting. "Sherlock. Seven and two, obviously." The little boy's eyes widened in a mixture of realization and respect.
"Of course!" Then he pouted petulantly. "How could I have missed that?"
Mycroft chuckled at his brother's expression, mussing his hair and grinning as the little boy's scowl deepened. "It was an easy mistake to make. And yes, you can take it home, as long as you promise not to do any experiments with it involving things we use for the preparation or storage of food." He started to walk away, and Sherlock hurriedly put his new bag on his back (his other had been lost during the 'incident' with the other children) and jogged to catch up.
"But kitchen things are perfect for experiments!"
The elder Holmes sighed, swinging his favorite umbrella in a circle. "Yes Sherlock, but kitchen things are meant for food. Your science things are for experiments. Now do you promise?"
"'Kay." Mycroft whirled on his younger brother, who was looking at him with far too much big-eyed cuteness than was healthy for a Holmes. He raised an eyebrow.
"You're crossing your fingers behind your back."
"Oh Sherlock, I'm not getting into this…" His voice trailed off when Sherlock's small, skinny fingers suddenly clutched his hand. Puzzled, Mycroft looked down at his brother, who was looking at something in front of them with an expression of frustration and fear.
He followed the boy's gaze, seeing a group of children, ages ranging between 9 and 12. He pursed his lips and tapped his umbrella on the ground, twice. They saw, and turned as one, running in the opposite direction.
Sherlock gasped, looking up at his brother with his eyes wide in sincere surprise. "Mycroft…what did you do?" There was something akin to awe in the little boy's voice, and Mycroft smirked.
"I taught them not to lay a finger on my little brother. I also pointed out the range of fascinating uses for an umbrella." Sherlock giggled and Mycroft smiled, squeezing his little hand, before watching the children's silhouettes get smaller and smaller. They'd probably stop running once they were a block away from the park, he hadn't scared them too much. Still, he thought, fiercely, as his brother dropped his hand to cradle the bird's nest, gabbling something to Mycroft about the resistance of mesh structures to certain amounts of force –
No one hurt his little brother. Ever.
D'aw. I really want to pick up little Sherlock and give him a cuddle, even though he'd probably have a petch with me. So cute! Hope you liked this, thank you for reading! Next one in the Sherlock whump will be a fun, hopefully intense little thing called 'Leverage' with current John and Sherlock. Well, nearly current.