AN: Just a cute little fic. Typos due to writing it on a touch-screen keypad. Unbeta'd.
You. Are. A Pirate!
When Sherlock was young, he was always on the move. He would get into this and that, much to his mother's amusement and his brother's disdain. His mother encouraged his young creative mind, nurturing his curiosity.
Their father, well… their father didn't know what to think of the bundle of absolute chaos. Mycroft was supposed to be his only child, yet seven years later, a second child was born into the family. He didn't know how to react, so he didn't react at all.
Not that young Sherlock minded. He was quite content with being alone.
Meanwhile, Mycroft was left to worry and fuss over his younger brother. At the age of ten, he had already saved Sherlock twice, taught him how to read and write and showed the young one numbers, though basic arithmetic seemed lost on the three year old child. Despite, Sherlock was bright, reading far above his age level.
In short, Sherlock made the young Holmes proud. Even if he constantly got into life threatening trouble on a seemingly daily basis.
On this particular occasion, Sherlock was six. He had pulled a book from one of Mycroft's bookshelves while Mycroft frantically searched the house and garden for the tiny child. Of course young Sherlock was tucked away safely in Mycroft's room, devouring a fictional pirates book that he had and did not even remember he owned.
Panic raced through Mycroft as he continued his search. He knew the youngest Holmes had not left the grounds, but that meant nothing to the child. He was convinced the thin boy could injure himself coloring.
Sherlock was halfway done with the short text by the time Mycroft found him. A look of relief spread across the thirteen year old's face and he cradled the younger boy to his chest, checking him over with a quick glance. Sherlock only grumbled, annoyed but Mycroft always made a big deal over him. He was fine!
Mycroft gave a small sigh, smoothing out the thinning, but unruly hair. Sherlock's habits worried him endlessly. The lack of sleep the boy suffered through and the obvious lack of appetite were serious. He had never seen anyone eat little, and trust him he always paid attention. He could count the meals Sherlock ate that week on one hand.
Mother didn't seem to notice at all and if she had she wasn't doing anything about it.
Sherlock impatiently pressed the book to Mycroft's hands, pointing to the page he was on. It took a moment for Mycroft to realize what the young boy wanted from him and he could only give a small smile and oblige.
"'Ten steps from the porch and twenty steps from the rose bushes,' growled Bluebeard..." Mycroft started, and Sherlock was listening aptly, blue eyes wide and absorbing all the words of the simple book.
It was far above his reading level by now, but Sherlock loved anything relating to pirates. He got so obsessed with one thing at a time, and exhausted all its resources before moving onto the next. He was like a sponge, thirsting for knowledge in surprising ways. This had been his longest adoration.
Mycroft didn't mind. He liked reading to the smaller child.
And by now, it didn't matter that he wasn't expecting Sherlock when he was younger. The child was basically his whole world now.
Even if he did want to be a pirate.