Disclaimer: I don't own anything Sherlockish, so please allow me to write my little stories as consolation, escapism and refuge. Thank you.


"Mycroft, come and meet your brother."

"Yes, sir." The young boy stood stiffly to attention as instructed. When his father looked at him, he strode into the room where his mother was waiting for him, lying in a bed and cradling a small bundle.

"Come closer, Mycroft." Mother told him, and her son did as he was told.

"Mycroft, this is Sherlock Holmes, your brother. I expect you to diligently take on the responsibilities your new role implies. Since you have the advantage of experience, you will help guide him and instruct him on the proper way to carry oneself in the world. As I teach you both to be men, you will ensure he abides by the rules at all times and will continue to uphold our family honour and dignity. Any shortcoming will be dealt with accordingly. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Mycroft replied with the respectful alacrity his father demanded. His young eyes fell on the younger ones gazing up at him. The small infant gurgled softly, his tiny fists opening and closing gently. "May I, Mother?" The son dared ask. His mother nodded and so Mycroft allowed himself to raise a hand to touch his brother's soft, pink cheek. "Pleased to meet you, Sherlock." He nodded solemnly.

The newborn swiftly grasped his brother's finger and clutched it tightly, holding the owner in a strangely intense stare, before resuming his infantile gurgles and relinquishing the finger but not the bond he'd created by capturing it.

The father stepped in. "That's enough, dear: you do not wish to spoil the child and mollycoddle him. " He looked at a nurse who instantly removed the infant from his mother's arms and took him away, wailing.

"My dear, you have delivered me a second heir to carry on the family name. For this I am thankful for one is not enough, accidents happen and it is good to have a spare. As you have given birth today I expect you will need rest, confident that by tomorrow you will have regained your vigour and will thus resume your position in the household."

"Yes, dear." His wife nodded, calmly. The husband walked over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "You have done well. I shall send Hobbes over tomorrow to drive you home. Goodnight, dear." And with that, the father turned and began walking out of the room, confident that Mycroft would diligently follow in his footsteps.

"Mycroft." His mother softly called. Her son turned his head slightly, not wishing to detain and thus anger Father.

"Goodnight, Mother. "

Goodnight, little Brother.


"Mycroft, look! A butterfly! It's a butterfly!" Little Sherlock squealed, running to one of the shrubberies in the garden. His brother looked up from his book. "Don't shout, you know it is not dignified."

"But it's a butterfly!"

Mycroft, now ten, decided to indulge his brother, within reason. He stood from his spot on the bench and went to inspect the insect as it rested delicately on one of Mother's hyacinths.

"That, Sherlock, is a leptidea sinapis, commonly referred to as a 'wood white'. It's a male, you can tell by the bluish dots on the side over there, and it's part of the pieridae family. Repeat."

The three-year-old's brow furrowed slightly as he concentrated. "Wood white. Letipea.."

"Leptidea…"

"Leptidea sinapis, pieridae." Sherlock turned, wide-eyed and hopeful to his brother who nodded with a smile.

When evening came, the family sat in the dining room.

"I see Sherlock has improved his table manners. I am very pleased." Father nodded at his wife.

"Miss Kinley helped me." The little boy exclaimed proudly. "She showed me how to hold the knife.."

"You have forgotten to not speak until spoken to, Sherlock. You will need to work on that."

His youngest son bowed his head.

"I believe he may have been confused, dear, and thought you were talking to him." His mother interceded for him.

"It is possible." Father nodded after a moment. "You are still young, Sherlock, and are still learning about social interactions. I will allow this occasion to slide, but do not repeat this unpleasant mistake."

"No, Father. Forgive me, Father." Sherlock apologized, never lifting his head.

"Don't slouch, it's unsightly."

His son did as he was told and resumed a more appropriate demeanour for the dinner table.

After a few minutes of silence, conversation was restored as it should be. Mother broke the silence.

"how did you spend your free hour today, Mycroft?"

"I was reading a book of my choice, Mother. '20000 leagues under the sea' by Jules Verne."

"Is it to your liking?"

"It is interesting, Mother."

"I disapprove of such whimsical stories." Father commented. "Although it is your free hour, I would have hoped to find you making use of it in a more constructive fashion."

"I am sorry, Sir. I will return the book tomorrow." His father did not reply and simply resumed his meal. Mycroft secretly thanked his swift reading, which had allowed him to already finish the story.

"What about you, Sherlock? Have you made a more productive use of your free time?" His father questioned the child.

Sherlock beamed. "I saw a butterfly today!"

"That's nice…" Mother began.

"A butterfly? Isn't that a little vague, Sherlock? Did you not think to discover more?" His father raised a brow menacingly.

"It was a Leptidea sinapsis, of the Pieridae family." Sherlock repeated what his brother had taught him.

"I believe you mean Sinapis, Sherlock." His father corrected him, although he was clearly pleased because he did not criticise the boy for wasting time chasing insects.

The three-year-old turned to Mycroft, who with a faint smile showed his approval.

After dinner Father called the two brothers for some further "training" in the smoke room. Father sat on his big, red armchair by the fire, puffing at his pipe, while Mycroft and Sherlock each sat on a chair.

"Sherlock, name the first seven kings of Rome." His father commanded.

"Romulus, Numa Pompilius, Tullus Hostilius, Ancus Martius, Tarquinius Priscus, Servius Tullius, Tarquinius…." The little boy started breathing heavily as he forgot the name. His eyes flicked to Mycroft, who puffed his chest as if he were really haughty or…proud! "Tarquinius Superbus!"

Father nodded.

"Mycroft, when did Tarquinius Superbus reign? How did it end?"

"He ruled from 534 to 510 B.C., sir. He was a despot and was exiled from Rome with his family after a revolt headed by Tarquin's nephews Lucius Junius Brutus and by Tarquinius Collatinus, who was also exiled."

After an hour, father was content and the two boys were allowed to go to their rooms for an extra 15 minutes of free time before Sherlock had to get ready for bed and Mycroft had his chess lesson. They made their way up the stairs but suddenly a look of panic crossed the small child's face. "Mycroft, I need to use the bathroom."

His brother mentally suppressed the anxiety that tried to seep into his stomach.

"It's only 8:45, Sherlock. Can't you wait 15 minutes?"

Their father believed strongly in the concept of mind over matter, of never allowing any physical need to overcome or taint the mind's supremacy. Bathroom time was strictly regulated to help educate the boys in how to control one's impulses. Sherlock was allowed more trips to the bathroom due to his young age, but any transgression was punished…And any punishment was memorable enough to be a very effective deterrent.

His little brother began to tear up. "I can't…"

I will not be afraid. Mycroft told himself.

Emotions cloud the mind and weaken it. I will not be afraid.

The ten-year-old stood for one second, pondering his options. His duty was to the family, to ensure Sherlock was raised as Father desired. Therefore he should stand by and allow his little brother to take responsibility for his actions and face the consequences. Any other choice would be breaking the code of conduct as established by Father. Sherlock would have to wet himself and be punished.

"Mycroft…" Sherlock's bottom lip quivered.

And in that moment he made his choice.

"Come with me." He muttered to the frightened little boy. "We can try using miss Kinley's bathroom."

The two children ran to the governess's quarters, hoping to sneak in and allow Sherlock to use the facilities.

They snuck into her room and Mycroft opened the door to the en-suite. "Quick!" he hissed. Sherlock ran in.

It must have been only a few seconds, but the wait felt like hours to Mycroft before he heard the toilet flush and he saw his brother creep out of the bathroom. The big brother didn't say anything , placing a finger to his lips. Sherlock nodded, trying hard to breathe steadily.

Mycroft began to open the door, and saw a pair of black shoes.

He swiftly pushed Sherlock behind the door with his free hand so that his little brother was shielded from sight.

"What are you doing in miss Kinley's room, Mycroft?" The icy chill in Father's voice made Sherlock tremble and want to use the bathroom again.

"I was unable to wait until 10pm, sir. I apologise for not admitting to my failure."

The three-year-old held his breath. After a moment, Father spoke.

"My chambers, now."

Mycroft followed their father down the corridor, knowing that Sherlock would count to 100 before leaving the room, as agreed, so he would not be caught.


In the darkness Sherlock sat, huddled against the wall, hugging himself as he waited just by father's bedroom door. He was still learning to tell time, but the short handle had moved by 2 numbers since he had crept out of bed in his pyjamas. He wanted to see Mycroft, but his brother had not yet left their father's room.

Finally the doorknob turned. Sherlock stepped back deeper into the shadows in fear, but soon recognized the back of his brother's head as he closed the door and stumbled down the corridor to his room.

"Thank you, Mycroft." Sherlock whispered and his brother halted. "I love you."

"Love." His big brother muttered. The moonbeams, seeping in from the windows along the corridor, were enough to light up the strips of ripped fabric on his back and the face of the ten-year-old as he turned. His cheeks were swollen and bruised, blood trickled from his lip and his right ear.

"That, Sherlock, is a useless sentiment."

Without saying another word, Mycroft walked into his bedroom and closed the door behind him.