"I don't know, but intially he wanted to be a pirate."
Even as the he drew the words, he could visualize Sherlock, chubby hands on hips, chin gutting out, as he gazed defiantly up at Mycroft.
"Why can't I be a pirate? Mummy says I can be whatever I want to be."
"You're stupid, little brother. Don't you realize that Mummy only says that to boost your self-esteem? She doesn't really mean it. If you want to do something useful for society, you could become a forensic anthropologist or a detective, not sit in a cardboard box, playing."
" Hmm." Sherlock crossed his arms. He sank to the floor, submerged in his sea of crayons and cardboard. Sherlock picked a green one and continued to color the floor of his miniscule boat, deliberately ignoring Mycroft.
"And besides, piracy is dead. It was eliminated-"
At this statement, Shertlock whipped around, foregoing his vow of silence. "That's not true! It still flourishes today, at Somalia and-"
Sherlocks chatter was rapidly picking up pace. Mycroft decided to douse it before Sherock wasn't even able to form coherent words.
"And," he interrupted, "it's to your liking that they are completely ruthless? Preying on those weaker than themselves? Threatening them? That is to your liking? Putting yourself at danger, on a day to day basis?"
Mycroft thought he had done a job well done of getting his brother to see the logic of changing his plans, so he was understandably surprised when he observed Sherlock's eyes beginning to cloud.
"Sherly? What's wrong?"
Without answering, Sherlock burst into tears, pushed Mycroft out of the way, and ran. Mycroft watched him go. Shrugging, he went back to reading Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea. But a strange feeling remained...
Sherlock sat at the window,gazing at the snow falling, mesmerized by its rhythmic flow. It was Christmas Eve, and, despite how the sun was just setting, every Christmas light as far as he could see was turned on for the occasion. He was snuggled up in his brown blanket, a warm mug snug in his hands. He wondered why people celebrate Christmas- it appeared to him as if they wanted a reason for putting up decorations and getting free things. He glanced over at Mycroft, who was sitting near the merrily burning fire, doing some sort of logic puzzle.
"Why are you staring at me with your mouth open? If you have something to say, go ahead and say it." His gaze didn't flicker from the paper.
Sherlock's gaze filled with undisguised jealousy. When would he be able to observe situations that well? "What are holidays for?"
When Sherlock asked this question, he had been expecting either a straightforward, to the point, answer, or a snarky reply relating to how idiotic he was. He was not expecting Mycroft to place down his enertainment, lean back in his chair, and fold his hands together. He certainly was not expecting the long, thought-filled silence that stretched out between the 2 of them.
After a bit of this, Sherlock began to feel figity. Why is Mycroft acting this way? Did he say something wrong? Did he upset Mycroft? Whenever people acted this way, Sherlock wasn't sure whether to stay quiet or speak up.
Sherlock had just decided to wriggle out of his blanket and do neither, when Mycroft spoke. When he spoke it was with a quiet, slow, nonassertive voice. Not gentle, merely... there. it startled Sherlock into jumping with the guilt of a child who had done something wrong, tangling himself in the blanket.
"I don't know."
Sherlock turned his head toward Mycroft. "But Mike, you know everything."
"No, I don't." He was silent for another moment. "That reminds me, I got you something. Could you come over here?"
"In light of the holidays, I got you something." Mycroft pushed aside his puzzle to reveal a more soiled looking paper underneath.
Sherlock didn't need to be told what it was. "Oh, cool, a treasure map! Thanks, Mycroft!" Sherlock took the map and ran.
Mycroft decided against telling Sherlock the treasure map was a fake. He'd realize soon enough.
A/N: My attempts to do a character much smarter than myself, are, slightly out of character. Imagining Mycroft as a child is like imaging... a cute lasagna. It is difficult. I would appreciate other opinions on this.(I would prefer on Mycroft, but lasagna is fine, too.) All comments are great, great, great!