Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or Mycroft. Technically I don't own their mother either, but the adaptation of her character is entirely my own. Reviews and critiques welcome. :) Enjoy.
"Mummy! Mummy! Look what I found!" The excited shouts of the six-year old matched that of his bouncing gait as he bounded through the front door.
The tired woman sighed as she slowly lowered the expense reports from the end of her nose. Taking work home with her was nearly the last thing she wanted to do, only to be exceeded by being interrupted. She removed her reading glasses, and as her eyes adjusted from the strings of numbers to her bouncing baby boy, a look of horror passed over her face.
"Sherlock!" She shrilled, making the boy wince. "Where did you get that?! Drop it this instant!" She scooped up the confused young boy as the tail of a deceased cat slipped from his soiled hand.
"But mummy!" He protested as she shot up the stairs to the nearest sink.
"No 'but's', Sherlock! That is disgusting! Mycroft! Take that thing outside! Make sure you put on gloves!" She spat the word "thing" as if it were poison sitting on the tip of her tongue. The older boy sighed, rolled his eyes, and begrudgingly rose from his school work to grab a garbage bag.
"But mummy!" Sherlock protested again, a tear threatening the edge of his blue eye, "It's cool!"
"It is not cool, Sherlock." A stern answer jumped from her mouth like a judge lying down law. "That is gross." She emphasized her point by scrubbing the child's hands vehemently with soap and warm water as he sat perched on the edge of the sink. The edges of his mouth nearly fell of his face as large tears dolloped his cheeks.
Mycroft never did anything like this… She thought to herself. What went wrong?
A passage of something she had read too long ago passed through her head. Serial killers often started out torturing animals. She quickly dismissed the ridiculous thought. She was sure he hadn't even killed the poor cat. Wasn't she?
"Sherlock, honey," She started slowly, seeing the boy's tears run down his upturned face, now angled to meet hers, "Where did you find that?"
"On the street." He sniffled, rubbing his nose on his sleeve. "Mummy, it's cool. I know it is. Why don't you see that?" The questioning blue eyes made hers sting. She batted a few tears back and sighed as she thought of an answer.
"That's dirty, Sherlock. Gross. Icky. Disgusting. It would make you sick. You don't even know how long it's been sitting out there."
"But you said everything's got a story if you look hard enough!"
"Sometimes honey, that means looking with your eyes and not your hands."
"But how would I figure out how it died if I only looked?"
She looked at the curly haired youngster skeptically. "You have to think of the whole picture, love. Think about where you found it. Where did you find it again?" She prompted.
"I already said the street," he answered back with a tone suggesting less than average intelligence from his mother.
"Yes. So what do you think happened?"
"Well, a lotsa things could have killed it—"
"It probably got hit by a car," she interrupted.
"But mummy! I saw the man down the street with a little gun. He feeds cats in that alley and I think he shoots 'em." She paused, looking at her son with the most befuddled look. "Mummy, all those books you have us read, those ones about the detectives and their little mysteries, they always say, 'Think outside the box.'" He looked up to her, hope swimming in his now dry eyes. She wiped the remnant tears from his face and sighed.
"But you just can't bring home dead things. It's gross." She looked at him with a sad, stern look she hoped he understood. An exaggerated sigh passed through Sherlock's lips and he tilted his head at his mother. She looked at him and a smirk danced at the edge of her lips. "Ok. Tell you what. You don't bring anything dead home anymore, and I'll call the Yard on that man shooting the cats. Deal?"
The boy's face lit up with a smile that promised to meet the corners of his eyes. "Done!" He nodded, hopped off the counter, and bounded down the steps. Mumbles of him pestering his brother with the rambles of his and his mother's deal wafted up the steps.
"That boy…" She whispered to herself, "What am I going to do with him…"
Hours later a few rasps on the door interrupted her work yet again. She looked up to see her six year-old son throwing open the door and two detectives passing through.
"Good evening, ma'am. I believe you're the one who called about the cats?" The first questioned. He was young with short cropped chestnut hair that was two shades darker than his full-length coat. He was shadowed by an older man with what was once blonde hair, now dusted with salt and pepper of age and retreating from his forehead. He had a mustache that masked his mouth and mirrored the color of his hair. He crossed his arms while the younger man spoke.
"Yeah, but I figured it out!" Sherlock announced proudly. The young detective hunched a bit and ruffled the black curls nested on the young lad's head. The boy gave a disgusted look and backed away a step.
"You did a very good job, little guy! Do you want to be a detective someday?" An over enthusiastic smile stretched his mouth from ear to ear as he used a tone of voice reserved for very young children.
"No," Sherlock scoffed, "You couldn't even figure out that man was shooting cats without the help of a kid." He looked at the dumbfounded detective while a deep chuckle echoed from the older man's chest.
"One day," Sherlock stated with conviction, "I'm going to be smarter than you idiots!"