Author's note: Who am I to let go of a beloved tradition? Well, beloved by me, anyway. So here'S my four-part Christmas fanfiction. This time I simply picked "family" as my theme. Enjoy!
"Mickey, have you seen your brother?"
He had dreaded the question for quite some time, just like the abbreviation of his name. Neither his dignified silence nor his grimace deterred his mother, who repeated the question.
"No, I have not seen Sherlock" he replied.
"Can you go look for him? You always find him so fast, and Gran and Gramps are going to arrive soon".
Mycroft considered eye-rolling beneath him, but was tempted to do so as he walked up the stairs of their home. Sherlock didn't enjoy being cold, so unless he had a good reason, he wouldn't have left the house, and he knew of none. So he had to hide somewhere.
His mother knew all of this perfectly well. She was as intelligent as Mycroft but often chose to pretend not to be in order to grant them a "normal" childhood. Mycroft saw no advantage. They were not normal, thankfully, so why did they have to act like they were?
Sherlock was not in his room, of course. Mycroft sighed. Christmas would be much easier if his brother was to accept that Mummy's parents wanted to see them and smile and tell them how much they had grown. Sherlock resented that they treated him like a child – considering he was seven years old, Mycroft thought his complaints rather illogical.
Then again, he had been annoyed at them when he had been that age as well. But he had been reasonable, had accepted the pats on his head, made polite conversation. Sherlock would be silent and spent the evening pouting.
Really, it would be much easier to excuse him altogether. But Mummy wanted her parents to see them, so they would.
After he had gone through each room but his own, he stood in front of his door.
Sherlock had always felt the safest in his brother's room, although he hadn't admitted it since he was five.
He walked in.
"Sherlock" he called out, "please don't force me to search for you. I would find you. Let us bring this pathetic game to an end".
In the next moment, Sherlock stood in front of him, looking disgruntled.
Mycroft sighed.
"I know you don't think much about them, Sherlock, but they are your family".
"And why should I be nice to them? It's just a fact".
He agreed with his brother, even if he didn't tell him. It was true. There was no reason to tolerate others simply because they were related to them.
"You know it will make Mummy happy".
Mycroft was aware that he was manipulating his brother, but he didn't care. As long as it got him to be nice to their grandparents –
"Fine" Sherlock grumbled. Then he looked up, his eyes hopeful.
"Can we go stargazing tonight?"
Sherlock loved looking at the stars, especially considering he shared Mycroft's opinion that it was useless to learn anything about planets or constellations. They had to keep their minds free from anything that wouldn't be of any use in the long run or they would be overwhelmed.
Mycroft remembered when he'd been Sherlock's age and not yet learned to filter and delete data. It had been a nightmare. He'd made sure to teach Sherlock as soon as he could understand what he meant.
But the stars were beautiful to look at, and he wouldn't let his little brother do it alone. Their parents didn't want him to leave the house on his own.
"Of course" he answered and Sherlock's face lit up in the way it always did when he was genuinely happy.
Coming to think of it, Mycroft hadn't seen that smile in quite some time. He had been busy with school; at fourteen, it was time to focus on what career path he wanted to choose – he had several options, and he had to think about it carefully before making a decision. At the same time, he had to make sure that he was well-liked by his teachers and Mummy's influential friends – mostly professors from her time as one – who came to dinner.
He had neglected his little brother. He was the only one who could understand Sherlock. Mummy was intelligent, but she had always been able to converse easily with people. Sherlock and Mycroft were different. While the elder brother used this to his advantage, Sherlock seemed to be angry that others didn't understand him.
"How about we go down?" he asked, and Sherlock pouted but noted.
The Christmas decorations soon turned Sherlock into the child he was. Even though he tried to appear dignified like his brother, he loved Christmas. If he was honest, Mycroft did too.
They just didn't like being treated like they were regular children. Despite their youth, one could talk to them like adults.
Well, if Sherlock didn't decide to sulk, which he was trying to do but failing at because their mother had once more outdone herself with the Christmas decorations.
In fact, he liked them so well that he didn't even frown when the doorbell rang and Mummy told him to open the door.
"Sherlock!" their grandmother's voice was heard. "How you've grown!"
"Hello, Gran" Sherlock replied and Mycroft was certain that only he could detect the resignation in his voice. "Gramps".
"You'll be a man before you know it" their grandfather said good-naturedly, and Mycroft was sure he ruffled Sherlock's hair as he did so.
Sherlock hated that.
Their grandmother rushed into the room and hugged him.
"Mycroft! Look at you. Quite the gentleman".
He'd taken to wearing a suit on most occasions. It commanded respect. Sherlock was wearing one too because Mummy had forced him to – in fact, Mycroft had been pleasantly surprised to see it in one piece when he had found Sherlock.
"Thank you, Gramps".
He laughed.
"You always sound so formal". He glanced at Sherlock. "At least one of you is a kid".
He meant well, Mycroft knew; and Sherlock knew too. But his little brother, even though he should not treat him like that, was a child, and therefore he immediately stepped away and sat down on the sofa.
"Harold" their grandmother chided her husband good-naturedly. She didn't know that she only made everything worse. There was obvious condescension in her attempt to make Sherlock feel better by telling him off.
Mummy, thankfully, noticed and offered cookies.
At least that had Sherlock stop frowning.
Their father, as always, kept back. He was aware of his children being different, of being like his wife, and he never treated them like their grandparents did. He only ever showed them affection and love, and he meant a lot to both of them.
"Maybe the cookies will finally put some meat on your brother's bones" he told Mycroft. Sherlock was thin, but he had always been. Mycroft wasn't concerned about his weight in the least. He knew his brother ate enough.
It was just another proof of their father's love for them, though, so he smiled and nodded.
Their father patted Sherlock's shoulder because he, unlike their grandfather, would never ruffle his hair if his younger son didn't want him to.
Mycroft smiled.
It was when his mother threw him a bright grin and shoved cookies into his hand that he realized that he hadn't smiled genuinely in a while either.
It wasn't that he was unhappy, like he suspected that Sherlock had been because he'd been busy. He simply had not much occasion to smile. But Mummy liked it when he did, so he would spend the rest of the Christmas holidays doing it more often, he decided.
All in all, it went better than he had expected. Then again, Sherlock had the promise of stargazing to hold unto while their grandparents questioned him about school and whether he had made friends.
Sherlock didn't like school. He didn't enjoy interacting with other children. Mycroft understood their parents' insistence that he try to make friends, but he didn't think it was a good idea.
Mummy had never had any trouble concealing her intelligence in order to fit in; it hadn't cost her anything. But him and Sherlock – to lie about their minds felt wrong.
But Mycroft had social skills. He would never hide what he was capable of, but at the same time he would be able to treat people in a way that they weren't intimated. Unless he wanted them to be.
Sherlock, though...
He had noticed as soon as his little brother started to talk that he wasn't ready to pretend, to play nice when he didn't want to.
Unfortunately, he never wanted to.
This fact, together with his tendency to bluntly state the truth about what he was thinking and feeling at the moment made it unlikely that he would ever connect with someone outside his family.
And even that, as their grandparents demonstrated, sometimes didn't amount to much.
But Sherlock had cookies as well as stargazing and presents tomorrow to look forward to, so he answered his grandparents' questions politely, if not kindly, and they were used to that.
Mycroft saw that Mummy recognized it as the victory it was, while Dad simply listened to their conversation with a smile on his face.
When they finally started talking to Mycroft, Sherlock slipped out of the room. He hadn't expected different behaviour.
Their grandparents were used to that too, thankfully, so they let it slide, and while they and Mummy and Mycroft had tea – they had made the wise decision not to come to dinner, but later, so that Sherlock hadn't had to endure a whole hour of questions – Dad slipped out for a few minutes.
It was one of his rituals to look in on Sherlock when he went to his room. He looked in on Mycroft as well after he came back from school. He never said anything, only smiled gently and closed the door.
He came back quickly, still smiling.
Sherlock was probably experimenting in his room. Since they didn't allow him to use any harmful substances, they didn't have to worry.
His little brother came back later, a smudge of what looked like mud on his hand, to say goodbye just as the sun was setting.
He even allowed Gramps to ruffle his hair again.
Mycroft would have been surprised at his complacency if he hadn't seen him turn around a moment later and grab the rest of the cookies.
As soon as it was dark, he was dragged into the garden by his overenthusiastic brother. When Sherlock liked something, he was unstoppable. Mycroft called out to their mother were they were going – Sherlock wouldn't have – and then they stood under the stars.
They never talked much when they went stargazing. They simply stood there and looked up in the beauty of the night sky.
Mycroft had to admit Sherlock had a point. It was beautiful.
"Mycroft?"
It was one of the things he liked most about his brother. Sherlock had never called him "Mickey", not even before he had known how to pronounce his name properly. He had noticed he didn't like it and therefore always called him by his right name.
He looked in his brother's eyes and noticed how happy he seemed.
It really had been a long time since they last stargazed together.
"Yes?"
"Nothing" Sherlock said, looking back up, and Mycroft realized that, just like he, Sherlock was going to grow up early.
Not that he noticed any of that on the next day, when Sherlock happily handed him a present "he had saved for".
It turned out to be a watch.
From then on, Mycroft wore it every day of his life.
Author's note: I couldn't resist, so during the next few weeks, you will be subjected to my Christmas mood every Wednesday.
So here have a Christmas with little Sherlock and big brother Mycroft and stargazing. And canon-compliant parents because we have seen them now.
And stargazing.
God, I love Christmas.
Happy Advent!