My muse seems to have taken …'s request for more fics about the young Sherlock and Mycroft to heart. She's been pestering me non stop finally forcing me to submit to her will and write the following fics.

Why she can not inspire me to get on with my school work I'll never know.

Anyway these collection of fics are inspired by song titles; basically it's a way of forcing myself to write even if I don't want to (a skill that I will need if I'm serious about becoming either a journalist or a author)

I've put my ipod on shuffle and written a short fic that is about the song title - these aren't song fics; I haven't listened to the lyrics at all while writing. I also haven't given myself a time limit (I know there are some people who write fics during the song and stop after the song is finished).

Given some of the songs on my ipod this should be interesting...

Pick a Pocket or Two

(it's from Oliver and it's the Ron Moody version if you're interested)

Mycroft looked around his bedroom unhappily. In it's current state it looked more like a pigsty, a crime scene or a passable imitation of Sherlock's room. Mycroft ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He had completely ransacked his room and he still couldn't find it. Which was completely ridiculous. There was nowhere else it could be. Mycroft was perfectly convinced that he hadn't taken it out of his pocket.

He sat down on his bed, shoving aside a pile of clothes and stared dejectedly at the mess. It would take hours to tidy his room and it had all been in vain. He didn't understand what had happened to it. No one else would have taken it. Detachedly, as he thought about who could have taken the elusive object, Mycroft heard footsteps thundering down the corridor - of course, why hadn't he thought of it before? Sherlock.

He hurried over to the door and opening it just as Sherlock ran past he yanked the smaller boy inside.

"What are you -" protested Sherlock. He stopped gazing wide eyed at Mycroft's room "What have you done in here? Has a hurricane been?" Mycroft didn't appreciate the eight year old's humour. Nor did he bother questioning Sherlock about where he had gotten the idea of a hurricane from - no doubt he had read about them in some obscure book.

"Where is my pocket watch?" Sherlock squirmed in Mycroft's grip but otherwise gave no sign he had heard his older brothers question.

"Sherlock!" Sherlock wriggled away from Mycroft and began exploring Mycroft's dishevelled room.

"I don't know? Have you lost it?" he asked innocently. There was nothing in Sherlock's manner to remotely suggest that he was lying and yet Mycroft knew he was. He watched his younger brother as Sherlock prowled around his room, examining his more interesting possessions.

"Yes. You have not seen it around the house?"

"No." Sherlock picked up Mycroft's magnifying glass.

"Do you ever use this?" he asked hopefully.

"How many times must I tell you Sherlock that you may not have my magnifying glass." Mycroft snapped in reply. He wondered briefly if he should just persuade Sherlock to give him his pocket watch with violence but quickly discarded the idea when he decided they were both way too old for that kind of immaturity.

However Sherlock was stubborn and wouldn't give back the watch - or even admit to having it - on his own. Which meant Mycroft would have to induce Sherlock's cooperation another way. The beginnings of an idea were beginning to form in Mycroft's mind. He looked up to see Sherlock poking his finger into his inkpot for reasons only known to Sherlock himself. What was he expecting? Invisible ink?

"Sherlock, please desist. I have quite enough to be doing without you messing up my room further." Sherlock turned quickly to face his brother and as he turned his elbow caught a stack of books and papers which all tumbled to the ground. Mycroft took a calming breath.

"Out, Sherlock!" he almost yelled. Sherlock, who for once seemed to see the logic in making himself scare, made a beeline for the exit.

The following morning Sherlock was meandering around the house and getting under everyone's feet. After being chased from the kitchen by a red faced Marie and told quite forcibly to 'go up to his room and stay there' by an exasperated Charlotte, Sherlock decided to go and see what Mycroft was doing. There was a chance it was something interesting like an experiment. And even if it wasn't he could always borrow one of Mycroft's books or his ink or his magnifying glass.

Sherlock charged up the stairs and barrelled enthusiastically into his brother's room which was once again completely tidy. To his initial disappointment he found that Mycroft was sitting at his desk reading a newspaper. Then he decided it wasn't a complete loss - sometimes newspapers were interesting. Sherlock especially liked the stories about the police catching burglars.

He toyed briefly with the idea of joining the police when he was older as he jumped onto Mycroft's bed. It would be fun, he thought, to catch burglars and put them in prison.

"What are you reading?" he asked. He hoped it wasn't something boring like politics which Mycroft and his father often talked about. What did it matter what France was doing? It was too far away to worry about.

"It's not suitable for you." Mycroft replied in his don't-bother-me-Sherlock voice.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"It will probably be too scary for you." Mycroft replied as he turned the page. Sherlock got up and bounded over to Mycroft and pulled at his arm.

"Let me see!" he wailed, "I want to see." he repeated more fervently.

"No." was Mycroft's succinct reply as he shook his brother off and closed the newspaper.

"If I promise not to be scared will you let me see?" Sherlock gave his brother an imploring look that usually coerced Mycroft into giving him his own way.

"Fine." Mycroft handed the paper to Sherlock, who grabbed it and dropped to the floor and opened it at roughly the page Mycroft had been reading. Sherlock sat crossed legged and held the massive newspaper open in his lap.

He bit his lip, as he struggled to read the enormous chunks of minuscule, close writing. He frowned, scanning the text for words he knew. They were lots of them but Sherlock couldn't make them form logical sentences. Sherlock was a good reader, especially for his age, but the formal tone and cramped writing of a newspaper was still beyond him. He struggled for a few minutes before Mycroft said.

"You can't read it can you." Sherlock squirmed; he hated admitting weakness and hated his brother being right even more.

"No." he muttered. Then he brightened. "But you can. You can tell me what it's about." Mycroft sighed heavily.

"If I do, will you leave me alone?" Sherlock nodded eagerly if not completely truthfully.

"All right then. It's about a policeman who died." Sherlock's eyes went wide and he scrambled up onto Mycroft's bed to get comfortable while he listened to the story. Sherlock liked policeman; this would probably be a very good story.

"The policeman was very skilled at catching criminals. However he died in an armed robbery when one of the criminals shot him. The policeman has been seen by several people. They are claiming that he haunts the village." Mycroft summarised unenthusiastically. Sherlock's eyes lit up. He loved ghosts.

"What was the policeman's name? How many people have seen him? How long ago did he die?"

"The policeman's name was William Smith. Over ten people have see him. He died two months ago." Sherlock narrowed his eyes,

"That's not the whole story is it?" he asked his brother accusingly. "That's not scary enough!" Mycroft appraised him and Sherlock gave him a winning smile and assured his brother once again that he wouldn't get scared.

"The policemen is said to haunt criminals."

"Haunt?" repeated Sherlock breathlessly,

"Yes. He goes after people who have stolen items. It doesn't matter whether the items are valuable or not, he makes sure every criminal is revenged upon. The criminals are never seen again." Mycroft paused and then seeing Sherlock's expression of horrified fascination sought to give his brother a reality check, "It's nonsense. There are no such things as ghosts as I've told you many times before Sherlock."

"What does he do to the robbers?" asked Sherlock, biting his lip.

"It hardly matters. Firstly the story is more than likely just a lie spun by people looking to scare others for their own amusement, else it's a story told by parents to put young children off stealing. Secondly, you are not a pickpocket or any other form of criminal so there is no need for you to worry is there?"

"No." murmured Sherlock, thinking guiltily of the watch he had taken from Mycroft's pocket and the comb he had taken from Charlotte's. He was going to give them back. He just wanted to see if he could take them from their pockets without them noticing; and he could. That didn't make him a thief, did it?

"He gets revenge on everyone?" Sherlock asked in a tremulous voice.

"Everyone who takes things that are not theirs, yes. Now Sherlock can you please go and play in your own room. I'm busy." For once Sherlock wasn't thinking about arguing. He slipped off his brother's bed and slunk towards the door thinking worriedly about William Smith.

Sherlock stayed out of Mycroft's way all morning which pleased Mycroft greatly. At lunch instead of making his usual histrionic fuss about eating, Sherlock bolted his food, which was highly unusual for him, and scampered upstairs looking a little pale. Mycroft ate his lunch at a more leisurely pace and went back up to his room some twenty minutes later.

As he reached the top of the stairs he saw that Sherlock's door was slightly open and that Sherlock was peeking through the gap. As soon as Sherlock noticed him looking the door instantly shut. Mycroft smiled knowingly and entered his own bedroom. As he had suspected, lying conspicuously on his bedside table, was his watch.