Disclaimer: I make no profit from this; credit goes to the creators of the various characters, and to wellingtongoose on tumblr for the intriguing analysis of the Holmeses, that inspired several facets of this fic.
A/N: This is part of the Trip of a Lifetime AU and some dates have been adjusted to better fit in it. In this, Mycroft's birth date is Oct. 17th, 1973 and Sherlock's is Jan. 6th, 1981.
1. Christmas Day, 1982
In later years, Mycroft Holmes will always berate himself for not realizing, at the time, that he was living through one of the most significant meetings of his entire life.
In his defense, when he sees the strangest man he'll ever encounter for the first time, he's just a child still; but that is no excuse for someone like him, at least in his opinion.
He may be young and inexperienced, but he's clearly smarter than anyone he's ever met, except perhaps Mummy. He realizes that there are many things he doesn't know yet, of course, but that is simply because he hasn't had the time or inclination to study them. He'll remedy that in time.
And even as a child, he prides himself on his keen understanding above anything else, so in hindsight, he'll find it incomprehensible that he didn't realize the momentuousness of that meeting.
The fact remains however, that on that cold Christmas Day, he simply doesn't notice.
What he does notice, is an unknown man scrambling on all fours in Mummy's snow covered garden.
And frankly, little Mycroft Holmes isn't particularly impressed. But then, he is seldom impressed with anything, even at the tender age of nine. He has long before decided within himself not to let the oddities of the world make him react like a wide-eyed baby. He's smarter than that.
Mycroft shouldn't even be in the garden, of course. He is only there because he needs some peace and quiet: hard-won commodities since he became an elder brother. Little Sherlock is throwing a tantrum again – the fifth this morning alone – and Mycroft has chosen to take refuge outside, because the cold is bitter but well worth bearing in exchange for the calm he craves. One simply can't enjoy Bertrand Russel's work if one's brother is screaming his lungs out in one's ears.
Mycroft huddles in his coat and tries to calculate how long he'll be able to sit and read out in the snow before incurring in some unpleasant aftereffect of exposure. He needs a medical text on hypothermia, he can't remember much more than the word at the moment. He'll ask Mummy later.
All thoughts of books leave him as soon as he hears, and a moment later spots, the strange man crawling along the hawthorn hedge, a grey-blue greatcoat (Mycroft isn't sure why it feels out of place, but it does) fanning out all around him (it must be ankle-length when the man is standing) and dragging in the snow, leaving broad swipes to mark the stranger's passage on the white lawn while he shuffles forward, thrusting a searching arm underneath the low branches and sometimes lowering himself to peer under the hedge.
Discarding his copy of "A History of Western Philosophy" without care, Mycroft wanders over, observing the man curiously and listening to his half-grumbled and rather colourful mutterings. It does not occur to him to be scared. After all, he is confident in his own ability to judge danger, he knows the area better so he estimates he'll hide quicker than the man can catch him if it comes to running, and anyway, Mummy and Father are just a shout away. And an unknown man in Mummy's garden is an oddity worth investigating.
"I doubt you will find it there," he comments after a while.
The man jumps in shock, hits his head on the tangle of thin branches, curses loudly, probably hurts himself tearing his hair away from the thorns it had snagged itself on, curses some more and struggles to his feet, a rivulet of red staining his temple where some hawthorn berries have been squashed by his bustling.
He towers over the child, frowning more in confusion than anything else. Mycroft regards him placidly.
His coat has a military cut, with a belt the man doesn't tie and brass buttons with a crown and a flying bird (Mycroft decides at once to look up insigna soon, starting with RAF) and despite the cold it is open over a dark blue shirt and utilitarian black trousers with suspenders in plain view (Mycroft wrinkles his nose because that is so *gauche*) and faded laced-up work shoes in very poor condition (not at all what you'd expect from a soldier – is the man a soldier?).
He has a gun in a belt holster and brilliantly white teeth. The teeth catch Mycroft's attention more than the gun because that kind of perfect smile requires serious dentistry, but if the man can afford that level of dental care, why does he wear those horrid old shoes?
"Huh… what?" asks the man, still looking spooked, and Mycroft rolls his eyes. People are so *slow*.
"The creature you're looking for," he explains condescendingly. "You will not find it in our hedgerow."
The man frowns, watching Mycroft with eyes full of suspicion. The child isn't bothered. Most people look at him like that – as if their little brains couldn't reconcile themselves to Mycroft's existence and therefore needed to find some kind of trick that would explain away his intelligence in terms they can accept.
"What makes you think I'm looking for a creature?"
Mycroft is almost distracted because the man is American – how unlikely is that in this area of the country? - but then he gives the man a flat glare because seriously? He likes showing off, however, so if the man wants to play this silly game, fine: Mycroft will win the match.
"That you are searching for something alive is obvious; it can't be an object because you expect it to move and it can't be self-moving technology, like something with an engine, because you aren't listening to any noises and besides, you clearly expect it to hide," he says, without bothering to temper his contempt. "You aren't calling out any names, so it's not a person and it's not a pet. Conclusion: you are looking for an animal of some sort and it's not tame. A creature."
The man stares at him, predictably, but the look in his eyes is less the typical dumbfounded astonishment and more a sort of calculating weighing, as if he was wondering what Mycroft might be, and perhaps, of how much use.
Mycroft is intrigued.
"It's small, small enough that it can fit under a hedge; like a rabbit or a fox," he goes on smugly. (He does like to show off.) "It's not used to humans, otherwise it wouldn't be prone to hiding in hedges. You're sticking your arm in without fear however so it's probably not dangerous, not even in the basic, likely-to-bite-you way. Not a predator, then: more a rabbit than a fox. Except it's rarer than that, obviously. You're rather desperate to find it, otherwise you wouldn't be crawling in the snow for it, so it's valuable somehow. It mustn't be too important though or there would be more people looking for it. Since it's Christmas, it could be a present for someone I suppose, but the tone of your complaints is all wrong for that. You're like someone whining about what their boss will do to them if they can't do their job well enough. So, most likely, you were in charge of it and it escaped and you must find it or face consequences at work."
Now the American is openly gaping. He doesn't deny anything however, not even with body language, so Mycroft nods to himself. "Did you lose an experiment, then?" he deduces, fiercely proud of himself when the man's eyes widen further. "Your secret facility must be close. Even if it was very, very fast, something that small couldn't cover much ground in modern-day England."
There is a silence broken only by the rustling of a robin nearby.
Mycroft is feeling positively smug. The American is pursing his lips in apparent annoyance (probably at how this too clever child in front of him is radiating self-satisfaction: Mycroft is rather familiar with that reaction) and for a moment he almost looks dangerous but Mycroft is smarter than that and he can tell he has impressed the man. He has every right to feel smug.
"...Something like that," the American concedes at last. He shakes his head, starting to smile: "You're pretty amazing, you know that?"
"Yes."
"...Right. Of course you do." And now the man is laughing at him and Mycroft scowls. See if he helps him anymore!
The man looks around a bit helplessly, running a hand through his thick dark hair. It's pretty clear he's re-evaluating the area for other potential hiding spots but that he doesn't really have a clue how to find his quarry.
Mycroft notices the sharp assessing gaze, the way the man stands and balances himself, the way he doesn't try to hide the gun (he clearly has the right to carry it, and perhaps even use it, among civilians) but isn't making a show of it for intimidation (it's just a tool to him).
"How can you be military and not at the same time?" he blurts out with childish frustration. He meant to maintain a dignified silence in retaliation for the patronizing attitude, but this man doesn't make sense and it's awfully annoying.
The man looks at him measuringly. His eyes are very, very blue and there is a weight in his gaze that makes Mycroft fidget. (He never fidgets! This is ridiculous!)
"Special ops," explains the man at length (Mycroft blinks because of course; and yet... ) and then he quickly asks: "Where should I look then?"
Mycroft tilts his head.
"Does it like the cold?" he asks, expecting a quick 'Yes' and ready to offer suggestions based on that.
The American blinks in surprise, as if the simple question hadn't even occurred to him and Mycroft looks heavenwards because seriously? What was he doing in the snow then?
"No," the man answers, with the look of someone who's feeling exceptionally foolish. (Mycroft is an expert at putting that look on people's faces.) It's his turn to fidget under Mycroft's incredibly flat glare and the child feels a little vindicated.
"Mrs. Callridge grows orchids," he says after thinking for a moment.
The man doesn't seem to grasp the implications, so Mycroft gives a put-upon sigh and explains: "They need warmer temperatures and regulated levels of humidity, so she had a greenhouse installed. Over there, beyond the small grove that hides the church from here."
The man narrows his eyes, then swings his arm around and checks something on his odd, bulky wristwatch.
No, not a watch, Mycroft scolds himself at once, obviously not. It might look like a wristwatch (though really it's more like a leather wristband), but its function is obviously not just to tell the time. The man is looking at it almost expectantly, which means-
"Is the creature within range?" the child inquires.
"What?" The American is back to staring at him and Mycroft almost can't suppress his grin. He gestures at the not-wristband (because he doesn't know what it's called and refuses to admit it) and the man shakes his head in amazement, his lips curving up in a reluctant smile.
"Yeah. It… yeah. The greenhouse seems like a good bet. Thanks."
The man shoots a last, lingering glance at Mycroft as he trots down the lane. It is the kind of look that says 'I'll keep an eye on you'. Mycroft is quite pleased: the man was definitely impressed.