A/N: Hello! :-D

This is just a little one shot of brotherly bonding between Mycroft and Sherlock when they were younger. ^_^

I actually started this in August, but I randomly finished it today because I am procrastinating on actual work again XD I am too flighty XD

Well anyway. These two are fun to write. Given Mycroft now, he must've really been something as a teenager XD And Sherlock is hell on wheels now, so imagine him as a child XD

Having a seven-years-younger sibling, myself, I can sort of feel his pain and see where he's coming from XD

So yeah!

I hope you enjoy, and please tell me what you think! :-D Thanks much for reading! :-D

Mycroft sighed and leaned back against the sofa, enjoying the lovely sea breeze that came in through the parlour window. He had managed to get some quiet time alone to read a book that he actually wanted to read. A rare thing for Mycroft, who usually had mountains of work to do, or had to look after Sherlock, or Father wanted him to… well. Many, many things usually kept him from reading, which was rather tragic, as Mycroft was somewhat of a bookworm at heart.

But right now… right now, Mycroft had peace, and quiet, and time, and he would enjoy it if it was the last thing he-

'MYCROFT!'

…did.

Hm.

Mycroft exhaled through his nose (one must always remain calm) and put his book aside. What did the pest want now?

'Mycroft!' Sherlock threw the door open. 'Can you take me to the beach? Mamma can't because she's too ill and Father says she's got to stay in. Please can we go?'

Normally Sherlock would be above begging for something that he wanted, and resort to tricks or manipulation instead. But he'd been cooped up for a while, and he really did adore the sea… Mycroft almost felt bad for him.

'Sherlock, don't bother your brother. I promise to take you as soon as I can, my love.' Their mother appeared in the doorway behind Sherlock, trying to lead him away by the shoulders. Sherlock continued to make protests of, 'But Mamma!'

Mycroft was quite annoyed. Leave it to a little brother to ruin a perfectly lovely time. But their mother looked so very tired, and Father had sent them to the seaside that she might get well again. It wouldn't do to let her be harassed by Sherlock, who was too young to realise just how ill she was, and so was as rambunctious as always.

'No, it's all right. I'll take him. Come on, Sherlock.'

Their mother smiled gratefully. 'Thank you, darling.'

Suddenly, Mycroft didn't feel so bad about giving up his chance to read.

Mycroft and Sherlock walked to the beach hand in hand. Sherlock, quite excited, pranced along the path, pointing out anything that caught his eye, pulling up weeds ('Flowers for Mamma!'), and sometimes stopping entirely to stare wide-eyed at a bird or insect he liked.

In other words, a walk which should have taken at most ten minutes ended up being approximately thirty-seven.

When they finally reached the shore, Sherlock ran ahead of Mycroft to the water's edge. Mycroft, not really one for… exertion, followed at a more leisurely pace. When Mycroft caught up, he stared out, too, wondering what Sherlock was looking at so keenly.

'What are you staring at?' Mycroft finally asked.

'What? I don't know. I'm gonna build something!' he cried, falling onto his knees and dragging armfuls of sand into a small pile.

'…All right, then,' Mycroft said, mostly to himself. Little children were so odd. He sat down nearby and took out a well-loved copy of Pride and Prejudice.

For a while, all was well. Sherlock was content to 'build' his… thing and chatter to himself about who-knows-what. Mycroft had perfected the art of keeping an ear open for trouble, so he was free to get into his novel quite enjoyably.

He wasn't really sure why he read such things, anyway; he read romance novels all the time, which was stupid, because it's not like it was useful information. It's not like Mycroft would have any romance in his life. Who cared a whit about a fat, freckle-faced thing like him?

Well. No one.

And anyway. It's not like—it's not like his father would be very pleased about his, er. Somewhat recent discovery of his particular interests. In his father's world, homosexuality was an aberration, and therefore unacceptable. His mother wouldn't mind, being a normal human being and capable of emotion. But it was Father whom Mycroft spent the majority of his time with, and Father whom he wanted to please. Oh, he knew that, at fifteen, he should care more about satisfying his own wishes, than those of his father. It was the normal thing, as far as teenagers went, to search for greater independence, and in the process, behave in a usually selfish manner. He knew that from what he read, and did indeed want independence. But his respect for his father—or perhaps, more to the point, his fear of his father—made it impossible for him to do what he really wanted.

Sometimes, he envied Sherlock's obliviousness. Mycroft had never been oblivious. He had always been concerned with whatever Father told him to be concerned with. Although it only stemmed from their father's indifference to Sherlock, which Mycroft supposed must be painful, it still seemed like it must be wonderful to not have someone breathing down your neck all the time about every little thing.

But Sherlock was a really weird kid, even besides the obliviousness, that much was certain. He didn't play well with other children, and threw tantrums all the time, and had loads of bizarre needs that their mother would accommodate, but their father resented. Actually, Mycroft had once heard him talking with an uncle of theirs, complaining about Sherlock's behaviour and saying how he was considering 'locking him up'. Mycroft thought that would be excessive, really, but it would be nice if Sherlock wouldn't be in a strop just because his shirt was 'itchy' or whatever.

Well. Even though he was annoying, Mycroft supposed he was fond of the little nuisance. He could be kind of sweet sometimes. He was always willing to share biscuits, would believe pretty much anything Mycroft said, and was a very enthusiastic partner for science experiments. And he was far more intelligent than most children his age, which was nice, because it meant Mycroft could actually reason and converse with him. He seemed to sort of idolise Mycroft, which was weird, but sort of cute, and Mycroft didn't really mind it when Sherlock came to his room in the middle of the night because he'd had a nightmare and couldn't sleep alone.

But he was still very strange, Mycroft thought to himself, because when he looked up from his book to check on him, Sherlock was shoving bits of wood into the top of his... building.

Well, Mycroft guessed it was a building. Or something.

'What on earth are you doing?' Mycroft couldn't quite keep all the disdain out of his voice.

Sherlock looked up with a pout. 'I told you, I'm building.'

'All right. And what are you building, dear?'

Sherlock stuck his tongue out at Mycroft briefly before answering, 'It's a fort. Obviously.' He sort of tripped over the 'obviously' a little, so it sounded rather more like 'ovvisly'.

'Ah. I see.' Mycroft decidedly did not see.

Sherlock gave a more exasperated sigh than Mycroft had thought an eight-year-old could do.

'Look. This is the wall, and that's the—like a look-out place…thing—and these here are, um, spires.'

Mycroft had not known that Sherlock knew the word 'spire'.

'Oh. It's very nice, dear. Very nice, indeed.'

Fortunately, Sherlock hadn't yet mastered differentiating tone of voice, so he wasn't upset. He happily finished his construction, humming to himself. When he was done, he flung himself at Mycroft (who managed to catch him and not drop his book) and announced that he was tired.

'All right, all right,' Mycroft said, standing up. 'Wait, get your weeds—'

'Flowers!'

'—Flowers,' Mycroft corrected himself. Sherlock obediently grabbed them up, and then wrapped his arms around Mycroft's neck. Mycroft shifted the boy into a more comfortable position, and then his attention was focused on walking through sand without falling or dropping anything (or anyone, as it were).

By the time Mycroft had got halfway home, Sherlock was sound asleep, with his face in the crook of Mycroft's neck and wildflowers drooping in his fist. Mycroft carried him all the way to his room, and tucked him up into bed, even though it was too late to have a nap and Sherlock would have trouble sleeping that night because of it.

It would be all right, though, Mycroft thought, because when Sherlock couldn't sleep, he could just go and wake his big brother.