A/N: credit for this fanfic goes to TheDoctor'sStrawberry, my close friend and Partner-in-Fanfic-Writing. I'm just writing/posting it for her because her laptop is busted. I do not own anything (dammit).
Mycroft Holmes did not even have to look up from his book to know that his little brother was sneaking about in the kitchens again. Try as he might to be stealthy, the simple fact was that four-year-olds were not built for stealth, nor was a furry, overeager bundle of puppy energy. In the very edges of his peripheral vision, he could see Sherlock 'creeping' along the far wall of the study. Small and slight for his age, with a mop of unruly black curls soft as coal silk and lily-pale skin, his little brother was wearing his favourite pirate costume again, complete with a hat of folded newspaper, a sword of tinfoil, and an eye patch made of cardboard and a bit of string. He clutched his 'weapon' in one hand, and in the other hand, he was clutching the stuffed dragon toy he carried everywhere. Bouncing eagerly around the boy's bare feet was an extremely fluffy puppy, wriggling with excitement, tail wagging exuberantly, floppy ears flying. The boy had knotted a black bandanna around the dog's head because, according to Sherlock, that was how pirates were supposed to look. "I know you're there, Sherly," Mycroft sighed at last, turning a page in his book.
"Aww, but you ain't even look at me!" protested the boy.
"I didn't even look at you. Grammar, Sherlock. And I didn't need to look at you. That little slobbery furball bouncing around your feet produces sufficient noise for me to have heard your approach down the hallway," Mycroft answered calmly.
The boy bent down and hugged his four-legged companion tightly, allowing the little mongrel to lick at his face. "Redbeard isn't a furball, and he doesn't slobber!" The fact that he had to use his sleeve and wipe dog saliva off his cheek was a bit of a counterstatement to that last bit. Sherlock jammed his tinfoil sword back into his belt and trotted over to the armchair, clambering up onto the side of the chair to pull on Mycroft's arm. "Let's play deductions! Where did I just come from?" he asked.
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Really, so simple a question? Very well. But if I answer correctly, you go play somewhere else," he said; the boy nodded eagerly, almost knocking his newspaper hat off. "Well, judging by the fact you have soot on the bottom of your feet, there's slivers of wood on your trouser leg, and you smell of woodsmoke, I deduce that you have just come from the kitchens, where you are not supposed to be. And due to the chocolate you have on both your hands and in the corners of your mouth, you have been stealing chocolate-chip cookies from the cookie jar again." He said this all nearly in a single breath, hardly lifting his gaze from the pages of his book.
Just as he was starting to get comfortable reading again, something soft-firm smacked him across the face, making him jump in surprise. "The bloody hell are you doing?" he spluttered.
Sherlock giggled mischievously as he swatted Mycroft again with the stuffed dragon. "Incorrect deductions!" he chortled. "You got it wrong, you got it wrong!" The boy practically sang with glee, smiling a crooked, gapped smile. "I didn't steal any cookies at all. I stole the brownies!"
