Hello all! I wrote a very tragic piece earlier this week and I feel the need to counter balance that with a little fluff. Reviews are always welcome and I greatly appreciate those of you who do. Thank you!

Standard Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock obviously as it is the property of the wonderful Moffat and Gatiss who based their series on the work of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

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Mycroft Holmes was not always the imposing, shadowy, government figure others saw him as. At one time, an awfully long time ago, Mycroft was a precocious yet quiet little boy with a penchant for innocuously getting into mischief. Violet Holmes looked back on those days ever so fondly, sitting in the den with a photo album strewn across her lap. Four-year-old Mycroft, looking up at her from the page, in rare form laughing at the ridiculous display of childish antics from his usually stoic father.

Violet reflected on Mycroft's upbringing more now. He was often away from the family dealing with matters of state, matters of immense importance he would say. He grew up so suddenly. Mycroft hadn't seemed like a child as one. Always so formal and polite, the antithesis of Sherlock. He took his self-imposed responsibilities so very seriously. Duty to family above all else he would say. Her brilliant boy with a heart the size of the moon, although he pretended it wasn't there.

Violet flipped the page to see something she hadn't for oh so very long. Mycroft was nine years old in the picture. It was December at the family cottage where they did Christmas celebrations every year. Snow lined the ground, and Mycroft was bundled up in a thick red jumper with matching coat, scarf, and mittens. He was holding his baby brother who looked up at him adoringly. Mycroft ruffling his curls. It was a far cry from how they treated each other now.

That frost filled day, just three days before Christmas, Sherlock insisted on playing outside despite the abnormally cold temperature. Even at two years old, he was walking and talking like a child three times his age, much like Mycroft had. With baby Eurus under the weather and an upcoming Christmas Eve party to finish getting ready for, it fell to Mycroft to look after his little brother. A task he took great pride in.

Out at the edge of the garden, Mycroft took Sherlock to the enduring oak tree so it was called. The thing survived two world wars and three generations of Holmes'. Which was the greater achievement being often up for debate. It was his favorite reading spot before his siblings arrived but Mycroft gladly shared the space with his adorable little minion.

It just so happened that before Mycroft knew of Sherlock's impending arrival, his Christmas wish that year was for a minion. Well that, and a rather large collection of books on the British Empire. Mycroft was quite surprised to find out that Christmas that Mummy had delivered on both accounts. Thus, in his mind at least, Sherlock was his curly-haired, quirky, little minion and Mycroft treasured him dearly.

"CROFTY! CROFTY! Look at me!" Spinning round, Mycroft caught site of something that frightened him more than anything. In his moment of reminiscence, Sherlock had managed the seemingly improbable feat of climbing to the very top branch of the tree. Every likely scenario of what could happen flashed into Mycroft's young mind. Most of them did not end well. Probability said that Sherlock was most likely to end up mangled on the way down. Mycroft was unequivocally uneasy.

"I see you Locky. I really do. Now is the time to come down. That isn't exactly the safest place to be." Mycroft steadied his voice for Sherlock's sake.

"How about you come down from there and we work on a Christmas experiment. How does that sound?" Sherlock nodded his head vigorously, agreeing to his brother's suggestion. Maybe we could make something explode! Wouldn't that be great fun!

For as impulsive and reckless as Sherlock was in climbing up the towering tree, his first attempt at getting down sorely changed his tune quite quickly. His effort to drop his feet to a lower branch failed miserably when he slipped.

Paralyzing fear hit Mycroft in that moment. Well it was paralyzing for only a moment because after the fear hit Mycroft so did Sherlock. Falling squarely on his brother, Sherlock aimed true. His crashing weight toppled Mycroft to the ground where he hit his head on a substantial but small stone.

Mycroft awoke moments later to a troubled, crying Sherlock sitting on his chest begging him not to die. "I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. Please Croft! Please!" With each breath, Sherlock grew more and more frantic. The sobbing continued but Mycroft was so winded from the fall he couldn't say anything. So, he did all he could, tracing circles on his back. It always put Sherlock to sleep when he was upset and Mycroft desperately wanted his baby brother to settle down.

"Shh. There, there. I'm all right. Nothing to worry about." Sherlock continued to sob, tears soaking his front curls. "I've got you, Sherlock. Never fear. I'm here for you always. Do you really think I would leave you so easily?" Mycroft whispered tenderly. Mycroft wasn't good at sentiment. At least not with most people, not even Mummy. With Sherlock, it was easy though. His little minion, his to protect and care for, even if caring could sometimes be painful.

Sherlock's sobs subsided to sniffles and Mycroft managed to sit them both up. With a heartfelt embrace, Sherlock relaxed into Mycroft. "Now, while I wish you found a different way to accomplish it, I suppose I did say that if you came down we would do a Christmas experiment..." Sherlock's eyes began to light up and Mycroft smiled easily.

"So how about we make our way back to the house and get ourselves cleaned up. I'm sure we look a fright right about now. Then we can test the circuitry of the Christmas tree lights." With a gleeful grin, Mycroft knew he had his answer.

That was how Violet found her two sons when they arrived at the cottage door. The younger, red-faced with tear streaks. The older, damp from snow, with a tiny bit of blood coming from his head. They clung to each other. Mycroft had insisted that they were fine. "Of course, Mummy, go back to the party planning. I have Sherlock in hand." And so, he did. Mycroft carried Sherlock up the stairs and later she found them dissecting the tree lights. She hadn't the heart to punish them after the day they had.

She ought to send this photo to Mycroft. Whether or not he appreciated it, she knew he loved his brother and he cherished the time they had together as children before all the unpleasantness.

Mycroft didn't often receive letters from Mummy but when this particular photograph arrived in post, he was pleased though he wouldn't admit it to anyone. Sherlock had been trying his patience as of late. That wasn't exactly new but trying all the same. Yes, he remembered that day rather well. His sweet little brother, oh how times change. His curly-haired little minion. Mycroft smiled.

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Thank you for reading!