Sherlock clambered to the top of the stairs, panting.
It was late afternoon and he had just returned with Mummy from yet another horrible tea with her friends. Today had been especially bad - first he accidentally spilled tea on himself, and then Mummy got mad at him for taking an extra biscuit even though he had asked and the lady and told him it was okay, and then when he tried to play with the cat it scratched him because he had been "too aggressive", but how it was his fault he had no idea. He didn't let all that bother him, though, it happened much too often for him to feel any concern.
The curly haired boy scampered down the elegant hallway of their enormous house and jiggled the doorknob of the third door to the right - Mycroft's study room - only to find it…. locked?
"MYCROFT!" Sherlock whined, as loudly as his five year old voice would allow him, "Open the door!"
There was much shuffling and muffled noises going on behind the door before Sherlock heard the lock click and the door open.
Mycroft had literally just begun studying the new anatomy book he purchased last week. The Human Body and All Its Innermost Workings was a rather ambitious title for just one book, but then again 632 pages could be expected to contain a reliable amount of information.
As the hulking encyclopedia was too heavy to comfortably read on the sofa and his neck was already sore from looking down at so many papers, Mycroft had elected to dump it on the rug and lie on the floor to across the floor in a rather ungentlemanly position that he normally would never ever be caught alive in, a content sigh escaped his mouth. Comfortable at last.
And just as he had turned to page 5 of "Chapter 1: The Optical System", his brother had to bang around, make a commotion, and scream at him through the door.
Damn. Back already? he thought, internally groaning. Good thing he had locked the door. But also bad, because it meant he had to get up and lug the book to his desk so it wouldn't arouse any suspicions. And walk to the door while bracing himself for the arduous task ahead of him - entertaining Sherlock.
"Come on, come on," Mycroft sighed, holding the door open. Normally he would not have let anyone (particularly his mother) bother him when he was studying, but for Sherlock... Mycroft was merely trying to take the path of least resistance.
"What did you do today?" inquired Mycroft, ruffling his brother's curls genially as he returned to his table and sat down. Sherlock squirmed under his hand and eventually found his way squished onto Mycroft's lap, all the while relating the day's events to his studious brother.
Mycroft's study was small but cosy, tastefully furnished and carefully cultivated by its resident. It goes without saying that Mycroft spent almost all of his waking life either studying, reading, or entertaining his brother in his study room.
On the right, an ornate wooden table, with books, papers, and stationery forever scattered all over it, faced the door. A cushy swivel chair accompanied it, perfect for Mycroft's use. On the left, two long couches were placed in an L shape against each wall surrounding a small coffee table, along with a potted plant. The couches were well worn by Sherlock's antics; but through the prodigious application of varnish and shine, they managed to keep their quiet dignity.
Placed in all the spaces left behind were bookshelves, only about shoulder height but packed with glorious books on every topic imaginable. All had been carefully chosen and purchased by none other than Mycroft Holmes himself. Elegant paintings adorned the upper walls, and large Persian rugs of the highest quality lay on the floor, clearly ruffled from the last time Mycroft's little brother had rolled around in it.
"Mycrofffffttttt. What is that?" Sherlock whined petulantly, stabbing a diagram in the open textbook with particular force.
"That, dear brother, is a detailed diagram of the human eye. Here is the cornea, the pupil, which takes in light, then the iris, vitreous gel, retina, and optic nerve." Mycroft glanced down at Sherlock, who was staring with unusual rapt attention. Scrutinizing the child squirming around on his lap, he wondered, at this rate, who Sherlock would become as an adult. He worried. Even then.
The sound of that ridiculous dinner bell rudely interrupted his thoughts. Mycroft had told Mother many times of how utterly useless and distracting it was to him, but she had paid no attention to his complaints.
"Come on, Sherlock, it's time for dinner," Mycroft said, attempting to push his brother off his lap. Sherlock didn't budge and pretended that he had heard nothing, as usual. Mycroft gave an annoyed click of frustration, muttering under his breath, "When will you ever grow up?" Eventually, he heaved a long sigh of tired resignation as he hauled his small, squealing brother onto his shoulders and down the stairs.
At the dinner table, Mother and Father were as cheerful as ever, bumbling around like happy honeybees, constantly exuding a warm and optimistic attitude. Mycroft, a mature 13 year old, detested this. Currently the happy family had seated themselves at their table in the cosy kitchen (even though their large house contained plural dining rooms), which also annoyed Mycroft to no end.
And, Sherlock, although by now a perfectly capable child and even intelligent for his age, had decided that banging his eating utensils on the table would be much more beneficial than shutting up and eating his food, which frankly was delicious and not deserving of such abuse. Even Mycroft had no idea how he survived in this family. His head was really beginning to ache.
AN: First chapter of my first fic! What did you think? Where should it go next? Open to comments, criticism, ideas, anything at all. Thanks for reading!