Title: Santa Claus is Coming to Town
Author: Fr0st6yte (RoboTitaness)
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes
Genre: Family, Hurt/Comfort
Summary: It's nearly Christmas, and Mycroft is home just in time to help his little brother.
Ahhh little Sherlock and Mycroft. I absolutely can't wait for season 4 to come out!
If anyone were to ask Mycroft, he wouldn't admit to missing home. University was only a few hours away after all, and who cared if he hadn't seen his family since August? He was up to some very important activities. He was, after all, preparing to go into the British government. That wasn't easy. And he was busy. He was Mycroft Holmes had no time for frivolous such as family.
So no, he did not miss his family, thank you very much.
So, he would not have admitted that when he pulled his bag into the house, he took a nice deep breath to smell his mother's cooking.
He was Mycroft Holmes and didn't need comforts like his mother's cooking.
"Mycroft!" A small thud and weight on his legs alerted him to his little brother's presence.
"Sherlock," he greeted. When the weight didn't disappear, he put his hand down to pat his brother's curls before quickly bringing it back up. "Let go."
"Mycroft, it's going to snow tonight and tomorrow we can go build a snow fort and have a snowball fight and -"
"I am not going to go play in the snow, Sherlock."
Sherlock's tirade instantly stopped and he turned big brown eyes up. Reaching only Mycroft's waist, the seven year old had to crane his neck up to see his older brother's face. The sad, utterly disappointed look brought forth no reaction inside Mycroft. None at all.
"But why not Mycroft?"
"Because -" The arrival of their mother stopped the next words - only for children - to spill out of his lips.
"Mike!" she greeted, and Mycroft found himself dragged into a hug.
He'd also every deny ever having a warm feeling spread through him at that moment.
"How long are you home?"
"Just until the twenty-sixth."
"Only two days! Classes so soon?"
"Yes," he lied through his teeth. "So very busy."
"Oh dear, come, come then. We must make the most of it."
"Mycroooooft," Sherlock's voice sounded again. "Why can't you play with me?"
"Sherlock, did you clean your room?" their mother asked instead of letting Mycroft answer. The younger boy pouted but left to finish his chore.
While Mycroft thought he was in the clear, he was proven wrong, when dinner was spent with Sherlock continually talking about going out to play the following day. However, a certain subject was not brought up and Mycroft was surprised and wary. Deciding it was better to broach it and get the long list over with, Mycroft asked, "What do you want for Christmas, Sherlock?"
Silence greeted his question, and Mycroft looked from his parents to his little brother, confused. Neither his parents looked back at him, and so he turned to Sherlock, who glared at his plate.
"There is no Santa," he finally muttered, before pushing back his chair and running to his room.
Mycroft sat there, confused for a minute, before turning to his parents.
"What is the problem?"
"A few boys at school told Sherlock that Santa is just a story," his father explained.
"And why is that a problem?" Mycroft repeated. He was a story, and it was high-time Sherlock realized that.
"You know how Sherlock loved Santa, Mike," Mother said.
"He is seven," Mycroft sniffed. "He is old enough to know the truth."
"Still a child," Father replied. "Go talk to him, Mycroft." The teen wanted to protest, but didn't, stiffly getting up and striding to Sherlock's room. The door wasn't shut all the way, and he could hear sniffles from the bed. Heaving a heavy, undignified groan, he walked into the room.
"Sherlock?" the shaking figure in the bed froze but didn't look up. "Sherlock, get up."
"Go away, Mycroft."
Mycroft sighed. "Are you really this upset over a few boys?"
"Go away Mycroft."
"All because they told you that Santa isn't real?"
"He is!" Sherlock's angry face popped up from under the covers and glowered at the older boy. "They were lying!"
"Were they?" Mycroft's question had Sherlock faltering, his face screwing up in confusion.
"Mycroft, is - is Santa real?"
Now, here Mycroft could have answered in many different ways. He could have gone with the blatant truth - no, he was not. He was merely a fictional character for little kids. He could rip open his brother's fantasy. The truth is safe, after all. He'd be temporarily disappointed, but no one could trick him and he'd learn to be careful of what people tell him.
But as Mycroft gazed at his brother's tear-streaked, worried face, Mycroft couldn't find it in himself to say the words. To tear away his brother's childhood belief. He remembered the times when Sherlock would try and stay up, hoping for a glimpse of the white-beared character. When Mycroft would carry him back to bed. That innocence would disappear soon enough; why do it now?
Sherlock's brown eyes had grown wide and shadowed as Mycroft didn't answer, and Mycroft made up his mind.
"He is, Sherlock," he finally answered softly. "The boys don't know anything." The affect was instantaneous. Sherlock's eyes lit up, dancing once again with joy.
"I knew it! And if you say it, it must be true!" His younger brother embraced him, and Mycroft found himself enjoying the feeling. The way Sherlock looked up to him. "He's going to get me the best presents tomorrow and David and Shawn will only get coal because they don't believe in him!" And Mycroft made a mental note to get Sherlock's list from his parents, so he could go buy a few. "Do you have to go so soon, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked suddenly, eyes bright. "We won't have time to play with the presents or go outside…"
Mycroft fought against looking at the eyes, but failed, sighing heavily. "No, Sherlock. I'll stay until after New Year's."
Mycroft wouldn't admit to having a heart, but he was a good lier.
Cross posted on AO3 (Fr0st6yte)
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