"I bet you can't can't climb that tree as fast as I did!" Mycroft taunted as he jumped down from the lowest limb. He had climbed to the very top of the ten meter tall old oak that stood in the north lawn of their estate.
Sherlock puffed up his little chest, "I can too!" he protested.
Mycroft enjoyed tantalizing his little brother. He loved being able to do things that Sherlock couldn't, even though he was seven years older. He hated being outsmarted by his little brother, and took every opportunity to outdo him. It frustrated him, that the five year old was already reading and writing (he had been since he was three), and he often would steal his algebra homework, and then return it several hours later completed. He knew that eventually, Sherlock would exceed Mycroft in every aspect, and he figured he should take advantage of Sherlock while he could. Although he was hard on him, Mycroft cherished his little brother, but he would never say it out loud, nor show his affections to Sherlock. "No, you're not strong enough!" he jeered.
"Yes I am! I'll prove it!" The small boy insisted. Sherlock's logic told him he couldn't, he was five years old and his brother was twelve. Still, he wanted his brother to be proud of him. He admired him and wanted to be just like him and just as good as him in every way. So, he walked up to the tree, hoisting himself up onto the first limb. Sherlock climbed higher and higher into the old oak. Mycroft felt his heart clench in panic when he saw his little brother's foot slip from the limb. He was about ten meters up, when suddenly, Sherlock was falling. Branches snapped and gave way and leaves and greenery poured down. His little hands flailed and grasped at the air for something to slow his descent. He seized of one of the low lying branches, about five meters off the ground, but momentum pulled him down again. Sherlock tumbled down, the last branch catching him right in the stomach and he folded over on the branch. He gasped in pain, and Mycroft could see his eyes were brimming with tears. Gravity pulled Sherlock down one last time. He slid backwards off the branch falling the last two meters to the ground, and landed flat on his back. The little boy struggled to catch the breath that had been knocked out of him, he now had tears streaming down his face and pain and panic filled his eyes. After several seconds he finally got his breath back and in between his hyperventilating breaths, choked out several sobs.
Mycroft could tell he probably had a few bruised ribs, maybe even some fractured ones. There were twigs and leaves in the boys dark hair and he had multiple scrapes and gashes on his face and arms. Mycroft looked at his younger brother lying on the ground, it wrenched his heart to see him in so much pain, yet he kept his expression impartial. "I told you so." He said in a clipped, cold voice, and stalked off to their manor to fetch their mother.
Sherlock laid on the perfectly manicured lawn, staring up beyond the oak, and into the blue sky above. He felt defeated and broken. A deep resentment was pushing its way in his chest, nudging the pain out of the way to make room for its grotesque presence. It amplified the sharp betrayal from his brother whom he had so desperately wanted to please; his cold words still ringing in his ears. A fathomless bitterness was hatched in the heart of the five year old boy. His tears dried, and it seemed his emotions evaporated with them. In their place, an emptiness settled in. He like it though, no feelings, no pain. Only the burning resentment and Sherlock's uncanny logic remained.