A/N: Anyway, just a one-shot! Maybe.. I'll add some more little one-shots to make a BIG collection of one-shots. But for now... just a one-shot. At 12:51 am. Anyway.

Enjoy.

Mummy's Boys

"Mummy, it wasn't my fault!" The curly haired boy muttered as his mother entered the kitchen, caressing her head with a trembling hand. She has been cooking again... that frying pan was not there before... "Mummy!" Sherlock demanded, curling behind the worktop and following his mother as she maneouvred towards the refridgerator to gather a drink of water.

"Sherlock, darling." His mother turned towards him and leaned forward, inspecting his young eyes, "You made Mrs. Rivers cry -"

"I didn't." Sherlock said simply, crossing his arms. Of course I didn't... her tear ducts are not of my control...

"Uh - no, young man. Let your Mummy finish," She tutted at him, sighing deeply at the vacancy in his expression, "You made Mrs. River cry again..."

Again? Well, that was silly of his Mummy. For Mrs. Rivers was the assistant teacher. The one he had upset before was Ms. Faulklands - who was just insufferable! No wonder why her husband left her. "But Mummy... you can't just believe them..." The boy said gravely, wide grey eyes dilating as it attempted to prompt a sympathetic response from his mother. Of course, she did not.

Bugger. Daddy was much better at being persuaded.

"Sherlock - its the fifth time we've been asked back to school this month! Mummy can't just go there every time you're in trouble!" His mother sighed, exasperated as she tried not to absorb her youngest son's look. The look that always seemed to scream such innocence that it constantly wiggled him out of trouble in his father's grip, "We have jobs, you know sweetheart? Jobs to do... bills to pay...grownup stuff!" She tipped his chin up with a finger, looking into his pleading eyes, "Do you understand, darling?"

"It's not my fault that their morales are weak." Sherlock commented simply; his mother's eyes simply widened. How an eight year old boy could even utter such things were out of her bay of mind. Scratching the top of her head she simply opened the fridge, attempting to find something to feed him for it seemed that her cooking ventures today had gone unsuccessfully...

Watching his Mummy, Sherlock decided he was not going to surrender. "You can't confiscate them from me, Mummy. They're my toys!" The boy pouted, referring to the discussed punishment in the journey home.

His mother rolled her eyes, "Sherlock - they're chemicals - you... you can't say they are toys!"

"I play with them don't I?" Really, sometimes this woman was as bad as the others. Sherlock sighed, "You told me I needed to get toys, remember? And I did..."

"Sweetheart, they're in bottles. Why don't you try something like toy soldiers or cars?" His mother suggested with a bright, jovial smile, "You know that I bought your brother a new set yesterday..."

The small boy's jaw fell. How silly his Mummy was. Mycroft was easily impressed. He did not get the joy of handling magnesium oxide. Watching his mother wearily wipe sweat off her brow - the boy crossed his arms,

"How was the train journey?"

"It was fine honey - wait, how did you know that?" His mother glowered at him for a moment before shaking her head, "Ignore me. Darling, can you just pass me the bread - maybe we can just make you a sandwich of sorts..."

"Can I make my own sandwich?" A bright innocuous smile plastered on the boy's face.

"Absolutely not."

"Why not?" Sherlock's eyes lost its flicker, "Mycroft makes his own."

A chuckle escaped his mother's lips as she began to rush around the kitchen cupboards with a hum, "Mycroft makes sandwiches to eat dear. Not to play with..."

"Experiment." The boy rolled his eyes.

"Experiment," His mother corrected, "Sorry. Now ... about your punishment. It's final, okay Sherlock? I can't have you making trouble anymore..." She took another inhale as she began to gather dishes, muttering, "... I hate to take your little... chemicals away, but if that's the only way to make you learn your lesson..."

They were not little. Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table, whistling a bit of Mozart as he glanced around the house. "I made a friend yesterday." He said, watching as his mother whipped excitedly around,

"Is that so, Sherlock? That's - great, honey!" She beamed, "How? What? Tell me all."

The fact that his mother was so excited forced Sherlock's brow to arch. How odd she was behaving! She must be on those pills again... bugger, I cannot figure out their exact chemical structure now that she is taking my work away...

"Well. I dropped a pencil. She gave it to me and introduced herself..."

"Oh - and..."

Sherlock blinked, "Well, that's it." Why was she looking so shocked?

"That is it? That's... that's not friendship, Sherlock."

She was being silly again. "Well of course it is," Sherlock shook his head with a large whip, black curls waving, "A definition of a friend is someone who gives assistance... and she did." Her name had been Isabelle. She clearly had overly eager parents - parents who were more concerned with pleasing the neighbours than their own family... one could tell by the the way she writes her name...

His mother was smiling again. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Mummy," He sighed, "Please - I'll behave from now on. Please don't take my chemistry set away."

"You said that the second time I was called to school, Sherlock."

"I'll do anything!" He yelled, groaning into the table as he scratched his head brusquely, "Please!"

"Young man, don't shout."

"I'm not shouting!" Sherlock argued, "I'm speaking loudly..."

Mrs. Holmes chuckled, shaking her head back at him as she prepared his meal with a breathless sigh, "Anything?" She asked, "You'll do anything?"

"Yes." Sherlock brightened up. Oh! How easily tides turn! He flexed his fingers.

"Then be nice to your brother," She smiled softly at him, "He's always looked out for you."

"I'm nice to Mycroft." Sherlock said, curving his lips unsure why his mother was asking for something so - mere.

"You are not!" She gasped, staring back at him with a rueful smile on her lips, "Yesterday, you told him that he was a product of an anatomical catastrophe!"

"By product." Sherlock corrected, still unsure why his Mummy was being so harsh, "I told him that he was a by product of anatomical catastrophe."

"That's not nice."

"He told me I was strange!"

"You were reading your father's copies of Sigmund Freud's works," His mother murmured as she glanced back at him, "Don't you think that, that deserved a little criticism?"

Sherlock could recall the memory. He had been furious. Mycroft had been such an imbecile. How they shared blood, he did not know. "I believed I should have recieved praise," He cried, "Most boys my age are reading that godawful series!"

"Which one?"

"Narnia." Sherlock shuddered, "Everyone in my class is obsessed."

"Oh, I loved that series when I was younger!" Typical.. his Mummy of course would love it! For Mummy likes everything Mycroft likes! "You should read it. Perhaps it should change your mind."

"I have." In a weekend. Sherlock had been bored. Mycroft's room had been open. "It was the dullest thing I had ever read in my life."

There was another laugh. Sherlock wondered if all Mummies laughed as much as his did. He did not really like the idea of being laughed at. He was only eight - but still he did not understand the social practices all the other children are perfectly aware of.

"You did not go into Mycroft's room to read them did you?"

"Of course I did," The boy shrugged seeing no reason to lie, "He doesn't mind."

"Yes he does. He gets furious!"

"Just because I make a mark on the carpet!" Sherlock lashed out, shaking his head, "Goodness. He says I'm strange Mummy! But I put one book in the wrong, alphabetical or numeric order...and suddenly I'm the antichrist!"

"Sherlock!"

"Sorry." Sherlock apologized grimly knowing his Mummy didn't like references to anything grave/death/badness related. "But when Mycroft does something wrong... you never punish him."

"Of course I do, darling... he just never makes his teachers cry."

No. All the teachers loved Mycroft. Sherlock had tried to see why - if Mycroft sprayed things around them to make them so amorous... but apparently sniffing one's teachers was considered rather inappropriate in school. Sherlock did not see how.

He had read through the school's list of conducts millions of times and it was definitely not listed there.

"On a good note. You did very well in your assessment dear," His mother gushed, "Daddy and I are very proud."

Sherlock forced a grin. An assessment - is she referring to that... oh god! I thought that had been a questionnaire...

"When is Daddy coming home?"

"Hopefully at the end of this week."

That meant she's not sure. Sherlock had learnt to read his mother's tone over the past few months. Thoughtful and with wandering thoughts, the boy blinked as he realized something... oh...did I finish up yesterday's -

"Mummy, can I go upstairs now?"

"Sherlock, you haven't eaten."

"But I have to do something quickly..."

"No spying on the neighbours again, okay?" His mother advised, "And... okay. Just come back down quickly... I want to see you eat this. Look at you... you're becoming a skeleton!"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. He hoped she was not serious. Because...that was just a dumb jest at her part for one couldn't possibly be eroded back into a skeleton from a lack of food. "Okay."

"And no antagonizing your brother..."

"He's not here!"

"He doesn't have to be."

"Fine." Sherlock began to make his way towards the door.

Mrs. Holmes found herself grinning as she finished the sandwich, hearing his footsteps thump upstairs. Humming a tune as she prepared the table, the woman glanced at the clock. She was pouring a generous amount of orange juice in a glass when she heard a large thump upstairs.

"Sherlock!" She shouted, eyes narrowed in confusion, "Darling? Is everything alright up there?"

Silence. And then a,

"Yes, Mummy!"

He was squeaking. A mother's instinct kicking her, the woman made her way upstairs, wiping her brow for what seemed to be the umpteenth time in the hour. He squeaked when he lied. Goodness. She just hoped it was not the wall again.

They may as well have the constructor live in their house at this rate.