Ooh, this is interesting. I've never really written an AU before. I imagine this idea has been done already - no, I think it has, at least the concept of the Sherlock cast being plonked in Britain in the Second World War. I wanted to do a bit of a study in siblingry (is that a word? It should be a word) and this idea came to me. I hope you enjoy it. Do let me know what you think, and you might just get the other chapters at some point. ;) I'm sorry, that's probably bribery. But I do have actual plans for this story, which is probably a first.
They were very insistent, these young women who gave away children door-to-door. They would go forth with great long strides that their entourage of youngsters could scarcely match, before halting at a promising-looking house and asking that the residents take in an evacuee. One of the children would be pushed forwards and into the house, and essentially forgotten about. The objective was to get rid of all the children before sundown, and they were doing a pretty good job so far in this little rural town.
Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes watched this scene from the top bedroom, which belonged to Sherlock, standing on his bed so as to get a good look out of the window. They could see the top of the young woman's felt hat, and the scruffy heads of all the London kids who shuffled after their "mother duck". The group was coming closer to their house, and had for the moment stopped at old Mrs Davison's cottage just down the street. Mrs Davison would most definitely take in an evacuee, and whoever got her would be very lucky indeed.
'Do you think they'll come here?' asked Sherlock at length.
'It's highly likely,' replied Mycroft vaguely.
'Do you think Mummy and Daddy will take in an evacuee?' Sherlock continued.
'We have a big house and a spare room,' Mycroft said in a resigned sort of voice. 'They'll be obliged to.'
'I hope we get a quiet one,' Sherlock said, raising one eyebrow. Then, as if he had only just noticed: 'What are you doing in my room anyway? Get out!'
Mycroft smirked a little and left; Sherlock however did not leave his post at the window, and continued to watch as the little crowd snaked up their street, closer and closer to their house.
It was Mrs Holmes who answered the knock at the door. There were already two children thrust onto the step, a scrawny sort of lad with a crop of faded blond hair, and a girl with hair as short as a boy's.
'Good morning,' said Mrs Holmes to the woman beyond these children.
'Good morning, Mrs –'
'Holmes,' said Mrs Holmes.
'Good morning, Mrs Holmes. Would you perhaps be so kind as to take in a pair of evacuees?'
She gave the two children a little push from behind. They staggered forwards a little, but with great reluctance.
'These are the Watson siblings. John and Harriet. They won't be separated, so I thought, seeing as yours is a big house –'
There was a rather short pause. Mrs Holmes, like her sons, had seen the group coming up the street, indeed she had heard about the evacuation a while back, and she had already made up her mind about whether to take in any. She had decided that she ought to, out of pure kindness, and a wish to help.
'Very well,' said Mrs Holmes. 'Come in, John and Harriet Watson.'
'It's Harry,' said the girl defiantly.
The woman sighed. 'Harriet, don't make a show of yourself. You have to behave at the Holmes's.' Then, turning to Mrs Holmes: 'I'm sorry, Mrs Holmes. Harriet Watson is a bit of a handful, but she can be tamed.'
'Don't worry,' said Mrs Holmes, smiling suddenly. 'I'm quite used to handfuls. Thank you, madam. Come in, children. Would you like some hot chocolate?'
The smell of hot chocolate bubbling on the Aga brought the two Holmes brothers clattering downstairs. Chocolate was scarce these days, and hot chocolate probably indicated that they had a guest. Or, considering what they had witnessed from the window, they had a visitor who was a bit more permanent than a guest. Anyway, they didn't much care for the visitors, only for the hot chocolate, which they didn't want to miss out on.
'Sherlock! Mycroft! What have I told you about running downstairs?' Mrs Holmes yelled from the kitchen.
'Sorry, Mummy,' they said as one, in a bit of an un-apologetic tone of voice.
'May we have hot chocolate too?' asked Sherlock.
'I was just about to call you; you need to learn a bit of patience,' Mrs Holmes scolded them; then, seeing that their eyes were now fixed on the two children who sat at the dining-table, she explained: 'These are two evacuees from London. I've said I'll take them in.'
Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged glances. They had guessed that they might get an evacuee. They hadn't really fancied two.
There was a young lad there, a boy of perhaps Sherlock's age – that is, fourteen. The girl next to him, though she didn't resemble him greatly, was evidently his elder sister, and something of a tomboy. Her face was fierce and she seemed to be highly protective of her brother. It probably wouldn't be wise to get between them.
'These are the Watson siblings,' Mrs Holmes continued. 'This is John, and this is Harriet.'
'Harry,' the girl corrected her automatically.
'And John, Harriet, these are my children, Sherlock and Mycroft.'
John immediately stood to shake hands with them; Sherlock and Mycroft returned the handshakes with a reluctance they tried to hide.
'Oh, don't be shy,' Mrs Holmes scolded them.
She knew, of course, that Sherlock and Mycroft were not in the least shy. Both of them had been as small children, but both of them had grown out of that phase, and instead become misanthropes, which was almost certainly worse. When she told them to stop being shy, it was because it was easier to tell the people that than the truth. Sherlock and Mycroft knew the drill by now, and didn't object.
'Can we have hot chocolate now?' asked Sherlock, giving up on any further interaction with the evacuees. Mrs Holmes sighed and plonked four mugs on the table, and the four children drank their cocoa without saying a word to each other.
'What do you think of them?'
Sherlock looked up from the rug on which he was sitting and cuddling Redbeard. Mycroft was studying him in mild interest from the sofa, his eyes half on the book between his hands – something dull about political science, as far as Sherlock could tell.
'The Watsons?' Sherlock hesitated a moment, and then smiled. 'Harriet – Harry – is a tomboy with a liking for chemistry. She's cleverer than she lets on. John's, well, John's normal.' Mycroft chuckled at this. 'He's also a scientist. Probably interested in medicine. The Watson family is rather less settled than ours. They haven't mentioned their mother, only their father, but I don't think their mother's dead. I think they've divorced.' He said this last part quietly and carefully. 'Theirs is a poor household, but not excessively so. Their father does manual labour, probably. They live in a terraced house –'
Mycroft halted him then. 'Your deductions are getting better,' he said, 'but you should use probably and I think less. People won't trust you as much if you don't sound definite. – Anyway, I didn't mean to ask you for deductions. I had already made plenty myself. No, I meant – do you think you can survive with them in the house?'
Sherlock blinked at this unexpected question, and didn't reply.
He had survived all of his fourteen years with Mycroft and his parents in the house. Hell, he had already survived three years of boarding-school, living with students and teachers he really didn't like. But he didn't much like having to play a third sibling of these evacuees. He supposed he could put up with it, if they didn't disturb him, or, worse, try to be friends with him.
He did not need to voice as much to Mycroft. Mycroft already knew. Mycroft understood, because he was exactly the same. Well, almost.
