Disclaimer: Still not mine. *Sighs wistfully*

A/N: Warning for shameless fluff. If allergic, stay away!

"Mycroft!" the small dark-haired and pajama-clad boy hissed urgently from the doorway of his elder brother's bedroom.

Ten-year-old Mycroft Holmes sighed and turned away from his desk, where he had been working out a particularly puzzling math problem. "What is it now, Sherlock?" he asked tolerantly, but with a hint of exasperation.

Sherlock opened his mouth, glanced at Mycroft, then down at his bare feet, then back at his brother.

Seeing his brother's hesitation, Mycroft gestured to Sherlock to come in.

Sherlock walked quietly up to Mycroft's chair, stopping about two feet away, and peered into the grey eyes that mirrored his own as he said, "I don't want to sleep in my room tonight."

"Whyever not?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock gulped. "It's very dark, and lonely, and I swear I can almost see things moving about in the shadows. His eyes widened fearfully.

"Sherlock, that's just your overactive imagination playing tricks on you. There's nothing to be afraid o—"

"I'm not afraid!" Sherlock quickly cut off his brother, almost as though he feared that if the words were spoken aloud, he wouldn't be able to disprove them.

"Of course you're not," he said. "But if you want me to come with you to check the closets and corners..." He waved a hand as if to say "et cetera".

Sherlock shook his head. "I just want to stay in here for a little while, that's all."

Mycroft nodded, and returned to his math problem. For almost a full minute, the room was silent except for the scratching made by Mycroft's pencil as he tried to solve the problem.

Sherlock was the one who broke the silence. "Mycroft," he said suddenly, causing his brother to jump.

"What is is Sherlock?" he asked a little testily. He had almost figured out what he was doing wrong, but had forgotten it again when his brother had spoken.

"Can you tell me a story?" He looked pleadingly up at his brother.

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment, and decided to give up on the math problem. Anything that took that much effort, wasn't worth doing at this late at night. "Sure," he said and pushed back his chair. They moved to Mycroft's bed, where Sherlock immediately snuggled down next to his brother.

"What do you want the story to be about?" asked Mycroft.

Sherlock's eyes had drooped shut, but he opened them again and screwed up his thin face in concentration. After a moment's pause, his face lit up and he exclaimed (too loudly), "Pirates!"

Mycroft shushed his little brother, but couldn't help smiling; he could have guessed as much. Just what fascinated Sherlock about pirates, he had no idea—and probably never would—but whatever the reason, they were the topic of every bedtime story he asked for.

Sherlock looked expectantly up at his brother, squirming in anticipation of the story.

"Well," Mycroft began. "There once was a pirate ship that marauded and plundered the seven seas. All the world was afraid of them, because their captain was the most feared and respected pirate of all time: Captain Sherlock."

Sherlock beamed, then yawned.

"One day, as Captain Sherlock and his men were sailing across the ocean, they saw a small ship on the horizon and turned toward it. What they didn't know, was that this particular ship was..."

Before Mycroft had even gotten through half of the story, Sherlock had fallen asleep. Mycroft carried him back to his own bedroom, before turning in himself.

A/N: *Hugs Mycroft*