I should find another hobby. Or perhaps write that one Iron Man fanfiction I've been wanting to write.

Nevertheless, enjoy what my brain insists on me to write.

Don't run around senselessly, wrecking things and making noise.

Don't climb on top of the furniture or jump on things.

Don't talk or even sketch a sound when you look at my face and I'm obviously tired or upset.

Don't be a baby and expect displays of over-affection towards you.

And never address to me as 'dad', 'daddy', 'papa' or anything similar. I'm your father, as you must call me.

Despite the many rules that Arthur Holmes had imposed on Sherlock (and on Mycroft as well, when he was younger), he couldn't help but to be fascinated by his father posture.

Arthur was, without a shadow of doubt, the most brilliant man that ever strode by the Palace of Westminster. Arthur's heavily literate man, owner of a Bachelor degree in Economics and Finances and a PhD in Political Science. The only man who overshadowed his reputation and overpassed him was his own son Mycroft, years later.

Sherlock's admiration for his father started on early years. He was one of the major boosts for him to be as intellectually smart as he is today. But when with him everything was very strict and by the book.

Arthur never gave a hug to neither of his sons, never apologized for any mistake or said that he loves them. Father Holmes was never there for them and when he was, he wasn't caring. He had a black and white vision of the world and believed that being subjective would only affect the future outcomes.

Mycroft turned into someone like his own father. A carbon copy of him indeed from his looks to the (sometimes, in Mycroft's case) lack of understanding of the human persistent seek for emotional attachments.

Only Mycroft is son of Arthur. Sherlock was conceived from an affair that Violet had and hid all her life. He was a smart man just like Arthur, as brilliant as he was, but he had a heart and knew how to please a woman unlike Arthur. Upon the birth of Sherlock it was obvious that that child was not her husband's. But Arthur never divorced her. He loved her. And Mycroft did love a woman in his life too. Deep down, their hearts of stone were capable of feelings.

Sherlock knew he wasn't Arthur's son, but that didn't take away his admiration towards that man. Every day he'd walk out the door with a perfect tie knot and the collar of his coat popped-up.

"What's with that?" Mycroft asked upon gazing his eight-year-old brother leaving through the door.

"I'm going to school, even though it's boring! Care to replace me, Mycroft?"

"No," Mycroft shook his head being misunderstood. "I mean what's with your clothing?"

"What about it?" The younger responded and walked out the door, not giving a chance for his brother to speak further.

Mycroft watched his brother through the window as he walked down the road tucked in a long winter coat with its collar popped up and a scarf tied around his neck.

The teenager sighed. Would he ever thank him for what he does for him?

His father toughened him in such a way that Mycroft doesn't believe himself to be able to feel anything anymore. And he didn't want it to happen to Sherlock. He's the one who distracts him and tries to make him… human… as he doesn't believe himself to be.

But if he was such a rational machine with no feelings, would he even care about his brother? Would he even feel a little resentful because Sherlock would never thank him? (He understands he's only eight, but he wants some appreciation from his little brother.)

Not quite sure what was this, but well... I've written it so... you might as well leave a review and tell me what is this.