Do not own. But now, a short rant. WHY, oh WHY are there so many people on this fandom saying "I don't really get the ratings, they aren't really explained, so I'll just rate this whatever."? They are explained. They lay them out for you! Would you be comfortable with the age group that corresponds with each rating reading your fic? It's not difficult, guys. I've seen fanfictions on here that have clearly been written by an eleven year old, and the contents are frankly rubbish, but it's been rated correctly. Anyway, I'm sorry about that. And on we go.

The year was nineteen eighty six. Sherlock Holmes, aged eight, crashed through the door, dropped his blazer at the foot of the staircase, plonked himself onto the sofa, and began to ferret around in his bag. He pulled out a small orange book, along with what seemed to be a homework planner. The small boy flicked through them both before unceremoniously hurling them to the floor. He sighed. He stretched. He lounged on the couch for all of seven seconds before wriggling onto his front. He turned onto his side. He eventually found himself lying on his back. Eventually, he spat the inevitable word from his lips.

"Bored." He got up, and morosely wandered into the kitchen. He hoisted himself up onto a surface next to the sink, where his brother, aged fifteen, was furiously scrubbing at dishes in preparation for a dinner party later that evening. "Mycroft?" Sherlock said, feet swinging idly and hitting the cupboard behind him. Mycroft did not look up.

"Sherlock. Stop kicking the cupboard, you'll leave marks all over it. What?"

"Why are we having a dinner party this evening?"

"Because some important people are back in town. It's good to socialise, you know."

"Ah. Mycroft?"

"What, Sherlock?"

"Why is it good to socialise?"

"Because making connections leads you to higher places in life."

"Oh, right." There was silence, for a time, as Sherlock pondered upon his brother's words, before an impish grin spread over his face.

"Mycroft? Will Julia be coming to the party?"

"How do you know about – Never mind. I don't want to know. Sherlock, you really are being tiresome." Sherlock sighed.

"But I'm so b-o-o-o-o-o-ored." He whined, petulantly.

"Only boring people are bored. Go and do your homework, or play in the garden, or visit Mrs. Arbiton. I think there's a basket of fruit for her somewhere."

"Boring. Boring. Nasty old bat, why would I take her any kind of gift?"

"Because she was very good to us the other day. Go and find something to do!" Sherlock's head tilted.

"Mrs. Arbiton was good to us? How?"

"She made us a cake. See?" Mycroft pointed to the cake on the high shelf. "Now go and leave me alone!" Sherlock left, eyes gleaming wickedly. Mycroft ignored them and continued washing dishes - the kitchen was quiet again. That is, until the scraping of a chair across the wooden floor interrupted the silence. Mycroft put down his cloth and looked up.

"Sherlock! Go away!"

"No."

"You're so bloody childish! Do as I – what are you doing?"

""I'm going to have a slice of that delicious looking cake that Mrs. Arbiton made us. After all, you will notice that nobody else seems to have touched it. Therefore, it's fair game." The younger boy climbed onto the chair and stood on his tiptoes.

"Sherlock! You can't eat that! It's probably –"

"Poisoned? Yes. I know." Sherlock grinned, and examined the slice he had cut for himself. "But we aren't sure, are we?"

"No. No, we aren't - but that's no reason for you to eat some!"

"Too late. We're just going to have to find out." Sherlock almost skipped back through to the living room, and lay back on the sofa with his eyes closed and his hands crossed over his chest. His older brother was hot on his heels. The younger boy opened one eye and raised the eyebrow. "I'm not bored anymore, if that helps. Go away, Mycroft." Mycroft rolled his eyes and growled, quietly, then left, dishes still not done.

Sherlock was still very much alive when Mrs. Holmes arrived home a few hours later. She swept into the living room, and in the manner of harassed, long suffering mothers everywhere, began to fuss.

"Oh for goodness sake, Sherlock, hang this blazer up. I'm always telling you to. When was the last time you had a hair cut? I'll book you in for one later. And pick these books up, honestly, you need to treat your schoolbooks with some care and respect, I'm not paying the fine if you ruin them again... Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"He's waiting to die. Hullo, Mother."

"Oh, yes? Mycroft, darling, how was school?"

"School was fine. The dishes are done."

"Ah, thank you. Well – Go upstairs and change! The guests will be arriving in half an hour and I have so much to do!"

"Yes, Mother." From the sofa, Sherlock again opened an eye.

"I really am going to die, you know." His mother nodded absentmindedly, hanging her coat up and looking for the ironing board.

"I'm sure you are dear, but would you mind doing it upstairs? It would make rather a bad impression to have a dead son on the sofa, yes? I'll make a cheese sandwich for you and bring it up later."

"I don't like the cheese we've got at the moment; it tastes of rotten milk mixed with gravy granules. Are you really listening to a word I'm saying?"

"M-hm. Have you picked your blazer and books up yet?"

"No, but -!"

"Well, do it now and go upstairs and die, there's a good boy."

"But-!"

"Now, Sherlock." Sherlock shuffled off upstairs, grumbling quietly to himself. He was greeted by his father in the hallway, coming home from work with five minutes to spare before the guests were due to arrive.

"Ah! Hello, Sherlock. Have you had a good day?"

"I'm not going to last the night and nobody cares!" Sherlock wailed.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." Mr. Holmes walked through to the living room where he was handed a freshly ironed pair of trousers by his wife. He nodded to his eldest son, who was sat on the couch, wearing a similar suit. He turned again to his wife. She smiled at him.

"Hallo dear. Good day?" She said.

"Yes, thank you. Sherlock tells me he's going to die. Again."

"Ah yes, there's a slice of cake missing. Mycroft tells me he was bored."

"Oh? The cake Mrs. Arbiton made us?"

"Yes. HE'LL PROBABLY LAST THE PARTY BEFORE THE RETCHING STARTS." This last bit was said extra loudly so Sherlock, who was no doubt sulking in his room upstairs, would hear.

Sounds which sounded suspiciously like "Nobody cares about me..." could just be heard from upstairs.

Mr. Holmes sighed. Mrs. Holmes rolled her eyes. Mycroft checked his nails for imperfections, and the doorbell rang. The parents looked at one another. Mr. Holmes smiled and said

"I do hope you were right about him lasting the party. We really can't have him wrecking another one."

Arrrgghhh. Arrrgghhh. Too much dialogue. But then again, that's what families do, they talk – and I can't see another way of doing this. Ah well. Your thoughts, if you please.