"Mike, could you walk Sherlock home from school today? Your dad and I won't be back in time."
Mycroft groans, "but Mummy…"
"No buts, Mikey. Pick your brother up. I'll give you some money so you can get yourselves some dinner on your way home, how about that?"
The boy grumbles but accepts the five pound note and shoves it in his pocket.
[][][]
Mycroft is greeted with a frown when Sherlock meets him in the playground at 3:15pm.
"Why are you here?"
"Mummy asked me to pick you up. Let's go."
Sherlock hitches his rucksack higher up on his back, "but why? You never pick me up."
"Ask Mummy when we get home. She gave me money for dinner so keep up or I won't buy any for you."
The younger boy scampers to keep up with his brother and when they get to the zebra crossing before the chip shop, he takes Mycroft's hand and looks left and right. He eagerly pulls Mycroft along once he's satisfied there are no oncoming cars and marches straight into the chip shop to make their order.
They dump their chip packets in the wheelie bin before clattering through the door when they get home.
"Boys?" Mummy's voice echoes through the house, "could you come into the kitchen?"
Mycroft's head snaps to face Sherlock, "what did you do?"
"Nothing, this time," Sherlock growls, "how do you know it wasn't you?"
They hear her sigh, "neither of you are in trouble. Just come in here."
Quietly, Mycroft and Sherlock trot through to find their parents leaning against the counter with a dog sat at their feet. It has silky reddish-brown fur and leans against Daddy Holmes' leg, tongue happily lolling out to the side.
"For you boys," Daddy says.
Sherlock grins and throws himself to the floor to hug the dog. He runs his fingers through its fur and giggles when it licks his face. Mycroft stands by the kitchen table, watching Sherlock play.
"He's a rescue dog, his last owners couldn't take care of him anymore," Mummy smiles, "he's two years old and is fond of children, we can go out and buy him toys tomorrow if you'd like, Sherlock. We're going to trust you with this, you're almost ten. You'd better be responsible for him."
Sherlock nods frantically, still on the floor with his arms looped around the dog's neck.
"You have to walk and feed him and make sure he's clean and healthy. If you think anything is wrong, tell us. Mycroft, he's your responsibility too. You'll have to work together on this, okay?"
With a ruffle to the dog's ears, Sherlock sits up, "can we call him Redbeard, My?"
Mycroft crouches beside his brother and pets the dog's fur, "you mean like that pirate you pretend to be?" Sherlock frowns. Mycroft sighs and uses the hand not petting the dog to tuck a curl of Sherlock's hair behind his ear, "he does look like a Redbeard though, so I don't see why not."
"Not like the pirate. His fur is red," Sherlock pouts.
Mycroft rolls his eyes, "I know you, little brother. Redbeard is good. I like it."
The little boy grins and hugs his brother tightly before jumping up to hug their parents. He gives them both a quick squeeze and climbs into the dog bed in the corner and says, "come, Redbeard."
He pulls the dog's head onto his lap and starts stroking his fur.
That night (and every other night after Redbeard became the newest addition to the Holmes family) Sherlock sleeps with the dog curled up at the end of his bed, the lead hung at the front door ready for his morning walk.