I own nothing except the plot. Just saying.
Reviews are welcome!
My Turn
Sherlock had been watching his brother work at his desk for at least an hour. The boy's eyes never moved from the pen and the scrawls it left behind on the paper.
Mycroft had been ignoring his brother for at least an hour. Sherlock seemed entranced by the writing that covered the pages of his notebook. Mycroft was supposed to be writing an essay for his history professor, but his thoughts kept straying to his younger brother's grey eyes staring fixedly at his homework.
At last he laid down his pen and looked at the dark-haired boy, who was still peering over the edge of the desk.
"What is it, Sherlock?" His brother pointed at the notebook.
"What's that?"
"Writing. Now, Sherlock, I'm busy-" Mycroft began.
"Can I try?" Sherlock's small fingers closed around the pen. Mycroft took it back just as quickly.
"Not now, Sherlock!" Thus scolded, Sherlock hung his head and backed away from the desk. A pang of guilt shot through Mycroft. He flipped to a clean page in his notebook and tore a few sheets free.
"Sherlock. Here." He handed his brother a pencil and say him in the chair that he had occupied himself only moments ago. He spread out the paper and began to write letters across the top of one of the sheets.
"Now, what letter does this look like?" Mycroft asked, pointing to the first. Sherlock stared at it for a moment, frowning. At last his eyes lit up.
"An 'a' !" he chirped triumphantly, and methodically printed the letter beneath Mycroft's. Mycroft reached around Sherlock and closed his hand over his brother's around the pencil.
"Good. Now, let's copy mine. Start at the top…like that, yes, now back up…" Before long, Mycroft had forgotten his assignment, becoming preoccupied with guiding his little brother's pencil through each cursive letter.
"How do you make the big ones?" Sherlock asked, pointing at Mycroft's abandoned essay.
"Capital letters, Sherlock, not 'big ones.'" He corrected.
"Capital." Sherlock repeated, frowning as he committed the word to memory. Mycroft nodded his approval and resumed teaching. Finally Sherlock looked away from the paper and up at his older brother.
"My turn?"
"Of course." Mycroft smiled and let go of the pencil, returning to his own assignment. Glancing up, he saw Sherlock's head bent over his paper and cocked just a bit to the left. He had stuck his tongue out ever so slightly, the very picture of child-like concentration.
After a while, Mycroft felt a tug on his trouser leg. Sherlock stood before him, proudly waving a paper about.
"I did it! Look, I wrote your name, see it?" Sherlock was nearly dancing in excitement. Mycroft took the page from his brother and studied it. It was barely legible, but he could just make out the 'M' and the 'H' of his name.
"Well done, Sherlock. You need a bit more practice, I think. Like this." He displayed his essay. Sherlock squinted at it, then nodded and scurried away to try again. Several seconds later he returned. Mycroft bit back a sigh.
"What?"
"I'm out of paper." This time, Mycroft did sigh, tearing out another handful of fresh paper and offering them to Sherlock, who took them and bounced happily off.
Finally Mycroft closed his notebook and stretched. He had finished his essay without any further interruptions from Sherlock. Which, really, could mean anything. Following the trail of paper, each sheet filled with Sherlock's scribbled attempts at cursive, Mycroft was led upstairs.
Paper littered the hallway and judging from the quality, Sherlock had been in Mummy's study. Mycroft bent to retrieve a piece as it fluttered in the wake of his passage. A closer inspection showed that these scrawls were not all words. Sherlock had drawn a surprisingly adequate picture of the tree outside the study window, carefully printed the word, then written it in cursive underneath. Mycroft allowed himself a small smile and continued, finding similar papers all down the hallway.
He picked up a few other sheets, reading 'cat', 'table', and 'violin' as he stopped in the doorway to Sherlock's bedroom. He let them fall again when he saw how many pages covered the floor inside. He scanned the room, looking for his younger brother.
On one wall hung a few of Sherlock's drawings, splashed and stained with paint from the set Mummy had bought him in an effort to stop him from bringing dead animals inside. It hadn't worked. A desk was pushed against the wall beneath them. Crayons, pencils, and a few crusted paintbrushes lay on the surface. A chair stood by the window, Sherlock's violin and bow rested on the arms. The window stood open, and a cool breeze that promised rain was filling the room.
The unmade bed occupied the far corner, and from behind it, Mycroft was able to see a small foot. He crossed the room to find Sherlock sprawled out on the floor in an uncomfortable-looking position, fast asleep among his papers. Mycroft leaned down and removed a few sheets from underneath Sherlock and read it. On one side Sherlock had written his own name. On the other he had written Mycroft's.
Folding the paper gently, Mycroft tucked it into his pocket, allowing himself another small smile. He knelt and lifted Sherlock in his arms, the boy weighed almost nothing. Sherlock mumbled something sleepily into Mycroft's shoulder as his older brother carried him to bed.
Sherlock offered him the pencil as Mycroft tucked him in.
"Your turn, Mycroft. Your turn."
oOo
I wrote this late at night. Be sure to tell me if it's rubbish.
Not sure if another chapter will exist yet. Might just be done with it. Still not sure…What do you guys think?