Title: What's In A Name?

Characters: Sherlock, Mycroft, Mrs Holmes, a certain animal

Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers for Series 3 of Sherlock, specifically The Sign of Three and His Last Vow.

Word Count: 1653

Rating: K

Summary: A young Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes investigate The Mystery of the Wrecked Flowerbeds, which culminates in a change of someone's name. One-shot. Kid!lock.

A/N: I haven't written fanfiction in over a year, and the last time I wrote fiction was about six months ago, so I'm pretty rusty at this writing business. (Please forgive any errors.) But I've been reading a lot lately, and that tends to make me want to write. Besides, series 3 of Sherlock is FINALLY out, and I have tonnes of plot bunnies running around in my head that just need to come out and play. Here's one of them. Any quotes you recognise are from the series. And might I just profess my utter adoration for Sherlock's full name?I love it so much.

'Don't be stupid, William. Use your brains, or what little of them you possess. Of course it wasn't a Gordon Setter that destroyed Mother's flowerbeds. Look at the fur. It's red,' Mycroft stated disdainfully.

'I'm not stupid,' protested his younger brother. 'The paw prints look like those of a Gordon Setter.'

'You are stupid. Just as stupid as your silly name. Don't try to be clever, William. I'm the clever one.'

'There's nothing wrong with my name! And I didn't name myself.'

'Your name comes from two words, which when joined together, make no sense at all. Desire and helmet. Maybe we should start calling you Desired Helmet.'

'Well, your name is stupid too!'

'Oh really?' Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

'It doesn't mean anything. It's a stupider name than William. At least mine has a meaning.'

'Mycroft does have a meaning. I'm just not going to tell you what it is. Find it out on your own.'

'Well, no one else is named Mycroft. It's a weird name.'

'I don't want to have the same name as anybody else. I like my name. I'm the only one with it in the world. Your name is ordinary. It's for ordinary people.'

'No, many famous people are called William, and I'll be famous too.'

'Oh really?'

'Yes. I'll be just as famous as William Kidd.'

'He was a Scottish pirate who was executed and whose corpse was displayed in an iron cage on the dock at Thames Estuary for years as a warning to other pirates. Are you sure this is someone you would like to emulate?'

William wavered for a second before defiantly answering in the affirmative.

'Anyway, back to the situation in hand. A dog that is not a Gordon Setter has just wreaked havoc in our garden, and we need to bring it to justice before Mother returns and gives us another one of her lectures. What dog is it, and where did it go?'

'I don't know!'

'You do know. Think, William.'

'I am thinking, but you keep on dismissing every single one of my deductions. Why don't you tell me where it went, since you already know?'

'I am training you to use your brains. Otherwise they will rot, turn into cotton candy, melt in the heat, and flow out through your ears. Would you like that?'

William glared at his older brother.

'Now, concentrate, William. What does the fur suggest?'

'A dog with red fur, similar to a Gordon Setter. Maybe a red Labrador?'

'Very good.'

'Really?' smiled William.

'No.'

William's smile faded. 'I don't know all the breeds of dogs with red fur!'

'What did I give you that encyclopaedia for?'

'To torture me.'

'Go and get it, then tell me which dog did this.'

William reluctantly trod back to the house to obey his brother's orders. He soon discovered the answer.

'It was an Irish Setter!' he exclaimed, running out of the house, encyclopaedia tightly clutched to his chest.

'Finally. Now we can proceed. Who owns the Irish Setter?'

William thought for a second. 'I heard barking coming from the barn in the field the other day.'

'What were you doing near the barn?'

'Exploring.'

Mycroft shuddered at the thought. Excessive movement horrified him. 'Well then, you go on and find the dog, and bring it back here to me.'

'Why can't you come with me?'

'Because someone has to make sure that no other dogs come and cause further destruction,' was Mycroft's ready reply.

'What if the dog bites me?'

'Knock it out with the encyclopaedia.'

The charm of the bucolic setting was wasted on William as he approached the barn with trepidation. He had never been good with animals. He still remembered the scratch he had received when attempting to pull out some of the fur from his aunt's cat to examine it. Neither his aunt nor the cat were pleased with him, and they both displayed their displeasure, albeit in significantly different ways.

William pushed the door to the barn open. He heard a gentle whimpering in a corner that he had not noticed earlier. There, among a stack of hay, lay a forlorn puppy. William cast his eyes around warily to ensure that the mother wasn't there before approaching the puppy.

It raised its head to look at William, then it emitted a soft bark.

'So was it you who tore up Mother's flowerbeds?' William queried sternly.

He could have sworn that there was a look of contrition in those big brown eyes.

'You'll have to be punished. Follow me.'

The puppy refused to budge and continued whimpering. William wasn't sure whether it was being recalcitrant or whether it simply did not understand English. He decided to use gestures. 'Come, dog.'

The puppy did not come.

William sighed. Bending down into a slight squat, he gestured again. Digging about in the rooms of his mind palace, he remembered once reading about people summoning their dogs by patting their thighs. William did it.

The puppy raised its head enquiringly. Ah, so it had seen that gesture before.

'Come on, dog. Come to me.' William patted his thighs again invitingly.

The puppy pushed itself up with an effort, and slowly limped towards William. William frowned as he noticed the injury on its left hindlimb. As his mind rapidly ran through all the possibilities of where, when, and how the injury could have occurred, he failed to notice that the puppy had reached him. William's next sensation was an unfamiliar, though not unwelcome, one - that of his bare legs being licked vigorously.

'Why are you doing that?'

The puppy ignored his question and continued licking.

'You ought to answer when you're asked a question. It's good manners. Or so Mother says.'

The puppy had evidently never been taught good manners.

'Mycroft says that manners aren't important when the questions are stupid, but that wasn't a stupid question.'

The puppy temporarily halted the licking to glance at William. William frowned at it. He wasn't quite sure why he was talking to an animal, but it somehow felt right. It was better than talking to thin air, which was what he was accustomed to when not being bossed around by Mycroft in the name of 'education'.

'Well, come along now. Since you can't walk at a normal pace, I shall carry you.' William bent down to pick up the puppy. He stood up awkwardly, the puppy attempting to wriggle into a more comfortable position in his rigid arms.

'Stop squirming or I might drop you,' he warned the puppy. At the same moment, the puppy decided that it was comfortable enough and ceased all further movement. William smiled, pleased with himself and also the puppy, whom he thought was beginning to display definite signs of intelligence.

Upon reaching home, William realised that his mother had returned, and would likely be quite upset over the ruined flowerbeds.

'William Sherlock Scott Holmes! Did you do this?'

'No, Mother.'

She turned her piercing blue eyes upon him searchingly. Satisfied that he was not fibbing, she called out: 'Mycroft! Did you do this?'

'No, Mother,' was the identical reply.

'Then who did? And why have you got a puppy in your arms, William?'

Before William could respond, Mycroft emerged from the house. 'That, beloved parent, is the culprit. It will be suitably punished.'

'And how exactly are you going to do that?' asked Mrs Holmes.

'I have plans,' said Mycroft with an air of mystery. 'It's need-to-know.'

'No, you won't,' interrupted William firmly.

'I beg your pardon?'

'You won't be punishing this dog.'

'Why not, brother mine?'

'He belongs to me now.'

'Does its really?'

'Yes.'

'What's its name?'

William was temporarily stumped. He looked at the puppy's shaggy red coat, and an idea occurred to him. 'His name is Redbeard, and he's mine.'

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. 'You don't know the first thing about taking care of an animal.'

Mrs Holmes had to agree with Mycroft, pleased as she was to see William actually taking an interest in another living creature. 'I'm afraid Mike is right, William dear-'

'Mother, please desist from addressing me by that atrocious nickname,' interjected Mycroft tetchily. 'It's so plebeian.'

'-it requires a lot of love and patience to care for a dog,' Mrs Holmes continued, completely ignoring Mycroft's objection.

'I can... love it. And be... patient with it.' William pronounced the adjectives as though he had never used them before. 'Or I can learn. You can teach me. You love me,' he stated matter-of-factly.

'All right then, but you'll have to ask your father's permission as well. And you'll have to teach him not to destroy my garden again, or I will give him away.'

'I will,' agreed William. 'Under the condition that we are all agreed that this dog belongs to me, and not Mycroft, or anybody else.'

'Can't we all share him sometimes?'

William deliberated for a moment. 'Sometimes. But no one will punish him except me.' Here he glared at Mycroft.

'Dear me, someone is getting attached to a silly little creature.'

'Mycroft, stop insulting your brother's pet.'

'His name is Redbeard-'

'Almost as silly as yours,' cut in Mycroft.

'Mycroft!' reproved Mrs Holmes sharply.

'- and my name, from now on, is Sherlock Holmes. Come along, Redbeard,' said William, or rather, Sherlock, as the puppy snuggled contently in his arms. 'Let's get you all fixed up.'