This isn't a one shot. This part's more like a prologue to a friendless Sherlock.
All of the light in the room seemed focused on the young Holmes at his desk. A slew of papers decorated his surrounding, flapping about in his earnest search. Newspapers and books fell to the floor with a sweep of his hand. A thud. The crinkling whisk of papers.
Muttering assurances to himself, Mycroft wearily perched his head in his hands. The light shut out behind his eyes and he deflated. The paper was missing. That glorious quote. Mycroft hadn't looked at the author's name before he'd photocopied the page.
His research paper felt naked without it.
With a sort of healthful disregard only a stressed student possesses, Mycroft reached out blindly for his plate. Fingertips connected with crumbs. They sank in, pulverizing the bready tidbits.
He opened his eyes and strained against the light. His breathing stopped and he willed his hearing into overdrive. Still. Still. The seconds passed. He held still. Still.
A creak. Finally.
Familiar with every inch of his room, Mycroft surged from his repose and stormed the corner behind his bookshelf placed just so to leave a hidey-hole. Enough room for a small body. A troublemaker.
The shadowed corner held far more secrets than Mycroft expected. A red banner stretched taught from several messily applied tacks along the wall and shelf back. It hung down like a tent, folds pooling around the inky curls of Sherlock's hair. Mycroft's little brother's face appeared, void of emotion. There was just a hint of a mischievous shine in Sherlock's eyes. Beneath his bum the corners of Mycroft's missing article peeked out. Sherlock's lips held a stain of chocolate.
"What are you doing?" Mycroft couldn't muster an accusatory tone. He already knew what Sherlock was doing.
Sherlock let a quiet settle before he divulged his intentions. He dramatically eyed his brother, a hulking figure blocking his only escape. Yes. He must negotiate.
"I stole your booty. You're trespassing in unsanctioned territory."
Pirates. Again. Mycroft let himself sink to his knees, crowding the boy slightly. Sherlock, in response, scrabbled up a conspicuously clean fork and held it menacingly before him. Mycroft noted a tear at the cuff of his shirt. Dirty, broken fingernails. Scuffs on his pants. The fact he is here. Alone.
"Where's the rest of your crew?"
"They mutinied." This Sherlock was too young to completely detach himself from the fact. His voice sounded 'mutinied' out like a tiny chant. Playacting the isolation. Imagining away the reality with a bit of adventure.
This was happening more and more often. Sherlock's limited selection of playmates continued to dwindle. For now, in these spring years, there was no intentional cruelty. Sherlock was off-putting. Too bright, clever, aware. He'd break the cycle of imaginative fallacies with dubiousness. He ached for a real game. More than playmates.
It was easier to pretend he was a bad captain with a worse crew. A crew that didn't meet his expectations. That all the kids were merely seeking their best adventure, tailor fit for them. Sherlock didn't see how all the kids saw the same vision that he himself could not.
So they'd run off, crowned with anachronistic paper hats and illogical ambush strategies. Sherlock regrouped, shipwrecked on an isolated island. An island eerily similar to his own home.
Mycroft rubbed at his brows.
"Oh, mutinied have they? Well, best that's done with now. You're going to need a much fitter group if you're to loot the Duchess's pond." Mycroft didn't miss a beat. Sherlock had taken his silverware and was on a bender for decorative cutlery. Best to keep up the charade. They both knew it was for the best.
So Mycroft rescued his brother from a lonely island and they set course for the Duchess's pond. Mummy was having tea with an old school friend and the flashing beams from their dainty forks beckoned. The two brothers donned mismatched handkerchief masks with no insignias or labeling of any kind, as that would provide links to any sort of association and skulked behind carefully cultivated bushes.
Mycroft let Sherlock lead and devise but pushed his Captain with speculations and advice. Any good first mate ought to. Mummy didn't mind so much the ruckus they caused. Sherlock was enjoying himself.
"This is a nice haul, Captain," Mycroft found himself saying later that day. The bookshelf had been pushed out a little more to allow his larger frame to fit. The two Holmes boys sat knee to knee in their alcove. Sherlock sorted the dinnerware, his face placid.
"If this were real, this," Sherlock piped up, face suddenly tight as he gestured to the piles of silver utensils, "we wouldn't be hard up."
Mycroft's eyebrows pulled together, reflecting his puzzled insides.
"We're not hard up."
Sherlock glanced up at him, eyes oscillating through shades of gray and sky. Mycroft's heart seized. Sherlock's eyes dropped, hiding his mind.
"I know." Small voice again.
Mycroft stifled his sigh and plucked a strawberry off his tart, his own booty, and pushed it between Sherlock's lips too quickly for protest. Sherlock gasped in surprise and glared up at his brother, keenly aware of his intent. None the less, he enjoyed the morsel.
Sugar broke down across his tongue. Salivary glands worked up. It was such a basic, natural response. A kick of flavor.
Mycroft rustled Sherlock's hair and scooched out of the hide-out. He did have a paper to finish after all. Wordlessly, Sherlock rooted the stolen article from his previous looting and returned it to his brother with a small smile. A silent thank you.
The saccharine moment passed between the brothers. Transient, fading like the sweetness of a strawberry.