Warning: Pure, utter crack. If you don't like these kinds of fics, I strongly advise you to stop reading here.

Disclaimer: Own nothing.


He reeked of alcohol when he stumbled into Sherlock's flat uninvited. Sherlock knew that he was in terrible, terrible danger. John was gone to visit family (and he didn't invite Sherlock? Sherlock was still mad about that. Who wouldn't invite Sherlock to their family reunion? Just because he made that one comment to John's aunt about her cheating on his uncle. Shit hit the fan after that. But still. Grrr. Why couldn't Sherlock come?), and Sherlock was home alone.

Or had been. Until now. Mycroft smirked evilly with his eyes glossed in intoxication. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, observing something in a petri dish. Because...you know...it was for science. No, Sherlock was NOT imagining that the amoebas connecting together were actually him and John finally admitting their feelings and making love for the first time. Who would have that kind of fantasy from amoebas? Sherlock, wouldn't. He seriously wouldn't! And no one would convince him otherwise.

"(Hic) Hellllloooooo, dear, dear, DEAR baby brother," Mycroft threw his signature umbrella on the floor and it reminded Sherlock of when those athletes who spiked the ball in that American version of football, "What are you doing in my house?"

Sherlock blinked. He took in a deep breath. If he was really lucky, Mycroft would fall asleep before...IT happens. He shuddered.

"You're in my place," Sherlock said, trying to mask any fear in his voice.

Inebriated, Mycroft stumbled over his feet. His whole body swung to the left, then to the right and it almost looked like a dance. Finally, he managed to come up to Sherlock.

"Well, since you're in my house. I might as well make some tea for my baby..." Mycroft trailed off with slurred words.

He was starting to gain more control over his body. Sherlock could tell. However, Mycroft's mind was still not lucid. Sherlock knew that Mycroft's body, for some reason, regained control much faster than his mind.

That was never a good thing for Sherlock. The younger Holmes gulped loudly. What if it would happen again? It always happened when Mycroft was drunk. Sherlock couldn't even imagine feeling it again: the pain, the humiliation...

"Lie down, Mycroft," he said in his most commanding voice.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed and he grasped harder onto Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock braced himself for a fight.

"You're not in control here," growled the elder Holmes.

The frightened detective closed his eyes.

"Please, Mycroft. I'm begging you. Not again."

"Let's play..." Mycroft cooed.

"No," Sherlock choked back a sob.

"House!" Mycroft exclaimed, "You're the baby and I'm the daddy!"

"NO!" Sherlock pushed Mycroft away and ran for the door.

Mycroft hit a button on his cell. He must have prepared the text before hand so that he would be able to send it before he got too drunk. People trampled in the flat like a stampede. They grabbed Sherlock from all sides.

In a few minutes of struggling and curses from Sherlock, the detective was dressed in adult diapers and a white t-shirt with a smiling bee on it. Mycroft stumbled over and grabbed a chemistry book of the shelf. He was holding it upside down.

"Alright. Now let me tell my son a story. My favorite. Cinderella and the Seven Gingerbreadmen Hucklerberry Finn something."

Someone popped a pacifier into Sherlock's mouth. He was experiencing the torture all over again. He couldn't bare it. All the pain and humiliation led him up to this.

He began crying. But that only made Mycroft cradle him until he fell asleep.

The next morning they would go their separate ways and they wouldn't speak to each other for weeks afterwards.

It was just too awkward.


I'm not sorry for this. I'm only sorry that I'm not more sorry.