A/N: I found the fan art, got inspired, couldn't help myself.
"Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up."
Stretched out in his comfortable perch in the chaise lounge, seven-year-old Sherlock Holmes heaved a great sigh, reluctantly pulling open one eye to see his brother standing over him, looking far too tall for only thirteen, dressed up all neat and tidy with his crisp white shirt and brown waistcoat, his pressed trouser and polished shoes. Clasped in both his hands was the elegantly carved handle of an umbrella. Why Mycroft carted the stupid thing around everywhere, no matter what the weather, was beyond him. "What do you want?" Sherlock asked irritably. He was building a new section of his mind palace, and being disturbed did not bode well for mental construction.
"It is nearly suppertime," announced Mycroft.
"Congratulations, you learnt how to read a clock. Is that all you wanted to tell me?" The boy closed his eyes once more, reclining his head against the pillows.
The teen narrowed his eyes slightly at his little brother's flippant tone, and he barely resisted the urge to jab Sherlock in his skinny chest with the umbrella. "You haven't done your chemistry homework yet, Sherly," he said in a forcibly patient tone. He made it his goal to check all of his little brother's schoolwork every day, otherwise Sherlock would never bother to do any of it. Yes, it was supremely dull, and building a mind palace was so much more fun, but it was a necessity that had to be done.
Pale grey-blue eyes snapped open and instantly flew to Mycroft's much darker brown ones. "Don't call me that."
Ah, yes, that nickname never failed to rouse Sherlock's irritation, and it was for that very reason Mycroft enjoyed using it. "Have it done before supper, or there will be no dessert for you," said the elder Holmes firmly; he had the pleasure of seeing his brother's eyes widen slightly in horror at the prospect of no dessert. Sherlock had an insatiable craving for all things sugary and sweet. Tonight, the cook had prepared Black Forest cake, a dark, richly chocolate creation that was sure to satisfy even the most incurable sweet-tooth, and the idea of having such a delectable dessert taken away was horrifying to the young boy. Yes, Mycroft knew exactly how to prod every one of his little brother's buttons, and he did so shamelessly. Giving the seven-year-old a smile that was more tooth than cheer, he turned and walked out of the study.
Sherlock grumbled under his breath, a rather inventive line of cursing escaping his lips; if Mummy ever heard that, no doubt he'd be caned...and that's why he didn't let Mummy hear him. Curse Mycroft, the big git with his stupid umbrella and tall frame. Sherlock hated being shorter than his brother, even though that was to be expected, seeing as he was seven years younger. Stupid, stupid Mycroft! The git knew how much he loved Black Forest cake, and now the tall idiot was using delectable chocolaty foods to blackmail him into doing abysmally dull schoolwork. He wanted to take that stupid umbrella and break it, just to spite his big brother, but he knew that would get his dessert confiscated, homework or no. As he marched back towards his room with the dreaded chemistry book tucked under one arm, he paused slightly upon passing the library.
The heavy door was slightly ajar, and from where he stood, Sherlock could just make out the form of his elder brother, lanky form stretched out on one of the couches, a book open on his chest, snoring softly. That stupid umbrella was propped up against the arm of the couch. An idea struck him, as sudden and brilliant as a flash of lightning. Sherlock glanced down at his chemistry book, then back at the sleeping Mycroft. A broad grin stretched across his young face, and he crept forward into the library, the thick carpeting muffling his footsteps. Silent as a stealthy mouse, he crept to Father's desk, took a pen from the cup, and tiptoed across the room towards the sleeping form of his big brother.
You want me to do my homework, Myccie? Fine. I'll do my homework.
Mycroft roused from his nap with a yawn, reaching out with one hand to grasp his umbrella handle. As he pushed to his feet, a glance to the window said that he had been asleep approximately thirty-two minutes. Ah, almost time for supper then. He hoped Sherlock had actually done as told and finished his homework; as much as he enjoyed blackmailing his little brother into doing unsavoury tasks, he didn't enjoy depriving the boy of his sweet things, especially when he loved them so much. Walking out into the hallway, he began to make his way back to the study, check upon Sherlock, and a serving girl came out of another room, a tiny, waifish thing in her uniform. She took one look at Mycroft and gave a startled half-shriek, half yelp, dropping the stack of fresh linens she had in her arms. Her eyes were wide, jaw agape. "M-Master Holmes...what has been done to your face?" she asked in a trembling voice.
"My face?" Mycroft repeated, entirely confounded. What is wrong with my face? Turning halfway, he marched down the hall into the loo. He took one glance at the mirror hung above the sink and dropped his umbrella to the floor with a clatter. He did not scream as the maid had, though it was an effort not to cry out. His entire face was covered...in black ink. Someone had taken a pen and written all across his forehead and cheeks and chin, even on the bridge of his nose and on his neck. Horrified, Mycroft leant forward over the sink to closer study his reflection. Who would have done such—? He stopped mid-thought when he realised that the writing on his skin was chemistry formulae.
"Sherlock!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. Mycroft bent, seized his umbrella, and strode out of the bathroom to the study. When he slammed the doors open, he wasn't surprised to see that little nuisance lying across the chaise lounge once more, head back and eyes closed, a small smile on his lips. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded furiously.
Sherlock opened one eye to peer up at him, putting on a decidedly disinterested expression. "Well, brother, you did tell me to do my chemistry homework. However, you failed to specify what material said homework had to be done on," he said coolly. Then both eyes opened, and his disinterest was replaced by a full-blown grin as he sat up. "Never threaten to take away my Black Forest cake. I will always find a way to retaliate...Myccie."
A/N: eh? eh? I've already got an idea for another Kidlock fic when the brothers are even younger and Sherlock corrects an error in Mycroft's deductions.
Should I continue? Yay or nay?