Mycroft doesn't consider himself overprotective of his little brother. Perhaps, overly cautious, if even that. It didn't help that their parents were perfectly happy letting Sherlock, in Mycroft's opinion, run wild. The boy never slept, barely ate (and if he did, he was extremely picky), and was continuously stuffing things, such as dirt and flowers, in his mouth, an experiment he called it. Sunlight flooded the kitchen and dinning room. Mycroft sat at the table rereading one of his assigned books for his high level courses for class. He had already eaten. His mother hurried about the kitchen preparing food for his little brother. His father quietly read the paper, leaning back against the counter, as loud barking was heard from the backyard.
"Oh, dear," said his mother, worriedly, "Mike, could you be a lamb and check on the dog?"
Mycroft sighed internally as he obliged, closing his book and making his way to the back door. Upon opening it, Redbeard rushed at him, yipping and whining, tugging on his trouser leg. "Alright, alright, what is the matter?" The young man asked as he shut the door behind him, stepping into the early morning Saturday sun. The dog hurried him to the bush. The scent hit him rather hard, Mycroft admitted. Sherlock. The sleeping child was curled up underneath the branches of the bush, his dark hair peacocking against the lime green leaves.
Redbeard whimpered nearby, sitting beside the bush. "Good boy." Mycroft praised, patting the dog's head. The young man tugged his trousers up by the front of the thigh as he crouched so that the hems wouldn't be dirtied. Peering into the bush, he singsonged, "Sherlock."
The little boy sprung to life, sitting up, hair tangling itself in the twigs. As soon as the sunlight stung his face, he burrowed back into his hiding spot, yawning. His older brother swiftly shrugged off his cashmere jumper and wrapped it around the younger boy, creating makeshift shade. Upon closer inspection of his little brother, Mycroft notice that the child was in his long sleeve pajamas. Judging by the way he shivered and how damp he was (it rained last night), the boy must have been out here all night.
Wrapping his chubby arms around Mycroft's neck, the child nuzzled his head in the crook of his older brother's throat. Mycroft, in turn place, tilted his chin to rest on the boy's curls and placed his hand on Sherlock's head. Mycroft opened the door, letting himself, Sherlock, and Redbeard inside. The door clicked shut behind them. "Sherlock Holmes!" Their mother scolded, upon their entrance to the kitchen. "Have you been out there all night?"
"Yes, Mummy." Sherlock muttered from his place at Mycroft's hip. "You could have been burned to a crisp, my boy." Their father gently interjected, not nearly as harshly as their mother would have. "No, Daddy," the boy said wiggling to be put down. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he began peeling off his damp pj's, banishing them to the floor, leaving himself to stand in his pirate themed underwear. "I hid in a bush. I didn't get burned."
His parents sighed. His mother set a single plate at the table. "Alright, but next time you ask one of us, young man. Now, sit at the table. Your breakfast is ready." The little boy climbed into the chair upon seeing his favorite meal, sausage, toast, and eggs. He ate without coaxing. Mycroft collected the soiled clothing from the floor, laying them out on a chair. "Mummy, isn't it time he started eating with us?" The young man asked, his mother smiling at his question, knowing the concern laced words well.
"Oh, " She said, dismissively, waving her hand, "He's still a baby to our kind, my dear."
"A baby who sneaks out at all hours of the night." Mycroft said, dryly.
Sherlock, since he shoveled down his food, slipped out of his chair. Grabbing his plate and sliver ware, carefully brought it to his mother, who thanked him and began washing the dishware. "Daddy, I'm thirsty." The older man chuckled. Beckoning Sherlock forward, he heaved the child onto his hip and carried him back to his chair. Arranging the boy on his lap, the small back connecting with his large chest, his father offered his wrist. Sherlock, normally a child who refused to eat until his very last breath, latched onto the offered appendage, trying his best to make tiny incisions with his baby fangs. It would be years before his adult fangs came in. His father chuckled at the small prick. The boy eventually drew blood, if a bit sloppily.
The child gently sucked, swallowing with every mouthful. His father made a tsking noise as his son pulled away from his arm, watching the minuscule cuts close. "Such a messy boy, you are." His father tutted, wiping away excess blood dribbling down the child's face with his sleeve as the boy fussed, pulling away from the intrusive hand.
Mycroft remembered that day fondly. He missed the days when Sherlock was small enough to fit into the crook of his arm. During that time, Mycroft had already grown into adulthood, in mind and body. He took careful measures in reminding his little brother how large the age gap between them really was, well over hundreds of years.
Sherlock sat, grouchily, cross armed, legs spread, and slouching, in his older brother's living room. "Now, don't make that face, Sherlock." His brother scolded, placing a tray of tea on the coffee table in the middle of the large, expensively decorated room. "I'll be Mother." Mycroft said, sitting down across from his little brother, unbuttoning his cuff links to roll up his sleeves. Sherlock rolled his eyes, sliding onto his side, laying horizontally on the couch, as the older man poured their tea.
"Aren't you always?" Sherlock commented; he admitted his rebuttals were lacking today.
Mycroft didn't look up as he warned him. "Don't be testy, little brother." He returned the teapot to its original place on the tray. Adding two sugars and nudging a plate of biscuits towards his petulant brother, he spoke, "I know you're unhappy about living with me, but Father and Mummy can't look after you anymore. You know they love having you live with them, but they need some peace once in a while. Don't you agree?"
Sherlock mumbled, snatching a sweet from the plate. "I'm not a child."
"That wasn't the answer to the question I asked, brother mine."
Sherlock glared as he stuffed the biscuit in his mouth. The sound of the front door opening and closing was heard. Shoes clicked against the hard wood. Greg Lestrade entered the room, grinning like a mad man. "Looks like you got our boy to eat a bit, My."
Mycroft chuckled. "It seems that way. Although he is being slightly sulky."
"I do not sulk." Sherlock sounded offended.
"Pouting then." Greg commented, sitting next to Mycroft, placing a quick kiss on his lips.
"Hm," Mycroft hummed his agreement, smiling slightly at his husband, "Such a fledgling thing to do." Sherlock huffed, jumping to his feet to pace, running his hands through his hair.
Greg, leaning into his husband, rested his arm on the back of the couch behind Mycroft. "Look, Sherlock, this is for your own good. It's not supposed to be a punishment, but it can become one." The detective-inspector let the threat hang in the air. "I'm not a fledgling." Sherlock protested, ignoring Greg.
"I beg to differ," Said Mycroft, raising his eyebrows, "You still have your baby fangs, the sun still stings your skin, where if you were an adult, it wouldn't hurt unless in high temperatures, and you still smell like a fledgling. The only reason I am speaking to you as if you were an adult is that you are fighting your true mentality."
Showing his fangs, Sherlock snarled, hissing. "I'm not a baby." He shoved a lamp off a side table. Both Mycroft and Greg watched it fall, bored expressions on their faces. "Well, that little outburst isn't helping anything." Commented Greg, grabbing a biscuit and placing it in his mouth.
The youngest man in the room gave a muffled scream, stomping out of the room and up the stairs to his room. "Poor baby." Greg said, sympathetically. "Missed his nap, did he?"
"Hm, yes, he also refused to eat lunch."
"Plus, he's a drama queen."
Mycroft chuckled. "That, too. He'll calm down in a bit."
"So that gives us at least two hours." Greg said, wiggling his eyebrows.
Mycroft tilted his head, contemplating, eyes gleaming. "Yes, that gives you ample time to clean the mess he's made."