There was nothing interesting to the holiday seasons. Every year the same things happened over and over; presents, drinking, laughter, and a bit of yelling. Sherlock Holmes found it dull and repetitive. Even the snow was dull. The teen vented that feeling of suppression by kicking the snow piled up to his mid-shin. His foot got stuck.
"Damned thing," he growled, glaring at the snow.
Behind him a light turned on and as he turned to see who it was spying on him the snow fell further around his shoe, completely enveloping it in the icy cold that was already beginning to bother his lithe form.
"What the hell are you doing out here? It's freezing outside. You're going to catch a cold," his older brother scolded, his feet crunching in the snow as he walked outside as well.
There was a look of disapproval on his brother's face. He'd put on weight... again. Mummy wouldn't be happy.
"Sherlock are you even listening to me?"
"Yes, brother dearest. I just like ignoring you."
A smirk showed up on his own face and he watched Mycroft's face twitch before an almost amused smile came upon his face.
"You kick the snow every year. And it always does this," the older Holmes observed with a single glance down to the covered foot. "Do you ever learn?" Fondness showed through in his voice as he held out a hand to aid - never help because Sherlock didn't like help - his brother from the predicament he got himself in every year.
Sherlock took the hand, thin fingers curling around the bigger hand to rest lightly over the knuckles, and gripped as Mycroft gave a good tug and got him out.
"And every year," the younger replied, "I do this."
Without hesitation Sherlock leaned up and pressed a light kiss to Mycroft's lips to show gratitude. He took his hand back and left his older brother standing there in the cold, heading up to his room to wait for his brother that, as always, would come and share his bed for some season's cheer.