A/N: It is my headcanon in this OneShot that Mycroft had an older brother that died before Sherlock was born. Mycroft adored him, and ever since he died, he donned the phrase "Caring is not an advantage". (This is what may have happened in reference to "the other one" in His Last Vow.)

Also, I wrote this right after my own dog died so the wording might be a bit weird or something. I didn't really go back and edit this. Review?

link to cover picture:

post/74494945881/timelordy-teganbreann-sherlollysmooch

It was Christmas of 1981. Sherlock had just turned five. And it was the best Christmas he had ever celebrated. His rating scale of happiness has been "Mycroft being boring" to "It's Christmas!" ever since. It started out as normal as any other holiday that the Holmes family celebrated.

He never particularly liked Christmas, but he didn't hate it either. He liked receiving presents, but he rarely ever got one he truly enjoyed. That year, he did.

That year it was at Grandma Josie's house. She would always hug Sherlock and Mycroft too tight and pinch their cheeks too hard, but she gave the best gifts so they easily consented to her wishes.

"Heeeey!" Someone yelled happily as they came rushing out the front door. Mummy Holmes leapt out of the car and embraced her sister.

"So good to see you, Grace!"

Mummy Holmes gestured for her husband to join them and he did. The adults stood talking outside while Mycroft, being the elder and much more mature for his age of twelve, led Sherlock into the small, flowered infested house.

The perfumes mingled together to make an atrocious scent. It was a wonder the bees and insects hadn't forced their way in through every crack and crevice of the small home. Sherlock saw a zip of yellow and black land on an almost dead, purple petunia outside the front door. Intrigued, he went over to admire the handsome bee. He didn't stop to think how it survived the winter that long.

Sherlock was fascinated. Could he coax it onto his finger? He wondered if he could- "Sherlock, come," Mycroft said to his little brother, hand outstretched and waggling his fingers. Sherlock tore his attention away from the bee and took his brother's hand, allowing himself to be pulled into the house.

Hidden beneath all the flora were many angel paraphernalia. Grandma Josie had an obsession with angels, no one knew why. There were statues on every surface and paintings covered the walls. Nothing was not covered in either flowers or angels.

The Christmas tree was set up in the corner, -much too big for the small space- with, of course, an angel on top. Various sized presents layed around and underneath it. The smallest of which was simply a card; the largest something Mycroft immediately deduced to be a new telly. He set the gifts their family had purchased for everyone underneath the tree as well.

"Sherlock! Mycroft!" Grandma Josie spotted them as soon as they entered the room.
"Hello, Gramma," Mycroft said with a fake smile. Grandma Josie swooped down and lifted Sherlock into her arms and pinched his cheeks until they turned a light shade of pink, cooing over him. He played along, not wanting to upset her. "You get cuter each time I see you, I swear. And Mycroft." She placed Sherlock back on the floor-he wobbled a bit- and held her arms wide. Her ridiculously long sleeves fell in waves to her waist."You're growing so tall!"

"Well, yes, that is what happens."

"Oh..." She said lovingly and stooped down and gave him a hug, which he reluctantly returned. "There are refreshments in the kitchen, feel free to all of it." As she left she ran a hand through Sherlock's thick curls.

Sherlock immediately took Mycroft's hand again and tugged him in the direction of the food. Sherlock stocked his plate high with sweets and things bound to cause cavities. Mycroft had some cornbread and ham, that's all.

They silently sat on the couch until the time to open presents. Both brothers had brought a book and each read their individual stories. Sherlock, an adventure with pirates. Mycroft, a biography of Winston Churchill.

None of their cousins were their age. They were either much older or much younger, not even able to talk yet. Even though they themselves had a difference of seven years, at least they were able to talk on an intellectual level, unlike the idiots they were always surrounded by.

"Present time!" Grandma Josie proclaimed. She was always the most excited at any social gathering. She was the epitome of extraversion. The brothers did not understand her.

~/|\~

Sherlock received a new jumper-it was red and grey stripes-, a book about bees, and a tin-full of Aunt Grace's homemade snicker doodle cookies. He nearly had the whole thing eaten by the end of the evening.

Mycroft's gifts were: a set of encyclopedias on the British Prime Ministers (which he was was actually very pleased to get. He couldn't wait to get home crack one open), a new umbrella, and a glass chess set.

All of Grandma Josie's presents were angel related. She added the miniature statues to the mantle as soon as she opened them. She was ecstatic. She was never disappointed.

Over the course of the evening, Sherlock started to nod off. Eating all those cookies made him sleepy. Mycroft continually nudged him awake.

Aunt Grace took notice and beckoned over Grandma Josie. "Mum, I think we should give Sherlock his...good present, now," Grace said to her mother, who was leaning her tall frame over the back of the armchair her daughter was sitting in. She glanced across the room to find Mycroft shaking Sherlock awake again. "I suppose you're right.

"Everyone!" she brought the room's attention to herself. "We have a special present for a sweet little boy, tonight. I think we can all agree that he deserves it."
Sherlock jerked awake at the sudden exclamation made, his curls bouncing very which way.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" He asked sleepily.

"You will love this."

He didn't understand. He'd love what? Mycroft saw his brother's confused expression. He explained, "You're getting another present." Sherlock was taken aback. "And a special one, apparently."

But we've already opened presents, Sherlock thought. Why am I getting another one?
Grandma Josie came back into the room dragging a length of thin blue fabric behind her, which Sherlock then realised was a leash.

He gasped in aw. The tiny body slid off the couch and collapsed onto the red-furred English Setter puppy. The dog licked his face over and over as he giggled in delight.

Mycroft was appalled. They did not need an animal in the household! With how Sherlock was coming along he would likely do an experiment on the poor thing and kill it. But Sherlock did look happy...

Mummy Holmes kneeled down by her son and wrapped her arms around him. "What are you going to name him, Sherlock?"

He mused on this subject. "Redbeard" he eventually said with the happiest, warmest smile Mycroft ever remembered seeing on his brothers face.

Sherlock: 6 y/o
Mycroft: 13 y/o

"Tell me where ye hid yer booty or I'll make ye walk the plank!" Sherlock poked a cardboard sword at the imaginary pirate, one apparently facing imminent death. Redbeard barked in approval, an eyepatch over his left eye.

I don't know! The captain never told us! He didn't trust anyone!

"Too bad. Then yer no good for us, anymore," he stuck his fake sword farther out and the pirate fell into the non-existent water below.

Sherlock pushed his hat up with his thumb and turned toward his friend. "Pity, innit Redbeard?" Redbeard wagged his tail and jumped on Sherlock, nuzzling his face against his owners'. Sherlock giggled, pushed the dog away, and sat up.

"When will you realise how childish this is?" Mycroft walked out of the house and questioned.

Sherlock glared at his brother, petting Redbeard. "If you do not recall, Mycroft, I am a child."

"I was never this foolish at your age," he said conviction, as if this were a valid argument.

"I am not you, and never shall be," he looked away and Redbeard licked his ear. He tried to hide his smile but couldn't, Redbeard was too fun.

Mycroft sighed, "Do not get too attached, it will be no good for you in the future. Nothing good comes from caring."

"As if you ever cared about anything," Sherlock pouted and hugged Redbeard.
Mycroft did a point-turn and stalked back to the house.

Sherlock glared at his brother for a few more moments before turning back to his friend and saying,"Where else should we go? The Caribbean? Bermuda Triangle?"

Redbeard just looked at Sherlock with his head cocked to one side. He barked twice.
"The Bermuda Triangle then? Onward!" Sherlock raised his sword and ran.

~/|\~

Back inside from a rigorous day of play, Mummy Holmes found her son and his dog sneaking inside the house. "And just what do you think you're doing? I've been calling you all evening! I was just about to phone the police." She saw their forms coming in through the door.

They both froze, Redbeard somehow knowing that it was best not to make a sound. Sherlock tried to explain, "We, er, were playing. I didn't realise the time, I swear!" There was desperation in his voice.

Mummy Holmes turned on the light and gasped. They were both drenched in mud. Sherlock stood guiltily and Redbeard beside him with his tail between his legs.

She tried to be mad. She really did. But she couldn't help the small smile that tugged on the edge of her lips. Sherlock was having such a good time with this dog, and he never got along with any of the children at the school. That was the pout she started to not worry so much over him. He wasn't some kind cold, heartless child like she worried he would become. "Come on, let's get you in the bath."

"What?"

"Yes, you heard me. We're getting you washed up."

"I'm not...in trouble?"

"Of course not, just don't do it again."

Sherlock beamed. He patted Redbeard on the head and raced him up the stairs, Mummy Holmes feeling a warmth inside her chest she was glad to welcome.

Sherlock: 8 y/o
Mycroft: 15 y/o

Sherlock slammed the door to his room. He slid down the door frame and pulled his knees up to his chest. He hugged his knees and laid his forehead on top of them. It was not a good day.

~/|\~

Sherlock was on the playground reading, as per his usual ritual during recess.

"Oi. Freak."

Sherlock did not reply.

"Oi!"

Sherlock looked up slowly with his eyes. "Yes?"

Sherlock saw a thickset boy with windswept hair and crooked teeth. Gabriel something-or-other, Sherlock didn't know.

He immediately deduced that his father was abusive to his mother and that his mother took her anger out on Gabriel, he played the violin even though he hates it, and he was uncomfortable with his new step-father. Sherlock knew Mycroft could've gotten more off him.

Gabriel was in the grade above Sherlock. He'd always known that'd Gabriel didn't like him, for whatever reason. But lately he'd been more...physical.

"Whatcha readin' there?"

"A book. I'm not surprised you don't know."

Gabriel snarled,"Do not insult me."

"I'm not insulting you, I'm just stating my opinions and answering your questions."

He grimaced. "If you don't stop-"

"Stop what? You're the one who talked to me. Why do you hate me anyway? I never did anything to you. I've never even talked to you until lately. I don't understand."

Gabriel was getting furious.

"I'm curious; why don't you like me? I'd like to know."

The next thing he knew was that his jaw was in pain and he was on the ground. He saw Gabriel walking away in his slanted vision. Sherlock groaned as he sat himself up. He fingered his jawline, knowing that he wouldn't be able to hide the bruising from Mycroft and Mummy.

It hurt more than the other times Gabriel had hit him. What had Sherlock ever done to deserve this?

He felt his eyes stinging. Tears. Don't show weakness. That'll only give them the satisfaction of knowing they won, a voice that sounded eerily like Mycroft's said in his head.

Sherlock stood, got his book that had dropped, and continued to read.

~/|\~

The tears he was holding back all day spilled. He was silent. He was afraid to look in the mirror, see the damage. He would try and hide it for as long as possible.

A scratching at the door paused his thoughts. A whine could be heard through the door. Sherlock opened the door a sliver and let Redbeard slide through. "Hey, boy," he sniffled. "Clever boy."

He hugged Redbeard and nuzzled his head in the red fur. They stayed like that for a long while.

After he heard the front door unlock, he quickly ran to the nearest mirror and assessed the damage.

Dark blue and black splotches ran along his jaw and his eyes were bloodshot from crying. He couldn't hide this.

Redbeard nudged Sherlock's leg and he looked down. He smiled. "You're always here for me, aren't you, Redbeard." He kneeled down and and petted his head. Redbeard licked his face. Sherlock laughed. "You always makes everything better."

Sherlock: 12 y/o

He first noticed when they were being chased. "Come along, Redbeard, we don't want to get caught!"

Some bullies from down the street had spotted Sherlock; a rare occurrence. They immediately started running.

They found their way into the wood behind Sherlock's house; hopped over rotten logs and dodged low hanging branches. "Come on!" He whispered harshly. He could hear them. They were at the house.

Redbeard loped into the clearing next to Sherlock. Sherlock quickly picked up his dog, he was going too slow, and jogged to a tree farther in. He set Redbeard on the lowest branch and commenced climbing up the tree, taking Redbeard along with him.

"Are you okay?" he whispered. Redbeard was panting. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have pushed you like that." Redbeard nuzzled into Sherlock's hand, showing his forgiveness. Sherlock sighed.

A crunch of feet on leaves. Yelling. "Hey! Where are you, you little freak!"
Sherlock stopped breathing and held tight to the branch and his dog.

"Oi!"

"Come on out!"

"Yeah, we won't hurt you."

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head back, hoping they would give up and go away.

"We'll get lost in here, let's go before we get eaten by something."

"There isn't anything in here!"

"How would you know?"

"...Fine. Retreat, try again another day." Then he yelled, "Hear that, freak? We're leaving! You can come out!"

Sherlock wondered if some people actually take that bait. He heard them grumble and leave, leaves crunched underneath their feet.

Redbeard was still breathing heavy against Sherlock's chest. "Shh... It's okay," he tried to sooth him, petting his head. At first he had thought that he pushed him too hard when running away. They were playing right before they ran. Perhaps he was just exhausted. Redbeard just sighed.

They stayed there for another hour. He didn't want to risk that the bullies were waiting until he left the safety of the trees to ambush him.

He lifted Redbeard and set him on a lower branch, then climbed down. He continued to do this until they were on the ground.

Sherlock: 13 y/o

Sherlock was laying in the backyard staring at the sky. Grass was scratching at his arms and ankles. The silence was deafening. It had rained the day before. The fresh grass smell still lingered and everything was a more intense shade of green. He watched a white butterfly fly around above him.

Sherlock's father had taken Redbeard to the vet. Lately, he had been very lethargic; he'd been getting thinner and thinner, wouldn't eat as much. Sherlock was worried.
He didn't know anything about canine diseases or illnesses. He didn't know what to do. His only friend in the world, and only friend he think would ever have, was getting weaker and weaker.

No one was here, he felt like crying, but no tears came.

The back door slammed and he sat upright. His dad stood in the doorway. Redbeard came pouncing out and began to seek out Sherlock.

Dad looked forlorn and distant. Redbeard found Sherlock and plopped down on his lap. Sherlock immediately started petting him, trying to memorize every aspect and detail of him. He didn't want to know the diagnosis. Was he ill? Or was it just old age?

"Sherlock," his dad called.

Sherlock looked up.

"Sherlock, please come inside."

Sherlock obeyed. Redbeard followed.

~/|\~

Due to old age, Redbeard had acquired a heart murmur. The vets had said "a raging heart murmur". He would most likely die within a few months.

Mummy Holmes was worried for her son. She'd never seen him as happy as he was with his dog. She didn't want that to go away. She was afraid this would change him, and not in a good way. Would he ever commit himself to another living thing ever again? Something susceptible to disease and death? Something capable of leaving?

Sherlock was spending as much time with his friend as he possibly could. He didn't want to stress out Redbeard's little heart even more, so he limited the time they played together.

His parents decided that Redbeard would be put down. They didn't want the poor dog to suffer for the rest of his short life. They called the veterinary clinic and set a date for the next month. Sherlock was told and he holed himself up in his room, cuddling Redbeard and stroking his fur. Redbeard, of course, was oblivious to the fact that there was a specific time and date that he was to die.

~/|\~

"Sherlock, I know this is hard for you. But you need to come out of the car. He'll be in a better place," his mother tried to coax him.

Sherlock sat in the back seat with Redbeard in his lap, stroked fur, curled it around his fingers. He didn't want to leave. If he got out, then he'd never be able to see Redbeard again. Never. He wouldn't be there to calm him down when he got bullied. He wouldn't be there when Mycroft was being a bore. He wouldn't be there when his mind was too stagnant and needed movement. He just wouldn't...be.

Sherlock realised he was standing in the vet's office, carrying Rebeard. He didn't remember coming in. All noise was muted; all colour was matte. The only sensation he registered was Redbeard's soft fur under his hand and along his arms.

He noticed the vet's bespectacled face looking at him expectantly.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

The vet looked understandably at Sherlock and said, "Could you set Redbeard on the table, please?"

Sherlock was frightened. He hadn't experienced this much fear before in his life.
He clutched the dog closer to his chest, Redbeard yelped, and shook his head. He felt hot tears flowing down his cheeks.

The vet glanced at Sherlock's parents then spoke to Sherlock. "When we administer the sedatives, you'll be right there. His last memories will be of you with him. Alright?"
Sherlock looked long and hard at the vet.

He found himself murmuring words to Redbeard, who was obediently standing on the cold, metal table. His face was sill wet with tears. The vet had gone to get the sodium thiopental, which would eventually...Sherlock didn't want to think about it.

Redbeard whined and Sherlock felt more tears fall. He clung to the red-furred body. Redbeard nudged his nose on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock looked up only to have his only friend, and most possibly last in Sherlock's mind, lick away his tears. Sherlock made a small laugh.

The vet entered the room.

~/|\~

They planted a weeping willow tree in the backyard in memory of Redbeard. Mummy Holmes thought it was a good idea and no one objected.

It was drizzling on and off when they planted the tree. Sherlock rummaged around for an umbrella until he came across a dark blue one with a wooden handle. The one Mycroft got for the same Christmas that Sherlock got Redbeard.

He snapped it in two and found another one.

Sherlock's father rented a digging machine that spewed foul smelling smoke and was very loud. No one complained.

Sherlock stood there with his umbrella while his mother and father planted the tree. Depending on how he held the umbrella, the sound waves from the digger hit his ears differently, causing him to hear different tones. He focused on this instead of why they were planting a tree that weeped.

A frog jumped in the corner of Sherlock vision. He stared at it until it hopped away.

A white butterfly flew around the tree and away into the wood. He tried to follow it with his eyes but it was too fast.

Mummy Holmes was directing her husband which spot to dig in the ground again, to make the hole bigger. The hole left in Sherlock's heart was plenty big to plant a tree.

It was quick. Under thirty seconds. Sherlock hadn't even had time to process what happened until the body under his hands started to go cold. Something was wrong. He wasn't supposed to be cold. He was supposed to be warm and joyous and full of life. He was supposed to be moving and playing. He wasn't moving now.

A flash of white caught his attention again. The butterfly he had seen earlier was fluttering around ground. It left as soon as Sherlock's eyes saught it.

He positioned the umbrella to block the sun and the machine sounded different. Lower.

He stared off into the clump of trees a few dozen meters off. A bunny was lapping up water in a concave dent in the ground.

Sherlock wandered around the yard avoiding thinking about the willow tree. He walked up to the bunny and kneeled down, stretching out his hand to pet it. It let him get as close as a meter away before it ran in retreat.

The white butterfly landed on his finger. He didn't disturb it.

His mother seemed to be keeping the tree in place while his father packed dirt around the base. Careful to not scare the butterfly, he slowly walked back. Halfway back it flew away.

It had stopped drizzling but he kept the umbrella on his shoulder. It was something to hold onto.

"Sherlock, you want to find a rock to place here? For Redbeard?" Mummy Holmes asked.

Sherlock complied and found a flat stone with jagged edges. He leaned it against the trunk of the tree.

It started to rain again. He went inside. A white butterfly was following him.

~In Memory of Dash~

September 18, 2004- May 30, 2014

(and yes, that was a Night Vale reference)