Random word splurge inspired by a bit of a strange conversation I had with my niece over the origins of kittens.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Ever. Unfortunately.

"Mycroft…Mycroft?"

The first and most unpleasant detail his mind registered on that summer morning was the decided lack of sunlight. Only his internal clock was successful in convincing Mycroft Holmes that it was anywhere remotely near a civil time of day to be conscious. A pair of small hands prodded again at his back, and he shuffled away.

"Mycroft? Are you awake? Brother?" More infernal poking.

Curse whoever thought siblings were any bit useful to have.

"Sherlock, is anyone's life in danger?" He managed to slur, rolling as far away as he could in his sleep-drunk state. "Is the house on fire? Did mother send you?"

With an expression of almost revolting alertness, Sherlock made a grand show of shaking his head, sending his black hair into a state of such disarray that their mother would be shamed to let him into public. Still in his nightgown, Mycroft observed somewhat blearily that there appeared to be a great deal of old stains soiling where he assumed Sherlock's knees would be. Unsurprising; the little nuisance might only have five years of life to his name, but no outfit survived in his possession for long. Mycroft, for one, thought it would be wise to dress Sherlock in a potato sack and let him on his way.

He sighed as his perfectly irritating sibling continued to look at him, eyes wide and unblinking with the burgeoning sunlight of dawn inciting them to appear quite luminous in the dark. "Sherlock, really. Go to bed, would you? It's much too early for you to be bothering me." Mycroft pulled the blankets up over his shoulders and closed his eyes determinedly. "If it's so very important, go tell Mother."

To his infinite vexation, the edge of the bed sank ever so slightly, and once again he felt those insufferable little hands poking and prodding at him. "By I need your help!" Sherlock exclaimed. "It's very important!" Of course, at the age he currently was, Mycroft had gathered very quickly that his younger brother thought most everything he saw was 'very important'. Why, just the other day he had made such a fuss over a potted plant that one might assume it could revive the very dead!

"No one is dead or dying?"

"No, but…"

"The house is not at risk of collapsing around us?"

"I don't think so, but…"

"There are no robbers of otherwise unwelcome visitors making off with the family heirlooms?"

"Why would they want our ear loons, Mycroft? What's an ear loon?"

"Heirloom, Sherlock. Really, you must get out of this habit of mishearing things. It's absolutely annoying." Mycroft pushed the younger Holmes none-too-gently away and made to return to sleep. "I fail to see what could possibly demand my attention that couldn't wait until later." There was very little warning before the weight of an increasingly impatient child was flung over his chest, and acting on his own rather juvenile whims, Mycroft snarled and clapped a hand to Sherlock's ear. "Get off."

"But Mrs. Kitty is ill!"

"Who is Mrs. Kitty, Sherlock? And if she's so ill, get Father to summon a doctor."

"You know who Mrs. Kitty is, Mycroft!" For a smallish child, Sherlock had a knack for producing scandalized tones. "Mrs. Kitty eats the mice, and I don't think they're very good for her!"

"You expect me to get up before the sun to look at a cat?" Mycroft exclaimed. "Sherlock, really. Go on and stir Mother if you're so concerned."

The younger lad sat on the mattress with a watery pout. "I don't want Mother. I want you." He bemoaned. "You're much smarter than Mother, anyway. You can help."

Flattery is an accursed thing, for it robs one of common sense—particularly thirteen year-old boys starved for compliments. Against his better judgment, Mycroft stirred himself into sitting up, though he did give Sherlock a deserved rap on the side of the head. "Don't talk about your mother like that. It's disrespectful." He admonished, striving in a sleep-weary state to find his slippers with his bare (and very chilly) feet. "And for goodness' sake, Sherlock, you'll catch your death wearing that thin nightgown."

Forever an impudent and independent child, Sherlock made no move to hunt down anything warmer than his bedclothes, instead watching with the singular admiration of a younger sibling as Mycroft meandered across his bedroom to hunt down a dressing gown. "Are you going to help Mrs. Kitty?" The youngster asked eagerly.

Well-equipped now with a flannel dressing gown and warm slippers, Mycroft made a tremendous show of rolling his eyes. "I'm not a veterinary surgeon, but if it will get you back to bed, I suppose I might be able to take a look." He grabbed a blanket from the bed and tossed it over Sherlock's already-tussled head, watching with some vengeful amusement as the small boy—certainly smaller than any other five year-olds he had ever seen—strove to find a way out of the mass of fabric. "I'll not be the one getting blamed if you catch cold traipsing around in a nightgown." He explained as soon as the chagrined face of his sibling came into view. "Come along, Sherlock, and don't drag my blanket through any dirt!"

They exited then, as silently as possible, into the hallway of the house. "Mrs. Kitty is in the kitchen." Sherlock confided in a painfully loud whisper.

"What are her symptoms, then?"

"What's a symptom, Brother?"

Mycroft sighed despairingly. "What's wrong with her?"

His mouth formed a small 'o' of understanding, and Sherlock hurried to keep pace with the longer legs beside him. "Well," He took a deep breath. "Before I went to bed yesterday, I visited Mrs. Kitty in the kitchen and I tried to pat her on the head, but she bit me."

"Are you all right?" Mycroft asked on principle.

Sherlock glowered at him for interrupting. "Yes. But it hurt. So I left her be, because she was making very unhappy noises. Sort of like…" He made a valiant attempt to recreate whatever peculiar sounds the cat had made, but it sounded more akin to a wounded squirrel. "I thought to go visit this morning, but I was worried that she might bite me again. I think all those mice have gone to her mind!"

They approached the staircase leading to the lower section of the family house, and Mycroft was struck again by the incredulity of the situation. "You've gone and knocked me up out of bed because you're afraid the cat might bite you, Sherlock? How on Earth am I supposed to help you in that case?" He certainly wasn't going to stick his hand into a cupboard harboring angry cats.

"No." Sherlock insisted loudly. "I want you to make Mrs. Kitty better."

"How am I to do that? I've no idea why she's being unreasonable."

"Yes you do."

"No, I do not."

"You must have some idea."

"She could be sick, I suppose." Mycroft grumbled. "Or she could have been knocked up out of bed at an ungodly hour by a little boy who would do better to be asleep like a normal child."

"No, I don't think it's that last one."

"Well, we're about to find out." They had reached the kitchen in one piece, at the very least, though the dim light of sunrise did little to illuminate the shadowy corners of the room. "Sherlock, make yourself useful and find a candle and matches." Mycroft instructed. While his brother darted off like a hare, he took a moment to look around. The silence was almost deafening, until a singular noise cut through it like a knife.

Something—or rather, some things in the cupboard were mewing.

Now, this was hardly the sort of situation Mycroft Holmes, even at thirteen years of age, wanted to be involved in. He had no particular love for animals, and even less love for babies of any sort. Tolerating Sherlock alone required a grander gift of patience than he had, and to be placed in such a precarious state of affairs was not how he would have wished to spend a Wednesday morning.

"Mycroft, that's not Mrs. Kitty."

Since he had begun walking, Sherlock had a mysterious talent for stepping like a specter; making not a noise and tending to inadvertently startle others. Mycroft had, of course, come to adjust to the peculiar habit, and only shrugged disconcertedly. "Here, let me have the candle." He took the holder forcibly from the younger Holmes's hand as well as the matches, and lit the wick. "I think we should go back to bed, Sherlock. Mrs. Kitty is quite fine."

Of course, it was a desperate ploy to avoid the situation, but Sherlock was not one to leave a curiosity of such singularity unsolved, even at a young age. "She might not be fine. I think she's being attacked by mice!"

"She's fine."

"You don't know that!"

Mycroft took the liberty of cuffing Sherlock on the head with a frown. "I'm your elder, and I know better." He said sharply.

"Well you don't." Sherlock whined petulantly, holding his crown gingerly. "You just don't want to help me."

Perhaps it was the curse of being the older sibling to a child adept at making the most pitiful expression of heartbreak imaginable, but Mycroft felt his resolve wavering. "Fine!" He huffed, approaching the cupboard. "But I'm never doing you another favor again—ever." With that he pulled open the door quietly and held out the candle. "As you can see, your Mrs. Kitty is in perfect health."

Mrs. Kitty, on her part, growled at the sudden intrusion. The grimy tabby made a half hearted swipe at her sudden audience, and then returned to making a great deal of fuss over three likewise gray and unremarkable kittens. On his part, Mycroft thought they looked absolutely ridiculous as they scrabbled about blindly, making those irritatingly high-pitched mews.

"Are those kitties?" Sherlock inquired quite seriously. He reached out for one, but was stopped by another swipe from Mrs. Kitty, as well as his elder brother's hand. "They don't look like kitties, Mycroft."

"Well they are." The reply was short and stiff.

"Do they belong to Mrs. Kitty?"

"Yes, Sherlock. They belong to Mrs. Kitty."

"The stork brought them?" Sherlock's eyes widened comically. "Brother, do you think the stork could have given me to a family of kitties?" He proposed the question so seriously that Mycroft began, for the first time, to doubt his brother's sanity. Of course, as the years would go by, his fears would be cemented that Sherlock was, indeed, quite mad in his own way, but for the time being he shook it off as childish curiosity.

"I suppose…" Mycroft shrugged again. "You'll have to ask Mother about it, though I, for one, think you were meant for a family of cats anyway." He grinned impishly at Sherlock's insulted expression.

"You're very mean." Sherlock sniffed.

"You're very strange." He shot back. "Come along now, time to go back to bed." He stood up and shoved Sherlock in front of him, taking care not to step on the hem of his decidedly dirtied blanket. Acting on an impulse, Mycroft ruffled his brother's hair, inciting a protesting yelp.

"Mycroft, do you really think a stork could fit in that cupboard?"

"Oh, do be quiet, Sherlock."