A/N: This is chapter two. Sherlock is four and Mycroft is eleven.

Disclaimer: Once again, I own nothing.


"Mycoff...Myyyyyycoff." Mycroft held back a sigh of frustration as a mop of curly hair appeared at the edge of his desk.

"Sherlock, please, I'm trying to study." At eleven years old, Mycroft had already skipped two grades. While his classes still posed little challenge to the young genius, he had found himself fascinated by the history of the world's governments. Unfortunately, he found the more scientific classes boring, which meant they required a bit more of his focus.

"What you studin'?" The four year old persisted. Small, pale hands gripped the desk as the child strained to see his brother's book.

"It's 'What are you studying,' Sherlock. Stuh-dee-ing. Repeat."

Sherlock's tiny eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he tried to force the proper sounds from his lips. "Stuh-dee-ing. Studying. Can I see?"

Letting the sigh escape his lips this time, Mycroft pushed back from the desk and patted his knee. In a flash, Sherlock had scurried around the desk and was squirming on his brothers lap.

"What's that? And that? What does that do?" Sherlock exclaimed, eagerly pointing to the numerous pictures and diagrams in Mycroft's textbook. Unable to maintain his irritation in the face of Sherlock's enthusiasm, the elder brother let out a chuckle.

"Slow down, little brother. One question at a time."

The small boy absorbed his brothers knowledge excitedly, until even his brilliant mind could absorb no more. Sherlock abandoned his questioning in favor of curling closely in the safety of his brother's arms. Mycroft continued to speak aloud, his familiar voice rumbling in the chest on which Sherlock rested his cheek, lulling the young boy to sleep. When soft snores reached Mycroft's ears, he paused in his explanations. A soft smile warmed the young boy's face as he ruffled his sleeping brother's curls and returned to studying.