"Sherlock," began Mycroft, gently, "give me back my umbrella."

The younger boy, hair messy and of undecided colour, shook his head and stared.

"The umbrella," Mycroft repeated, "And do comb your hair, Sherlock. We're going out."

"Shopping's boring. You go yourself."

Mycroft's eyes rolled, just halfway. He took the umbrella, which Sherlock had been using as a pretend-telescope, and replaced it with a comb. The boy shrugged, and immediately caught it in a knot of his hair.

"I'll wait," said Mycroft. He returned to his seat, knowing how much this bothered his brother. Sherlock, when not concentrating on a 'proper' question, liked to be in constant motion. On this particular day, Sherlock made the choice of staring back. His eyes were icy.

"We need to leave, Sherlock," Mycroft reminded him.

The boy continued staring, silently.

Mycroft stood and grabbed his wrists. Sherlock gasped at him; something sounding like 'father', which offended Mycroft beyond reason. He was quick in letting the boy go.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft nodded, "You know I didn't mean it. Come on."

Mycroft led his brother out of the house and into the cold, clear morning. The air, recently cleaned by rain and dew, was pleasant to breathe; not yet stained by smoke from the pub next-door.

Sherlock dashed around the puddles, determined to reclaim the umbrella; his plaything but his brother's protection. Mycroft hated how much he leaned on the thing, physically and emotionally, but made no effort to stop. He had to look like a responsible adult, despite the fact he was barely a teenager.

Shopping for their food, of course, was a responsibility, but also a necessity. Mycroft kept a list in his inner coat-pocket, and grinned at Sherlock's urgent addition; always in purple crayon.

"Why did you write 'oranges,' Sherlock?"

The boy waltzed between his brother and the umbrella, stretched out to the side to avoid the water it was made to catch.

"So I don't get scurvy," he clutched Mycroft's coat, "Lemons, too."

"You won't like lemons, I promise you."

The umbrella became a sword; the boy took it from Mycroft's lazily curled fingers, and pointed it at him.

"Lemons."

"Where did you learn that?" Mycroft shrugged and reclaimed his crutch.

"Book."

"Which one?" Mycroft tried to supervise the household bookshelf, and keep the most beneficial books at a level Sherlock could reach. He recalled nothing about pirates, except, perhaps, the encyclopaedia. Which Sherlock, as a six-year-old, had no need to study.

"I don't know the name."

"Yes you do."

Sherlock knew the name and position of every book on the shelf, and on his brother's makeshift desk, and in the stack in Mother's bedroom. He chose not to say anything.

"Most pirates were illiterate," nudged Mycroft. Sherlock nodded, conflicted; he considered forgetting how to read.

They arrived at the preferred shop, where the owner waved at Mycroft and gave him a complimentary newspaper. Their shopping list was short and easily completed. Sherlock volunteered to carry the bag of groceries.

Sherlock ran outside, excited to find the rain returning. The puddles trembled on the pavement.

He jumped into the first one he saw.

"Sherlock," sighed Mycroft, opening his umbrella, "A different game, please."

"All the other games are boring," he refused to walk beside his brother, out of the rain. He skipped ahead, avoiding everything that wasn't a puddle.

A car ambled by, throwing muddy water on Sherlock and inspiration on Mycroft. He folded up his umbrella, fastened it around his wrist, and caught up to his brother.

"I think you should be a racing-car driver," Mycroft offered his hands, which Sherlock grudgingly accepted, "Much more profitable than being a pirate."

Sherlock nodded. Mycroft lifted him, with some difficulty, so his feet glided over the wet pavement.

"What type of car was that, Sherlock?" As his hands were occupied, Mycroft gestured after it with a sharp nod.

Eagerly, Sherlock provided the model name, and its year of production. As long as he was flying, even if it was through Mycroft's help, he was glad to fulfil every request. He identified each car they passed, even some Mycroft was unfamiliar with.

By the time they returned home, Mycroft's arms ached. He apologised as he set Sherlock down, and reached for the key in his pocket. He did not knock, because he knew the house would be empty.

"I will race you," Sherlock proposed, as the door crept open, "from here to the bookshelf."

"You'll win."

"Yes," said Sherlock, passing the bag between his hands, "But winning's fun."

It was easy to gain Mycroft's agreement. He threw the door open, and watched Sherlock whip up the stairs and round the corner to their rented rooms. The groceries were abandoned on the staircase. Mycroft sighed as he collected them, then pretended to be a competitor in the race. Sherlock smiled down at him, between lengthy breaths.

That night, Sherlock sat in front of the bookshelf, consulting an article on rally-cars, which Mycroft had circled in the newspaper. He yawned several times, dramatically increasing the volume and accompanying gestures until Mycroft looked at him. The older boy was at his desk, working through a favourite book for what Sherlock knew was the eleventh time.

"Tired," said Sherlock, even rubbing his eyes.

"I'm tired," Mycroft corrected him and agreed simultaneously. He continued reading.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and considered the most effective options. Being so tired, he decided against walking to his own bed, and against saying another word. He slumped against the bookshelf and did his best at snoring. Mycroft laughed, but stood and walked to his side. Sherlock smiled, as he felt the footsteps shuffle up beside him. Mycroft's coat brushed over his shoulder.

Mycroft slipped Sherlock's coat off, and replaced it with one of his own dressing-gowns. He stooped to pick the boy up, fabric like a waterfall over their shoulders.

"I know you're awake," Mycroft muttered into Sherlock's ear. The boy tossed one arm over his brother's shoulder, for balance, and giggled.

Mycroft was careful in placing him on his bed, and stretching out the blankets. Sherlock stared across the room to Mycroft's pillow, and was distressed to see it remain empty.

"I'll be reading, while you're dreaming."

"I don't dream."

"Yes you do," Mycroft stepped back toward the desk, "About racing-cars, I hope."

Sherlock knew he was right, but said nothing. He fell asleep quickly.