The cartoon bird was holding a piece of paper with its wing, which was beyond the capabilities of its anatomy. What kind of nonsense crap were children exposed to these days?
The bird was standing by four poorly-drawn potatoes. It looked towards the audience.
"Alright kids. We need four potatoes for our potato soup. How many do we have right now?"
"Four," Sherlock mumbled grimly.
"Let's count and see!"
The three year old swore under his breath. He just had to get out! For the millionth time he began searching the room for a way.
"One...two...three...four. We have four. And how many did we need again?"
Dammit! Sherlock wanted to rip his head off and throw it against the wall. He had to make his escape before this show got any more idiotic.
"Four! Now let's sing the enchanted cooking song to make our soup taste magical!"
The three year old let out a scream in frustration before running around the room in circles. Yes, he had officially lost it.
Something caught his eye on the floor by the mattress and it caused him to stop. A hairpin! How did he not notice that?
He imagined the sounds of angels signing 'Hallelujah,' which was much more pleasing than the actual sounds of the bird singing 'Magic Soup' in its high-pitched voice.
Sherlock grab the hairpin with his tiny hand and rushed towards the door. As embarrassing as it was, he had to stand on tiptoes to reach the handle and lock. He stuck his tongue out in concentration until-
Click.
"YES!"
The door opened. Sherlock wasted no time in getting out of there, rushing out of the warehouse in glee.
When his joy died down, Sherlock was calm enough to think. How was he going to change back? He was walking down the street when a familiar car drove up beside him and a familiar someone stepped out.
Oh dear god. How was he going to explain this one?
"Sherlock?" Mycroft had never sounded more confused.
The three year old groaned. He stopped walking and nodded at his older brother.
"Yes, I know. Don't say anything."
The other man made his way over, peering down at his 'little' brother.
"What happened?"
"Moriarty," Sherlock answered darkly.
After explaining, Mycroft hummed in thought. Sherlock decided that (God-forbid) he might need Mycroft's help for this one.
"Can you give me a ride to Baker Street? If Moriarty can get his hands on a de-aging gun then perhaps I can invent something to turn me back to normal if I experiment enough."
Mycroft answered without hesitation and, strangely enough, with a smile.
"Of course, baby brother. Hop on in."
"I'm not a baby," little did Sherlock know that denying it only made him look cuter.
He had managed to get in without Mycroft's help. Mycroft sat by him and whispered something to the driver. The car began moving.
"What did you just say to him?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.
"I just told him where we're headed."
There was a silence after that. It was an awfully awkward silence, considering that Mycroft never once stopped smiling down at Sherlock. The three year old shifted in his seat uncomfortably.
"What?"
"I'm sorry. It's just been so long since I got to see you like this. I forgot how cute you were and drug-free too."
"Yeah well, don't get use to it."
"Hey, why don't we take this opportunity to do something together? You know, just the two of us?"
A feeling of dread began to crept inside Sherlock's adorable little belly. That didn't sound good. Mycroft was trying to bond with him now that he was a child again?
For the love of God, he wasn't trying to make up for lost time and start their relationship over in a desperate attempt to become close, was he? Couldn't he see that it was way too late for that? The sibling rivalry damage had already been done.
"I just want to go back to my flat. Nothing else."
"Why don't I take you to the park?"
"For what?" Sherlock asked incredulously.
"Well, there's a a nice playground that you might enjoy. And it is a nice day out today."
Was Mycroft trying to add insult to injury? Surely he figured out that Sherlock was still an adult mentally. There was a lot of strange things Sherlock liked to do but playing in the sandbox wasn't one of them.
The car suddenly turned and headed the completely opposite direction of where Sherlock wanted it to go. The feeling of dread intensified.
"Mycroft, please don't do this. I was already forced to watch a child's television show and I don't want anymore torture. No park!"
Mycroft lowered his head in defeat.
"Fine then."
Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. But then Mycroft had to continue.
"How about the zoo? We'll see the pretty flamingos!"
No! Sherlock could not believe his brother was serious. But as luck would have it the next thing he knew, they were in the zoo parking lot.
The idea that he was actually going to a zoo which smelled and had screaming kids everywhere burned inside Sherlock's brain. He looked at his brother pleadingly.
"Mycroft, if you let me go home in peace right now then I'll promise I'll never to shoot up any illegal drug again. Please Mycroft! Don't do this!"
The car stopped and Mycroft stepped out. He took Sherlock out the car and began carrying the boy to the front gates. The receptionist at the ticket booth smiled at him.
"Oh, aren't you a cutie. Are you here to see the animals with your dad, sweetie?" she asked cooingly.
Maybe he would've been better off dealing with the bloody cartoon...
