Holmes became fussy after trying on several articles of clothing that the shop woman suggested for him. "I'm tired," he complained, yawning. "When am I going home?"

"We'll go now if you want," said Watson, helping Sherlock into his new coat.

"To my house? With Momma and Father and Mycroft and Isabel?"

There's an idea, thought Watson. "We can go and see Mycroft," he said, smiling at Holmes, who looked excited. Watson turned to the shop woman. "Please have all these clothes sent over to 221B Baker Street. Good day, mum."

Watson led Holmes outside and reached for his hand. Holmes protested, saying, "Carry me."

Watson smiled again. He reached down and picked up the small boy, who nestled his head against the doctor's chest and closed his eyes.

-

"Why does Mycroft live here? He's supposed to live with me," said Sherlock as they waited in Mycroft's study.

"I really can't explain it to you," said Watson. "It's very difficult even for me to understand right now."

"Can I play with his toys?"

"What toys?"

Sherlock held up a little magnifying glass to his eye. "You're all blurry."

Watson chuckled. "Oh, Holmes…"

A creaking noise in the hallway gave away Mycroft's presence. The door opened and the man walked in. "Dr. Watson, very nice to see you," he said as he ventured further into the room. He sat in an armchair across from Watson, and raised his eyebrow at seeing a small boy rummaging through his things. "And who is this?"

"This," said Watson, knowing that he was going to sound insane, "is your brother, Sherlock."

Before Mycroft could even raise a protest, Sherlock beat him to it. "That's not Mycroft! Mycroft is only eleven. He's shorter and he doesn't wear glasses."

Mycroft practically jumped to his feet, the banter from the child having jogged some sentiment from his memory. "What in the name of…" he trailed off. "Doctor?"

"I was just as surprised when I first realized it too," Watson assured him. "But I have no idea what transpired or who is responsible for this."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the background.

Mycroft slowly walked over to his brother. He knelt down so that he wouldn't seem quite so ominous. Mycroft had never been good with children, but he knew the likes and dislikes of his younger sibling. After a moment of scrutiny, Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. "Doctor, why did you buy him new clothes? You've gotten rid of practically every observable piece of evidence I might have had."

"He wasn't properly dressed for that weather," Watson retorted. "I was trying to take care of him."

"I'm sure he would much prefer a cold to being stuck in this infantile state," Mycroft practically barked.

"I'm not an infant and I can hear everything you're saying," Sherlock quipped, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked adorably frustrated that everyone was talking over him.

Mycroft turned back to him. "Sherlock, do you remember being an adult? You are a consulting detective. Do you know what happened to you?"

"What?" Sherlock said. "I don't know…"

"I've already asked him and he doesn't know anything about it," Watson supplied. "I was just hoping that you might be able to get to the bottom of this matter. Look into his recent cases? I can take care of him if you can do that. I think those are the jobs best suited for us at the moment."

Mycroft rose to his feet, tousling Sherlock's hair as he did, ignoring the small "Hey!" of protest. "Very well, Dr. Watson," said Mycroft. "Agreed."

On the walk home, Holmes was constantly darting off to look at things and climb on things that interested him. So, by the time they made it back to Baker Street, he had become quite dirty.

"You need a bath, young man," said Watson sternly.

Holmes' eyes grew large and he pouted. "But I don't want to have a bath today…"

Watson sighed. This will be fun, he thought sarcastically. "Mrs. Hudson will wring your neck if you track that dirt all over her house," he said. "Plus, being dirty all the time isn't good for you."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes."

"Ok," Holmes groaned. Watson led him to the bathtub and systematically filled it with warm water. Holmes sat sulking on the stepstool next to the tub while he waited.

-

"Sherlock, lean back and wet your hair…lean all the way back…ok…yes, it does smell like vanilla…no, don't…spit that out. You can't drink the bathwater. It will give you a stomachache…now lean back and rinse your hair. Yes, like this. Scrub. Ok. Good lad. Now, take the soap and rub it all over your hands. Good. Now rub it on your face. Not in your eyes! Here, let's rinse that out. Ahh! Let's try not to get me wet. It's not time for my bath yet…rub the soap all over you…arms…chest…under there…belly…I'll help you with your back, just turn around for a moment…let me see your feet…good lord, how filthy! …don't squirm so much, please…it tickles, does it? …oh, sorry, sorry! No splashing. I won't tickle you anymore."

-

Despite his earlier complaints, little Sherlock begged to stay in the tub even after the bath was over. "I just want to be a fish!" he exclaimed.

"Ten minutes," said Watson firmly. "And do not splash. Call for me if you need me, I'll just be in the next room."