A/N: It was brought to my attention that I should probably mention that reflecting (on here) is also surrenderdammit (on dA). Anyways, we have another set of drabbles, which we are about to post, but I thought I should go ahead and put up a few that have been completed.

Author: reflecting

Title: Boredom on Flight – The Case of the Missing Pearls

Summary: Even at thirty-five thousand feet, there are cases to solve.

They were 1 hour and 32 minutes into their flight when he spotted the tell-tale signs of his little brother's infamous boredom settling in. Usually when this happened in his presence, Mycroft would either evacuate the premises, as it were, or point his little brother in the direction of his chemistry set. At approximately 35,000 feet high in the air, on a rather cramped passenger airline, this was for obvious reasons options that were not available for him. It was unfortunate mummy's Cessna Citation X jet was in for repairs, and that the idea of her sons learning some of the common way of travelling had appealed to her so. If not, they would've been in a comfortably spaced cabin with a large seat each, and his little brother could've occupied himself elsewhere on the plane as Mycroft dozed through the trip.

Cramped in a small seat with his little brother by the window, Mycroft found himself rather trapped in the middle, with a rather round fellow in his mid-forties to his right (the ring on his left hand indicated a long marriage of mediocre interest for its abused and unpolished state, the scratch long healed and scarred on his neck likely came from a pet cat, and his clothes were of reasonable quality indicating he belonged in the upper middleclass with a job most likely in business, and the laptop he'd stowed away with his luggage on the rack above most likely meant this was indeed a business trip. The fading of a tan probably meant he was returning from one as there was little sun back home this time of year and the man was most likely, by the destination of the plane, American). Mycroft sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his little brother vibrate in restless energy in his seat beside him and he could almost hear the noise of his thoughts; loud as they were in a world not quite ready to deal with a mind like Sherlock Holmes', and a Sherlock not quite ready to deal with the world. Not on his own, in any case.

"Sherlock," he called softly, out of respect for the older man dozing to his right and out of consideration of how easily his brother startles when in such a state. It took him a second try to get his attention, and the younger boy looked up at him with a pout and a frown he recognized well. Suppressing a smile, Mycroft shifted to make himself more comfortable and set to the task of engaging his brother's mind for the duration of the flight.

"The countess' pearl necklace has been stolen," he begins; pleased to see Sherlock's features lighten as realization sets in. The bright eyes of his brother's lose their previous haze of a dark mood and settles focused on him as he speaks. "The maid claims she heard someone was up and walking at 00.20 on the top floor, and that she went to investigate but had found nothing but an open window. She then proceeded to wake her master and mistress, whose bedroom door was unlocked as opposed to its usual state.

The countess would not wake, of course, for she has been under medication for some time and has been taking sleeping pills to aid in her rest. Her husband was a heavy sleeper, and had heard nothing of the slight commotion. However, upon further inspection, they found that the expensive wedding gift of fine pearls had been removed from its safekeeping.

How do you wish to proceed, Sherlock?"

He watched his brother bite his lip in thought, and reached out to place a hand on his as he made to move it towards his mouth, sending a stern look his way. He'd break that nasty habit of sucking his finger one of these days.

"I would like to investigate the window, and the corridor, followed by the bedroom," he stated after a moment of thought. Mycroft nodded, inclining him to continue. "If I inspect the wall outside the window, what will I find?"

"There are only three floors, and a pipe from for the gutter runs along the wall by the window. There is also a considerable amount of ivy."

Humming, Sherlock looked out the small window of the plane. "Then there is a possibility the thief entered and escaped this way."

Mycroft kept silent, only titling his head in agreement. His brother had yet to take into account the strength of the pipe, and if there were any damage to the ivy indicating anyone had indeed climbed along the wall to reach the window. The question of how anyone could've opened the window from outside had yet to be raised, either. If it were, he'd tell him the window had been firmly shut the day before as the maid had cleaned it herself: an important piece of information.

"The windowsill, will there be any traces of footprints, chipped paint or a snag of fabric?" his brother asked instead. Mycroft smiled. "There are several chips of paint missing, but no footprints or fabric."

"I wouldn't be able to tell if the damage on the color was new or old," Sherlock admitted with a frown, glancing up at his brother sharply. "You will teach me this, yes?"

"Of course." He would teach him everything, given time. Satisfied, Sherlock returned to his case.

"The corridor's floor, is it covered with a carpet? Will there be any indents of shoes, or any dirt left from outside?"

"Plenty," he admitted. "The police arrived before you did, and have already searched the area and left their prints and the dirt of their shoes behind."

Sherlock scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Idiots. Then I will go to the bedroom!"

It continued in this vein for the rest of the flight, much to their older American seat-mate's bemusement ("Are you two always like this? It's pretty impressive, son!"), though of course not continuously. Considerable long moments of Sherlock mulling over the facts and turning them over, trying to make them fit, allowed Mycroft some well-needed sleep. It was rather taxing caring for his little brother, especially with mummy gone for any longer periods of time. Luckily, mummy's work had taken her to the States in time for her sons' summer vacations, with only a few days out of sync. They had been allowed to join her, although she would be busy with work most of the time, as far as Sherlock was concerned, it was enough to be in the same city.

Personally, Mycroft did not particularly enjoy the prospect of missing out a whole two weeks at the University's laboratories and library for the sake of a too hot climate with the loud and extreme American culture. However, it would be nice to have conversations with Sherlock that didn't revolve around mummy and the unfairness of treating him like a little kid (which he was; only 12 years old. He shuddered to think of how close he was to being a teenager, having to deal with wild hormones as well as wild ideas from his little brother).

In the end, Sherlock solved the case as they were seated in the limousine sent to the airport to pick them up (apparently this was where the experience of travelling as 'commoners' ended). He had noted the stain of dirt under the husband's nails after asking what he would find if he inspected them, and had connected it to the dirt belonging to a flowerpot located in the corridor by the window, which had been moved. Dug down and hidden were the pearls, courtesy to the husband. He had gotten up after he thought the whole household had fallen asleep, having noted his wife had taken the sleeping pill that night.

He removed the pears from the box in his wife's vanity and hurried out to the corridor, opening the window to make it seem this was where the thief had entered. This had been when he had heard the maid move about, and so he had hid the pearls in haste in the flowerpot, almost knocking it over but saving it and placing it slightly off from its original position as the marks on the carpet would tell. He'd then hurried back to bed, where the maid found him.

Sherlock was, by the look of him, confused.

"Why would he steal his wife's pearls, if he bought them for her?" he asked, sounding put-off and pouting in response to his own confusion. Mycroft smiled.

"The human being is a most fascinating thing; emotions drive us to do a lot of things that by logic would be insane. The man was attempting insurance fraud."

His little brother oh'd in understanding, grinning as he allowed the triumph settle over him. "I solved it then!"

Ruffling his unruly locks with great affection, Mycroft returned the grin. "Indeed you did. Good work little brother."

-…-

Author: reflecting

Title: Breakfast

Summary: In which Sherlock finds a way to shut his brother up.

Sherlock eyed the plate in front of him with suspicion, subtly sniffing the air in attempts to discern any aromas aside from that of a fried egg, some bacon and slightly burnt toast. He didn't trust his brother when it came to cooking; Mycroft had an incomprehensible fondness for food and so often took an experimental approach, convinced he could enhance any and all dishes given enough data.

(After a rather disastrous attempt, which took place before Sherlock's brain had developed sufficiently to remember such an incident, the family dog had been given the task of tasting anything new Mycroft had cooked up. Sherlock was loathe to admit he desperately wanted to remember, because Mycroft had forbidden any talk of that incident. He often did with any stories of his awkward moments, which Sherlock was convinced he had a lot of, if only to make his own moments seem less-daunting in the face of his elder brother's seemingly perfect self).

"-and although there is many things your teachers have been spectacularly wrong about in past and present, those health lectures over the years have been very much correct in emphasizing the value of a healthy, varied and regular diet. Breakfast is as important as supper, Sherlock, and I have promised Mummy to see to your eating habits while she is away this week. Even if this entails shoving it down your throat, you can rest assured—"

It had been going on for a while, as Mycroft rants tended to do when he was in the right mood. Usually, he was a man of few words, as it were, and left the long vocal monologues to Sherlock. But certain topics got him going, and without anyone interrupting, he was sure to keep going. Sherlock poked the fried egg, the yolk wobbling slightly, and titled his head. The familiar voice of his brother was a steady white noise as he contemplated his physics homework that had been interrupted by Mycroft dragging him down into the kitchen (where, after an incident he did remember, Mycroft had taken him to eat when Mummy was away and the dining hall was so big and empty it had brought him to tears. Back then, Mycroft's embraces and comforting presence had been met with a warm welcome. Though, as he grew, Sherlock found himself reluctant to acknowledge this). As he was calculating the approximate mass of his breakfast, Sherlock cut a piece of the egg with his fork and used a finger to help scoop it up.

Mycroft was still standing beside him, arms crossed and eyes momentarily closed as he frowned. No doubt a headache was coming on. Sherlock carefully took aim, bending the fork back with his fingers to create an improvised slingshot, and eyed the distance. With a grin, he adjusted the angle and released.

The piece of greasy egg missed its target by a few centimeters, colliding with a wet smack on his brother's left cheek instead of in his mouth. No matter, he mused, it had the intended effect.
Mycroft had finally fallen silent, snapping his eyes open and raising a brow, adapting the look which conveyed his annoyance, disappointment and suffering all in one (so many small cues for each emotion, cues Sherlock had learned to pick up and which now registered all at once).

"Very mature, Sherlock, I can tell you are every one of those 15 years old."

Watching as he wiped his face, Sherlock smirked unashamed. "Your mouth kept going 'flap, flap, flap' so I deducted you must be awfully hungry, brother."

The look he received for his sass made him turn back to his food and start to actually eat, grimacing as he bit into a new piece of greasy egg, wondering if his brother was planning to slowly kill him by setting his body up for a heart attack in his ploy to fatten him up.

He wouldn't put it past him.