A/N: I'm not sure if a preying mantis could or could not wind up in the rooms of 221b Baker Street. Pretend it could. That is all. /End mildly embarrassed rant.
"Holmes."
"What?"
"That's our last name. Holmes." Mycroft is watching his brother across the room, who is deeply engrossed in reading and seemingly oblivious to the conversation. After two weeks, though, John knows better then to accept that at face value; likely Sherlock is aware of every word being spoken. "You asked."
"I asked almost a full week ago, Mycroft."
"And I'm telling you now." Mycroft slants him an irritated gaze. "It doesn't matter anymore, anyway."
"Of course it does." John lowers his newspaper, focusing on the older brother. In the two weeks the boys have stayed here, he's learned much about them; they are both frighteningly intelligent, clever, and observant. They're savagely, fiercely loyal to each other, very aloof, and as skittish as a pair of wolves.
He was right; they are both very clearly educated and born to a decently well off family; according to Mycroft, they are experienced horsemen, and the older has been taught in the art of self-defense and fencing; the younger to a lesser degree, simply because of his age. They are both quiet, well mannered boys, though it seems more out of circumstance then nature; they're scared, even though neither will admit or show it. They're not sure of their place here, or what's going to happen next; and despite what they've been through they've been urchins long enough to feel insecure about being wanted. He wonders how long it'll be before he discovers what they're really like, if ever.
"Does it?" Mycroft lifts an eyebrow, as Sherlock rolls over on his back, still reading. His fever is nearly gone, but the wound is still healing, and the boys themselves in a pitiful state; underfeed, undernourished, their immune systems weak (making Sherlock's healing more slow then it should be), skittish and wary and utterly untrusting. "They're dead, aren't they? And we're just us. Sherlock!" Because his brother has lost interest in the book and, while they were talking, managed to worm his way under the couch.
The seven year old jumps, then yips in pain as his head connects with the underside of the couch and his shoulder protests the motion. Chuckling, John pulls himself to his feet with some effort, watching Sherlock wriggle his way free and pop up, rubbing the back of his head.
"Why were you under my couch?" He asks, glancing back at Mycroft and mouthing 'we're not done yet'.
"You didn't see her? Look!" Excitedly, the seven year old extends a clenched fist, and John blanches.
"Sherlock Holmes, I have no desire to see a bug-"
"So that's why it matters, you can use our full names-"
"Mycroft, hush-"
"It's not just a bug!" Sherlock's young voice cuts off the impending argument. He opens his hands, very slowly, revealing the praying mantis that somehow has gotten inside the house. It's wounded; one leg's gone wrong. But it seems enthusiastic and strong enough; it's investigating his wrist and palm with it's front feet interestedly. "These are rare. They're intelligent and friendly, too; isn't she beautiful?"
John chuckles once more. This isn't the first time the boy's shown fascination with everything around him. He has a burning desire to know; to learn. And while his interest is limited to certain areas, he shows far more potential then any seven year old has the right to. John wonders what he'd be like in a healthy environment, with a mother and father and proper home.
"You've wounded her, Sherlock."
Indigent, angry stare upwards. "I did no such thing. She was limping across the fl-fl-oh." He stops, closing his eyes, and the mantis drops to the floor to limp away as he reels. John grabs his good shoulder, proping the boy up.
"Sherlock? Are you alright?" Mycroft, from behind them; he stops just the other side of John. Sherlock nods, once, but when Mycroft hits his knees attaches to the older boy feircly.
"He's overdone himself, that's all." John says gently. "I told you to stay laying down yesterday, and this is what happens when you don't listen." This last, more sternly directed to Sherlock.
"I was bored." The seven year old protests, not quite whining but only breaths away from it. "One can only read in a bed laying still and quiet for so long-"
"And you possess the attention span of a goldfish." Mycroft adds with a roll of his eyes. John eases the child back onto the couch. Mycroft, for his part, has captured the mantis again gently, and she's wandering up along his arm without too much difficulty.
"I wonder how she got this far." John murmurs, as Mycroft kneels to let the bug crawl back onto Sherlock's palm. "Poor lady."
"Putting her back outside just means she'll probably be killed." Sherlock's voice is weak, but his eyes are bright and interested.
"She doesn't stand anymore of a chance inside. She'll die either way." There is something far too calm and accepting in Mycroft's voice, and Sherlock's eyes, at this statement.
"Are both of you forgetting that I'm a doctor?" He forces his voice to be light and lilting, banishing the shudder of unease at the solemness and dark maturity of these children.
"But this is a bug." Sherlock points out, at the same time as Mycroft lifts a brow.
"Are you going to put an itty-bitty cast on her leg, then?" The older brother drawls sarcastically, and not a little cheekily. John sends him a warning glance.
"Mycroft." He scolds mildly, reaching out to take the mantis. He stands, mantis still on his arm. "What I mean is, I'm not just going to stand by and let something die. Even her."
"What are you going to do with her, then?" Sherlock is half sitting up now, looking just so interested and bright and forgetting his pain. John chuckles, and extends a hand to Mycroft.
"Help your brother," He says, "and I'll show you."
"Didn't you say he should stay still?" Mycroft questions, somewhat dubiously, even as Sherlock is already struggling to get up again. Struggling, because Mycroft's hand is pressing down against his chest. John laughs softly, listening to the snarling protests of the younger brother.
"This won't take long. Besides, if you honestly think we'll get him to stay put-"
Mycroft snorts. "We could always tie him down."
"That would strain the wound." John teases, as Sherlock falls into a full-on pout and swats at his brother's shoulder.
With a closed fist.
"Ow! Sherlock!"
"Let me up, then, you lump!"
"Mycroft, if you reopen your brother's wound I don't care how old you are or if you're not my own son, I will put you over my knee. Sherlock, you have till three to settle or I so help me I'll lock you in that bedroom!"
Both boys stop, staring at John, and then Sherlock makes a strangled kind of snorting noise that quickly deteriorates into giggles. Mycroft's lips twitch until he's grinning rather sheepishly, and he pulls away from his sibling. Then he's chuckling, too, and even John can't help but join in with a wry sigh.
"Do you have protestations to being carried, Sherlock?" John asks, smiling at the still-laughing child. He's been so sober and quiet, and this is the first childish act or sound John's been able to get from him. It's a beautiful sound in many ways; along with the glittering eyes and soft, shy smile, John counts it as a rather unintentional victory.
"I can walk. I'm not crippled." He protests, but Mycroft is already gathering his brother in his arms like a sack of potatoes.
"If you want to see, hush and don't wiggle." Mycroft barks, and Sherlock is torn between childish amusement at his situation and pure annoyance.
Outside they went, Mycroft righting his brother in his arms. They went to the first tree they could find, artificial though it may be, and John gently deposited the insect onto the tree. She stumbled, once, and then caught her balance, in moments stalking the branches for her lunch.
"There, see? Now she's got a chance." He said. "I don't know how she wound up here, but let's hope she finds her new home acceptable. Now, back inside, before Sherlock gets it in his head to escape."
"Mycroft?"
The large teen stops, turning in the hall to peer down curiously at John.
"Come here, will you?"
"Sherlock's going to want me." But Mycroft turns, heads back down the five stairs he's ascended to pause by where John is standing, waiting. He's already realized how much the boys hate to be separated, even for a brief time; Sherlock has a fiercely independent streak and a dangerous sense of curiosity, like Mycroft suggested, but when it comes to things like sleeping they are so attached at the hip it's almost unhealthy. They're frightened of being separated, and he knows from one night's harsh experience that Sherlock has some rather colorful nightmares when Mycroft isn't there.
"He can start the bath without you." He takes a breath. "I wanted to finish the conversation from before."
"There was a conversation? I thought I simply made a statement you disagreed with."
John sighs, leaning on the railing of the stairs as much to get the weight off his bad leg as anything else. "I do disagree with it."
A pause. "Would you like to go up? You can sit down." Quietly, steel eyes searching, seeking, and finding.
"I'm going to bed soon myself. I'm alright." John says. "Don't change the subject. Mycroft, understand something-"
One hand lifts, holding out for silence. "Don't." He says, shaking his head. "It is far more then our parents being dead, Doctor Watson."
"If it doesn't matter, why did you tell me?"
A pause, and Mycroft shifts uncomfortably. "You wondered."
"You didn't have to say anything." John points out, logically. "But you did. Common sense says you wanted me to know- to draw attention to it."
"I-" Mycroft stops, jaw set for a moment.
"Mycroft. Whatever has happened- whatever has happened- in your lives is your secret to keep. You don't need to tell me anything, not now or ever." He smiles a little. "But saying things like your name doesn't matter; it does. You matter. You both matter very much. Your situation has changed. But Mycroft Holmes is still Mycroft Holmes, whether or not there's a family backing it up."
Mycroft studies him for a long moment, then simply turns and moves up the seventeen stairs, to where his brother is just framed by the light of the bedroom, in the doorway and waiting for him. John closes his eyes and waits until the door closes, then rubs a hand over his face. The problem is, he's not sure Mycroft likes who he is; or maybe even really knows anymore.
These boys are delicate and special, and John has absolutely no intention of letting them just go back out onto the streets.
Little does he realize just how soon this problem's going to be thrown into their faces. Like the next morning.
"What did he want?"
"Nothing. Did you take a bath?"
"If it was nothing, he wouldn't have called you back. You know I didn't."
"Here, I'll help. You need to keep your bandages dry."
"Mycroft."
"Don't whine at me, Sherlock."
"It's about whatever you two were whispering over when I was supposed to be reading, isn't it?"
"....You little-"
"You should know better then to talk about anything you don't want me to hear when I'm in the room. You're just as bad."
"It's rude to eavesdrop. Stop squirming!"
"You never used to care. Ow!"
"I thrashed you every time I caught you spying on me. And I'll do it now if you don't stop squirming!"
"But you never used to care. You're going to drown me, and then Watson'll be angry-"
"Doctor Watson. Have you retained no manners after barely a year?"
"You're chang~ing the sub~ject.I never had any to start with."
"Trying to. And no, you didn't."
"And you did?"
"At least I know how to act like it."
"What were you two-Mmmcrofpht!"
"And that is why I told you to be still. Are you alright? Sherlock, good lord, breathe."
".....Ack! Soap!"
"We keep our mouth shut in the tub, dear brother."
"Soap! Burns! Stop laughing!"
"I'm not."
"Are."
"Am not."
"Are!"
".....I am not doing this. I am far too old to do this with you."
".....you were. What were you talking about, Mycroft?"
"You're worse then a terrier with a rat. John just wanted to know our last names, so I told him."
".....and you told him-"
"No. And you won't, either, do you understand me?"
"I don't need to be told, Mycroft!"
"I know. I know you don't. Here, dry off."
"....When are we going to go?"
"When you're better."
"I'm better."
"No, you are not. You're feverish, weak, and if that shoulder gets infected-"
"If we don't go he's going to figure out what really happened. And if he figures out what really happened, we'll end up getting sent back. Or to an orphanage. And if we go either place, they'll split us up. Again. And then they'll take me away again and then he'll find you-"
"Sherlock. You're rambling. Sherlock. Sherlock."
"...."
"There. Calm down, now, that's enough of that. Look at me. Deep breath, slow, hold it....now let it out. Good boy. Once more. Good. Now. I won't let that happen. I promised, didn't I? Ah, Sherlock. It's all fine. It's fine. I'm here. Right here. I'm not going anywhere. Not ever again."
