A/N: Just a shout out to all you who have reviewed! Thank you very much, we really appreciate it! Do enjoy. :) ~Grace&Angie

Wales - 3 June 1984

Sherlock Holmes was quite sure he would have been just fine on his own. He was seven years old, after all. He didn't need an escort anymore, he was practically grown up now. But no, Mummy had instructed Mycroft accompany him while he went exploring the hills and rocks and streams this afternoon.

Their summer holiday home was in the country near Stackpole, Wales. Quite far away from their actual home. But the young boy loved it, plenty of room to collect bugs to study, or find rock samples, or dissect the occasional bird or squirrels that had accidentally found it's way into the teeth of his best friend, and not have to be near any infernal and idiotic school children.

Redbeard was there, as he'd always been for the last five years. The Irish Setter bound around them happily as they walked, running off to chase and bark at the birds, but coming back quickly. All pink tongue and wagging tale. Sherlock loved that dog, his only friend.

When Mummy had encouraged him to accept his brother's presence, Sherlock had put on a show earlier that day, little crossed arms and too big pirate hat over top of piercing clear blue eyes and curly black hair. But it didn't help, bossy Mycroft was still there, following along. So Sherlock was currently ignoring him, running ahead along the top of a hill, chasing his dog. "Redbeard!" He called in his little voice.

Fourteen year old Mycroft Holmes heaved a long suffering sigh and quickened his footsteps when he heard his brother call out to the Irish Setter sprinting ahead of them. He loathed these countryside holidays about as much as he loathed walking, and he detested walking quite a bit. It was exhausting and dangerous, what with twisted tree roots rising intermittently out of the grown and beds of leaves hiding all sorts of hazardous possibilities beneath their surface.

If left up to him, he would've stayed indoors with a book in his hand and a cup of tea on the table beside him. As it was, he was huffing and puffing his way behind his brother along a small crop of trees he'd decided to explore that day. The lively child had a bad habit of getting caught up inside his head at the most inopportune times, and even if his parents hadn't entrusted him with his care while out of doors, he would've followed him out regardless to make sure he didn't wind up hurt in some distant corner no one could get to. Or worse.

"Sherly!" He called when his brother ran too far ahead for comfort. "I told you to stay close!"

"What for?" Sherlock turned around with a bounce, expression set stubbornly. Redbeard barked and came running back, bounding around him again, and Sherlock started walking backwards to keep sharp eyes on his much taller older brother. "Come on, My! You're so slow!"

"I'm not slow, you're just fast!" Mycroft argued. "And even you can figure out why you should be staying close by," he added. "Mum told you as much, didn't she? You'll get hurt."

"Will not." Sherlock argued back. "How is walking next to you any different? You're too slow to be of any help under the slim chance I do get hurt. I can figure that out just fine on my own." Arms crossed again. "I won't tell Mummy, I promise. You're dismissed." He added, attempting the air of authority he'd witnessed from his brother himself.

Mycroft aimed a condescending look at his brother and scoffed. "I said I'm not slow! You're just determined to run off ahead," he argued. "And if I leave and you wind up too hurt to return home on your own, no one will be able to find you. That is why I'm here." Finally catching up, he stretched to his full height and towered over his brother. "Stop arguing, Sherly."

Sherlock glared up at Mycroft, still waiting for the day he'd be taller than him. Because he would be. And definitely not as pudgy. "Redbeard would help. He's faster than you. Even walking."

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother. "Yes and I'm sure he'd relay the details of your location in perfect detail, as you'd expect from any mongrel," he retorted. "I'm here and I'm staying, little brother. Now run along to do what you do. The sooner you finish, the sooner we can go home."

"He's not a mongrel!" Sherlock argued, pouting a lip and then simply turning away. He took off at a run, his faithful friend along his side, his hand keeping his pirate hat from flying away.

"Bugger," Mycroft whispered under his breath the minute his brother took off, awkwardly quickening his pace to follow after him.

Sherlock had made it quite a distance before he slowed, peeking over the top of the hill to the forested stream. He glanced back, hiding a small smirk, and then ran down the hill and out of Mycroft's sight. If My wouldn't leave, he'd just lose him. Sherlock was fast, and he disappeared into the wooded area as he followed Redbeard.

Normally, Sherlock was very good about not getting hurt when he ventured out. But this area of land was new to him, and while he was intent to explore, he missed the loose dirt on the top of a small cliff. Redbeard was off ahead, and Sherlock slowed to a stop. However, not a moment later, he was falling. And with a short yelp, tumbled down the ravine and landed hard.

The forest floor was treacherous territory, but right then Mycroft was more preoccupied with catching up with his brother more than anything else. All sorts of things could happen, and his mind, quick and sharp even at his age, saw every scenario with glaring clarity. Sherlock could fall and hurt himself. Get lost within the maze of trees without being able to find his way back. Or worse, stubbornly refuse to go back with him until he caught his death out there.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft called out after a bit of panic-induced thinking. "Come back here right now! I'll tell mummy if you don't!"

Sherlock landed on his arm, his wrist had tweaked slightly as he'd fallen. He wasn't sure if it was sprained or broken, but it hurt. A lot. Even now he was curled up in the old leaves and grass, holding it close to him. Redbeard was still up the top the cliff, running back and forth, barking. In between the barks he heard his brother's voice, and was a horrible mix of embarrassed and hurting. He sniffled to himself, and then cried out as loud as he could. "MY!"

Mycroft stopped running and rested his hands against his knees. "Sherly?" He called between breaths, trying to ascertain his brother's location. He wouldn't have answered if he wasn't in trouble. Faintly he heard Redbeard's barks and he lifted his head to look around. "Sherly! Keep talking, I'll find you."

Sherlock glanced over to the spot several yards away where his pirate hat had fallen, then back up the ravine. He couldn't climb it himself, and he hurt too much to move right then. Most logical decision was to call for Mycroft again, despite his apprehension. So, like his brother had taught him, while nervous or overstimulated, he started reciting various things he'd learned. Today was the digits of pi, or as much as he could remember, and as loud as he could. "Pi is 3.141592653589…"

It was inevitable that Mycroft would smile upon hearing his brother's voice again, but it was short-lived. He still had to find him. Several deep breaths later, he was running again towards the sound of his brother's voice and his dog's now occasional barking. He was paying as much attention to possible to obstacles he might trip over on the floor, but the majority of his attention was on his brother's voice and the direction he needed to run to next.

Eventually, he felt it was closer and quickened his pace. Feet pounded the leave-strewn ground while his breath came in quick pants. And then he was falling, sharp cry torn from his throat as pain erupted from his ankle and he rolled down the same ravine his brother had fallen victim to only minutes before. "Bloody hell, that hurts!"

"My!" Sherlock cried, ignoring his own soreness and scooting over to where his brother had fallen. "My! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, you weren't supposed to fall." He sniffed hard, reaching to touch his brother's shoulder. His dirty face apologetic and embarrassed, clear blue eyes threatening to cry.

A look at Sherlock's face was all it took and even in his pained state, he simply couldn't let his little brother worry over him when it should be the other way around. He was the eldest, and as such he had a responsibility. He had to be the strong one.

"It's fine," Mycroft told his brother quickly, sitting up and dusting himself off. "I'm fine, Sherly. Don't worry. We'll climb back out and go home." Bracing himself against the ground, he tried to stand and found himself sucking in a breath between his teeth as a fresh wave of pain attacked his ankle. "Maybe... after we wait for a bit." He breathed in and out a few times. "Are you hurt?"

Sherlock sniffed again, scooting in until he was tucked next to his brother, pirate hat ignored for the moment. "I… I think I hurt my wrist. Don't know if I broke it. But it hurts… loads."

Mycroft suppressed a grimace and shifted so he could put an arm around his brother while he surveyed his arm. "We need to go back," he told him after a moment. "I don't think I can walk just yet, but as soon as I can we'll leave for home straightaway." He met his brother's eyes in the most reassuring way possible to keep him from being scared. He never did like it when his little brother was scared. "We'll be alright," he insisted. "I'll make sure of it."

"It's my fault." Sherlock said, watery eyes staring up at his brother and snuggling closer, mindful of the injuries. "I wasn't careful. My, I'm sorry."

"It's alright," he said quietly, reaching over with his other hand to run it through Sherlock's unruly curls. "It's a dangerous place. It could've happened to either of us," he assured him gently. "How bad is the pain?"

"Prob-probably like your ankle." Sherlock said, closing his eyes. He didn't see Redbeard anymore, and that worried him too. "Do…do you think you can make it back?"

Mycroft bent his leg at the knee and put just a little bit of pressure on it. Immediately his face twisted into a grimace, but the pain wasn't as bad as it had been in the beginning. "I think so," he said after a bit. "I may need a bit of help, though. Was it just your wrist that got hurt?"

Sherlock was quite for a moment, sniffing again. His pride. He supposed that had been hurt too, but that didn't matter. "Yeah." He mumbled, looking away. "I can help you."

"Alright," Mycroft sighed, releasing his hold on his brother and running a hand through his hair. If it'd just been Sherlock who'd been hurt, things would've been easier. It would've been slow going, but he would've been able to carry him. As it was, Mycroft would be even slower now than he'd been before. They'd reach their house by nightfall, and they really weren't dressed for the cold. One problem at a time. "Help me up. We'll see how bad this is first," he said out loud.

Sherlock took one more moment tucked next to Mycroft, and then pulled himself away. He was too short and small to really help his much taller (and rounder) brother, but he'd try. Slipping a bit in the leaves, he eventually stood up, holding his broken wrist close to his body, and offering his right hand to Mycroft. "How're we going to get back?"

"We'll walk," Mycroft replied, taking his brother's small hand mostly for leverage than any real help in standing up. He saved that for his own hand and leg pushing up from the ground. It was a struggle, but after a bit he managed to get himself standing on his one good leg. "Mummy and dad don't know where we are for certain, and..." He took a quick look around. "Neither do we, for that matter. I have an idea on where we came from, though."

A distant bark came before Sherlock had a chance to reply, and Redbeard ran towards them at the bottom of the ravine. Sherlock kept a hold of Mycroft's hand, watching as he stood and then looking over to where the dog was running from. "That way?" He asked, looking back up at Mycroft, an apologetic expression on his face.

"That way," Mycroft confirmed, begrudgingly admitting to himself that the mongrel - dog - had its uses. "Come on," he told his brother as he began moving to climb back up the ravine. He picked up his pirate's hat along the way and plopped it down on top of Sherlock's head. "Don't want to wind up in Davy Jones' locker, now do we?"

Sherlock couldn't help the grin that turned his mouth, despite the circumstance and the pain, and smiled up at his brother. "No, that's a horrid place." He said practically. "Don't want to end up there. It's worse than sprained ankles."

Mycroft concealed a smile upon noticing Sherlock's grin. "A lot worse," he agreed. "Luckily we've got you and we've got Redbeard. It shouldn't be that much of a challenge to find our way home, and if it is and we're caught out here in the dark, we can always use the stars as a guide. The way real pirates do."

"I want to be a real pirate when I grow up." Sherlock said with a serious nod, not that he hadn't said that before, but it bared repeating. "And if they have to amputate my broken wrist, I'll just have a hook. I'll be fine. Like a real pirate. And you can have a peg leg."

A chuckle erupted from Mycroft's mouth, in spite of the pain he was in. "A hook for a hand and a peg leg," he mused. "I can't say I'm looking forward to that." He glanced at Sherlock again. "We have to get through mummy first, though."

"Our worst nightmare." Sherlock said, his eyes bugging out as he spoke dramatically, attempting to lower his young voice. "We can take her. I hide stuff from her all the time."

"We can't hide a hurt wrist," Mycroft told him. "Even if we could, we really shouldn't. You need to get that looked at by someone who knows, Sherly." He reached over to place a hand on top of Sherlock's pirate hat and smiled. "Look at the bright side. At least we don't have to face her alone."

"Like a doctor?" Sherlock asked. "We both need a doctor. Then we can be pirates. I should just hire a pirate doctor, then we'd be fine." He kept with the joking fantasy, seemed to keep his mind off of the situation at hand. Redbeard walked along next to him, not dashing about as was usual.

Mycroft listened to his little brother talk, happy to have succeeded in getting him to think of something other than what was at hand. Sherlock's wrist for one thing, and Mycroft's ankle for the other. He was in considerable pain and the sky was darkening overhead, but what lay ahead of them was worse. He knew their parents wouldn't take their injuries lightly, and it had been his responsibility to make certain neither one of them got hurt. There'd be a scolding, he was sure.

He didn't mind, though. Because as it only rarely happened with his little brother, he wasn't fighting Mycroft but rather animatedly talking to him about something he enjoyed. Years later, that would be even more of a rarity. But right then Mycroft could only listen and chime in when necessary, while wonderfully oblivious about the way things could change.