A/N: Woot, an update! More later this week. Read and Review!

Business Ventures

Sherlock opened his window and looked out. There was not a tree in sight, and glancing back at his bed, it did not appear that blankets and bed sheets would get him down to the ground safely. Mycroft would have words with him if he cracked his skull on the flagstones. He was going to have to brave the dark halls and hope that no one had insomnia.

Retrieving his robe from the bedstead, he tucked an unlit candle into one pocket. Worn brown slippers covered his feet and muffled his step. Picking up his lit candle, he opened his bedroom door and peered into the hallway. All was still quiet.

As he padded down the hallway, the candlelight made the shadows on the walls flicker in strange dances. Passing a suit of armor, he felt an involuntary shudder of fear as the shadows flickered around the eyeholes in the helmet, giving the impression that the ghost of the long-dead knight was looking at him in disapproval. Sherlock could almost swear he heard a deep whisper as he scurried past; "Little boys should be in bed at this hour."

Moving down the main staircase into the foyer, Sherlock noticed the front door was open just in time to watch his candle gutter out in the breeze. He swallowed, walking out the door. He did not bother to close it, reasoning that the door hinge would make unnecessary noise.

Aunt Sophia's gardens were her pride and joy, and the trellises on either side of the path reflected this. Rose bushes and long overhanging plants waved and rustled overhead, darkening the paths like a dappled forest in the moonlight. Something caught his eye, and he looked down. On the path in front of him, where the moonlight was not shadowed, was a set of footprints. The heavy tread, foot size, and a familiar tread pattern alerted him as to the identity of his visitor even as he walked forward into the clearing at the center of the garden. Brother Mycroft was waiting for him.

Sherlock grinned and practically charged into the garden. "I'm here! I came alone, just as you said!" He whispered loudly, nearly forgetting his volume in his excitement. Then he stumbled to a stop, staring at Mycroft.

The boy was fully dressed in dark clothing, sitting at a black iron-wrought garden table, in one of two chairs. A lantern added a yellow glow to the silver lighting the table. Two mugs and a pitcher of tea sat on the table, the mug in front of the empty chair filled.

As he moved forward, something in Mycroft's expression gave Sherlock pause. Mycroft didn't look annoyed or angry with him, but neither did he look proud. Instead, Sherlock thought uncertainly, a tinge of fear creeping up his spine, that Mycroft looked a little blank, his face still.

"Sit down, Mr. Holmes," Mycroft said coldly. "I have a proposition for you."

Mycroft looked down quickly, trying to keep his expression straight. Sherlock looked so bewildered at his use of his last name, and his tone of voice, so different from normal, that it was difficult to laugh. Actually, it was difficult to say anything seriously, as he looked at Sherlock in his ratty robe and pajamas, leather slippers on his feet. He did not look anything like the amateur professional he was about to become, but the child that he was. He noticed that Sherlock's grey eyes were wide with uncertainty as he came closer and slid into the seat across from him.

"My name is Smith," he said emphatically, killing Sherlock's question. "I understand that if I want to acquire something that you were the person to ask." With that, a light dawned in Sherlock's eyes. Inwardly, Mycroft snickered. He supposed Sherlock had given up on his father keeping his promise anytime soon, as he looked at Sherlock's suddenly eager expression.

"Yes, yes I am, uh, Mr. Smith" Sherlock said, his voice cracking with excitement. Sitting up straight, he folded his hands on the table and for once, sat still. Mycroft felt a little shock. So this is what it took to get Sherlock to act like a normal human being instead of a monkey?

"There is an article that I am after. A certain George Holmes, has an item I want, but he seems unwilling to part with it at any price," Mycroft said, watching as Sherlock stiffened at the use of Father's name. "This is where you come in." he whispered in a normal tone of voice. "You are to acquire it for me. I will pay you handsomely once the article is in my possession."

Sherlock relaxed and took a sip of tea, having finally figured out the topic of conversation. For a minute, his open face revealed a vacant look, as he toyed with the glass in front of him, then playfully hardened into suspicion. "Half now, half later." He said.

"Fine." said Mycroft immediately, reaching under the table and pulling some coins out of a pouch. Sliding them across the table, he continued. "The item that you are to get is an emerald necklace, given to Mr. Holmes' wife. You are to get it to me by the end of next week."

Sherlock choked on his drink and coughed, nodding. "Alright" he stammered when he could breathe again.

Mycroft stood, coming around to stand by Sherlock, grinning at his little brother for the first time since the conversation started. "Little brother, you were perhaps too hasty in agreeing. You forgot to ask how you were getting there. As a matter of fact, we will be leaving tomorrow, so go back and get some sleep." With that, Mycroft picked up the mugs and the pitcher and padded back to the house, listening to Sherlock follow behind, contemplating what tomorrow would bring.