AN: Inspired by one of KCS's drabbles...
Geometry was his brother's favourite subject, and so he waited until Mycroft had fetched their father's good brass instruments to take to his room before jumping into action. Dignified older brother was going to be sorry he had ever told mother who had (accidentally!) killed all the fish in the pond.
He too borrowed something of their father's; one of the stiff pillows from his side of the bed. They did wonders for his sore neck. Sherlock was more occupied with giving his brother one.
He crept down the hallway. He knew the maid had oiled all the doors that day and the door to his brother's realm slid open without so much as a sound.
The ample young man seated with his back to the door was too preoccupied with cosines to pay attention to the world around him, and he was none the wiser to the impending attack.
Or so his brother thought, in any case.
Sherlock leapt into the air, ready to bludgeon his venerable brother to hell and back. At the same time, Mycroft lifted the flexible brass ruler to give Sherlock a moderate swat.
Both failed.
Mycroft felt ill and cried for the first time in six years. The doctor told Sherlock he was lucky the eye the ruler had stricken had not been rendered blind.
