Together, with three boxes of the most peculiar toys for three year olds, Sherlock and John turned the formal, immaculately despondent living room into a jungle of artifacts of life. Thick jumpers lay strewn like colorful islands in an ocean of books and gadgets. Two swords lay heavily on the fireplace mantel, sheaths pushing candlesticks out of the way in a half hazard way that seemed to loan life to the dull wood beneath. Sherlock bemoaned the loss of those particular toys but a deep, heavy gouge in the coffee table and few years off of Mrs. Hudson's life was more than enough reason to put up with the short lived tantrum.
John had adopted the idea of putting every article of clothing he found onto his small body. Only a few shirts had made their way into the boxes but on John Sherlock's long sleeved shirts seemed to be like super hero capes tailored for giants. A familiar scarf that still smelled of late night chases through London's streets completed the layered ensemble, encasing John's neck and obscuring part of his face.
Sherlock for his own part had adopted only a single piece of clothing, a thick cream jumper which he had pulled from deep within a box, disregarding it's more colorful counterparts in favor of this seemingly bland article. Sherlock pulled it on, his thin shoulders coming out of the neck line, and settled in beside John, the two of them slowly deconstructing and recreating Sherlock's lab equipment into more interesting shapes.
An hour longer and John seemed to be melting within the confines of his cloth prison but completely unwilling to be rid of a single item. The smell of bleach had lightly seeped into any item which had the misfortune of being in the main living space when the area was cleaned and it burned their noses and throats with the lingering exposure, and Mycroft had a suspicion that more than one of Sherlock's possessions had been exposed to experiments which, while none of them wanted to know the exact components, all of them could smell on their skin.
Without bringing up the idea of an extended and modified contract with Mrs. Hudson regarding her new theoretical position as helpful babysitter for fear of another long drawn out explanation of what she would and would not do, Mycroft let the woman's maternal instincts kick in. If he inflamed those instincts with a comment or two of his own it was only for the general well-being of the children.
Mrs. Hudson stood with more ease than she would admit if one were to inquire and plucked Sherlock from the tower he had been creating behind Mycroft to reach the swords. The boy squirmed in her arms in attempt to get back to his creation but she seemed to ignore him, waiting until he admitted defeat to settle him on her hip, the sweater pooling around his hips.
The clock chimed in a deep informative way that spoke of old-time clock makers toiling over a work bench and genius engineering. Normally Mycroft would take his perfectly formulated, low-caloric lunch break now, or in more recent times have the boys be brought bowls of porridge which they would subsequently ignore but Mrs. Hudson turned to the boy in her arms, waiting until blue eyes locked with her own.
"Are you hungry dear?"
Memories of recent lunches gone by clearly ran through his mind. "No."
"Did you have breakfast?"
He blinked, looking to John for answers but the look on his face was the same, slight curiosity with an overwhelming need not to be forced to eat something Mycroft made.
"…no?"
Her frown at Mycroft was quick and obligatory but her smile for Sherlock was more than genuine.
"You mean the two of you have not eaten all day? Well now that will not do, what would you like?"
Sherlock looked at her with mouth slightly agape. This was not something they remembered discussing before. When she turned to John the boy was ready for her, unusually shy as if he might be denied, a blush rising on his cheeks in a mixture of overheating and uncertainty.
" 'nanas?" He asked sweetly, pulling the scarf away from his mouth with his fingers so that she might see his hopeful smile.
"Alright dear." She bent and offered her free arm to John, the boy wobbled into her embrace, trapped beneath the weight and mess of his wardrobe. "Bananas it will be." She huffed laboriously as she balanced the two little boys but when Mycroft held out his hand in offer she clutched them tighter, not as a show but as an unconscious action as she replied in the negative, her hold on them becoming an almost embrace.
As adults the duo, as misanthropic and broken as they were, had inspired unparalleled loyalty. As children it seemed the world was very much in trouble if they had as much as a gaze and a smile.
The walk to the kitchen was thankfully short and the boys stayed put on their knees at the small table used by the staff, stilled by curiosity as they watched their former landlady rummage through the stock of food.
Mrs. Hudson waived off the offers of having the actual kitchen staff make lunch, delighting in the response her every action drew from the rapt children.
Of the two boys it was Johns face who lit up when liberal amounts of peanut butter was applied to his toast and whose eyes grew large and round when slices of banana finished his sandwich. His hands reached out as the plate was placed in front of him but just as his fingers brushed the sandwich he paused. Carefully he removed the scarf he wore, rubbing it against his cheek for just a second before placing it delicately on the table.
After this moment of calm sentimentality there was no stopping him. Peanut butter coated his hands and face equally and bananas slid onto the floor with a soft squelch, telling in a way which words could not how long it had been since he had had a decent meal fit for his age.
Sherlock watched John with more interest than he showed his food, looking at the creation if not with disdain then with intense disinterest. He allowed Mrs. Hudson to roll the sleeves of his jumper to the point of his elbows and tentatively took it into his hands allowing the innately messy sandwich to seep onto his fingers. A mess of squished banana and peanut butter had escaped the bread, crushed by his hard grip and stuck to his fingers. He dropped the sandwich to his plate and stuck out a pink tongue which he barely touched to his finger, his face prematurely skewed into an expression of disgust. But a look of surprise overtook his features, eyes widening as far as Johns had. In a breath three fingers were jammed sloppily into his mouth and his free hand was reaching for the abandoned sandwich.
Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft watched as Sherlock, the man who refused to waste energy on digestion, who had seemed to never let more than tea willingly pass his lips devoured two sandwiches, smearing peanut butter and mashed banana across his cheeks as he bit deeper into the sandwich.
John set down the crusts of his second sandwich and peered over at Sherlock, his face twisting into a grin as he took in the wasted wreckage of two sandwiches and the signs of enjoyment and food still lingering on his friends face. But now that the food was gone the sticky feeling of peanut butter was becoming too much, the knowledge of having food on his face, of having shown his cards so obviously, of having the evidence still written across his skin was making his heart pound in his chest.
He pushed the crusts away as if they had become suddenly dangerous, dawning comprehension rushing from deep within him, chemicals and reactions clicking in his brain, saturating his thoughts and making his little hands sweep them frantically away.
But it was too late.
John was not the first one to notice how Sherlock's breathing had sped up as the panic slowly rose within him but he was the first one to act. Their chairs had been pushed only inches apart making it easy for John to lean over into Sherlock's space, his round face serious in concentration as he reached to brush a smudge of banana from his friends face.
Blue eyes darted to John and stayed locked on brown eyes as his little chest began to heave. John wiped away the banana with his fingertips but a smudge of peanut butter from his dirty hands replaced it. John looked stricken, eyes widening, fear creeping into his eyes as his plan failed…but something was happening.
Sherlock had stopped gasping for air, a sound soft and indistinct, regulating his breathing, changing it to something not normal, but better.
Sherlock was giggling.
The sound was almost desperate at first, walking the line between hysteria and a slow slide into normalcy.
His pupils were blown wide, black engulfing all but a ring of blue as adrenalin surged through his body but as he giggled as he reached out with his own dirty hand to touch John's cheek.
In the silent language of best friends John swallowed the sound of his own thudding heart and reached out with both hands, holding Sherlock's face in his tiny fingers, smudging the food as his heart leapt into his throat. Sherlock took another deep, even breath and let it out again, his other hand reaching out to hold John as his giggles faded into silence.
By the time Mrs. Hudson had drawn a bath and returned the two boys were sitting silently in their seats, foreheads pressed together, arms around each other and eyes closed.
The world could have fallen down around them and in that moment, they would not have noticed.
The boys walked under their own power to the large bathroom. Outwardly they appeared as if nothing had happened, two young boys lagging on their way to bath time, lost in secrets and whispers. But the orange blanket which had become inseparable from the boys had made its careful way around Sherlock's shoulders and little hands which normally clasped together in glee and easy assurances were held tight as if their lives depended on the way they held each other.
Mrs. Hudson handed them two wet cloths as they sat on the edge of the bath and let them clean their, or rather, each other's faces, so as not to spoil the many layers of clothing they still wore. Lost as they were in each other the adults stepped back, no more a part of the moment than the furniture.
Mycroft stepped backwards, another step and he would be in the hallway and could slip away unnoticed. He had calls to make, old journals to uncover, memories long ago lost into the sweet darkness of oblivion to pull into the garish daylight and examine under a microscope.
He had underestimated how much the past would bleed through to the present.
He needed to call mummy, her boys needed her.
But as his foot breached the doorway a thin hand and a cold stare froze him the way world leaders dreamed of doing.
"Still not their housemaid dear, and you did not exactly give me time to reschedule my appointments for today. Just because I am an old lady does not mean I do not have things to do." She set two towels down on the counter and pulled a phone out of her pocket, looking at it for an extended moment before seeming to realize which angle to flipping it open.
"I am sure you boys will do just fine without me." She glanced at where the boys had slid to the floor, peanut butter smeared towels no longer cleaning their faces but sitting in wet heaps by their feet, a pool of toilet paper growing as they wiped the paper in heaps across their skin.
"Now Sh- a former tenant of mine gave me one of these cellular phones, always trying to text me for something, or more often than not, a certain someone." She smiled, her gaze locked so fondly on the children that Mycroft hoped she might stay. "Now feel free to call me dear."
Mycroft let the older woman take his private number and he pretended to not already have her complete contact information. She promised to return and took the credit card Mycroft gave her to buy clothing and other necessities and Mycroft found himself alone with two pairs of eyes gazing up at him.
For the entirety of their stay with him Mycroft had allowed the children to wash themselves, giving them the tools but had slacked somewhat in the supervision. He knew it would eventually devolve to the point where a full on bath would become repugnantly necessary but he had always imagined the endeavor as somehow different. Fleetingly he thought of changing from his formal suit and into a pair of swim trunks in preparation but he found himself unwilling to leave his brother alone after such a traumatic episode, as well as he seemed to be coping with the half felt memories now there was no telling what could swim to the surface of his genius mind and in what manner it would formulate.
Not to mention it would be the singular most terrible moment of his adult life to have a three year old version of his brother best him with a remark regarding his weight while half naked.
Despite appearances and the best effort of the three year old Sherlock was still agitated so it was him who Mycroft pulled closer as he sunk to sit on the edge of the bath, pulling the familiar jumper over his head as John started to do the same for himself. Mycroft let Sherlock finish removing his clothing in the unabashed way of very small children. He had imagined that he would find it awkward to see his brother, so independent and cold, so vulnerable and literally naked, but as soft baby skin was revealed and little legs clambered into the tub with a splash the thought evaporated and corrected itself.
Sherlock, this Sherlock, no longer had the independence or ability to care for himself, it was not yet deeply rooted into his mind that he had to be alone and stolid to survive.
This Sherlock was not alone.
John was being slightly shy, slowing as he got to the layers of clothing which would reveal his skin. A problem which could, for now, be easy fixed. Mycroft added a mixture of soaps to the water and turned the tap until bubbled formed all around Sherlock who was now leaning out of the water to see what was taking John. Stricken brown eyes fleetingly met Mycroft's.
Mentally he added another name to the list of people to be immediately contacted.
His background check had not revealed this.
With obvious intent and a promise to be back before they could drown themselves Mycroft gathered the lump of jumpers and discarded shirts and left the room at a brisk pace. The clothes were easy enough to be rid of, dropped into the boxes from which they came but he lingered outside the open door to the bathroom. He still had thirty seconds before John was likely to be in the bath and forty until any long term damage could be done from oxygen deprivation.
He clicked on John's phone, lifted from a bloodied jacket nearly a week before to find the appropriate number. Twenty three missed texts flashed onto the screen in various states of annoyance and sobriety, the final message lingered on the screen.
'You stood me up. Again. Do not bother making excuses. This boyfriend better be worth it.'
He tucked the phone away and entered the bathroom to find two sopping boys immersed in bubbles, hair slack and bubbles clinging to the ringlets. There was nothing playful about their demeanor as they gazed up at him, something had passed between them. Time he had been assumed would be wasted in idle chatter had left him adrift in a sea of their creation.
There was nothing for Mycroft to do but wait and let them guide him to his new place in their world.
They did not squirm as Mycroft poured water over their heads, they did not try to splash him or struggle as soap threatened to fall into their eyes.
They watched quietly as the bubbled died around them, their bodies malleable and mouths silent.
Mycroft was beginning to think that he had committed an indiscretion and that they were boycotting speaking with him but he saw Johns hand reach out above the level of the water and touch Sherlock's bare shoulder in what an adult would call reassurance and a child would have no name for.
Mycroft let his hands fall, they were generally clean and free of soap, if they were going to alter the way their lives had been leading with some grand secret it best be done while they were not blinking up at him through rivulets of water.
"Why?" Sherlock's voice was crisp and resonated through the small chamber like the ringing of bells, as clear and sweet. He was not angry or demanding or sad, his voice held no definable emotion one would attach to a child but was familiar in a way no parent would want to imagine. It was the voice of a child asking why mommy would never come home, a toddler watching the chemotherapy drip and wondering why its parents would not help them, a child knowing that the blows would come but never understanding what they had done wrong.
He sat up straight in the water, bubbles absurdly making him seem so much younger than his already shortened years as clear dry eyes gazed unblinkingly into Mycroft.
"Why are you taking care of us?" He bit his bottom lip, reddening it as he waited, debating the next careful words. "Why do you…bother?"
Without memory. Without the thousands of harsh words. Without nights filled with silent tears and days filled with fear. Mycroft could see every one of Sherlock's scars written in his eyes.
He could see his own failures etched into the soul of a child.
He reached into the bath, mindless of his suit, and pulled Sherlock from the water, swathing him in a towel and reaching out, cloth in hand to envelop the suddenly shy John. He pulled them into his arms, letting their wet hair soak his shirt as they craned their necks to look at him, warm and safe in the circle of his arms and the comfort of his lap.
"Because we are family, the three of us." He looked both little boys in the eyes, needing to convey how much these words meant. Warm understanding and wordless relief looked back at him and he could not stop the soft, almost paternal smile which stole across his face.
"We will be bothering each other for the rest of our lives."