This entire fic is still set in 1986. Just so you know.

The Holmes household was in a state of panic. Mycroft, of all people, was cleaning. Sherlock, lying on the sofa bundled into his dressing gown, watched bemusedly as his brother dragged a mop out of the alcove in which the family hung their coats.

"You're only going to knock my coat on to the floor if you pull it out at that angle." He said, sourly. Mycroft glared at him.

"Rather yours than Mummy's." This time, it was Sherlock's turn to look displeased. He struck back in the way he knew would upset his brother most.

"So who is it this time? Is it Alice? Or did you dump her after you found out she was seeing that French bloke?" There was a horrible, horrible pause and Mycroft looked like he might be about to punch Sherlock.

"He was Spanish," he said, icily, "and no."

"Oh? Who is it this week, then?" Mycroft's fingers curled up then uncurled themselves.

"Zoe. Go upstairs. Now."

"Mycroft, you're not my mother. No."

"I'll sit on you." Sherlock assessed the figure in front of him.

"While that would be incredibly painful, just because it's you – no. Anyway, you're not done yet." Eventually, when Mycroft finished with the mop and the floor was once again dry, he poked Sherlock, only once, in his side, just under his ribs and took great pleasure in watching him squirm into a contorted shape so quickly he fell of the sofa, and remained on the floor to sulk. And then Mycroft picked up the furniture polish, because really, he knew his brother was right and there was still plenty more to do.

…

"Ow!" It was now many hours later. Mycroft had cleaned the living room to his satisfaction and moved on to the hall and staircase. Sherlock, however, was still lying in the middle of the living room floor and his father tripping over him and accidentally kicking his stomach had hurt.

"Jesus Christ! Oh my god, sorry Sherlock. What are you doing down there?" Sherlock glared back.

"I'm not moving." He said, flatly.

"Yes you are. You're in the most inconvenient place you could possibly be, so you are moving."

"I think it would be less convenient if I were in the middle of Belfast. Or Rio, or Ukraine. Especially Ukraine."

"Nevertheless Sherlock, you are in the middle of the gangway. Also, it's five in the afternoon and you're still in your dressing gown. Go and get dressed."

"Ugh, dull. And no point, I'm going to bed in four hours."

"Sherlock."

"No."

"Right." And it was at this point that Mr. Holmes picked Sherlock up bodily and carried his protesting, squealing son up the stairs before unceremoniously putting him down in his bedroom. "And I don't want to see you again until you're dressed. Understood?"

"Yes, dad." Sherlock sat in the middle of the floor looking stubborn and waited until half an hour after his father had left before eyeing the chest of drawers which contained his jeans.

…

"Soooo… where are we going?"

"Ah, it's a surprise." Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

"Roller rink. Obviously."

"Really? Oh wow, I haven't been roller skating since I was really little! That's so cute." Mycroft glared his brother who was rolling his eyes behind the girl now stood in the spot he'd been laying on two hours ago.

"We're not booked in for another half hour though, so can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, orange juice?"

"Tea, thanks. White, one sugar." Mycroft wandered in the direction of the kitchen. Sherlock surveyed the girl now sat on the couch.

"I think you should have kept your coat on, actually." He said.

"What?"

"Your shoulder pads make your head look really small. Even with the hair. And the trousers aren't a good shape for you either." He looked her critically once again. "Also your iron was too hot." Zoe gasped.

"How on earth do you know that?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You've got an iron shaped burn on the back of your shirt. I couldn't see it with the coat on." He grinned. Zoe was by now bright red as she hastened to grab her coat from the hook Mycroft had put it on. He came back in now, and handed his date a mug.

"Calm down, he's making it up. There's not a burn on your back at all, Sherlock's just being stupid, aren't you?" Zoe looked unconvinced.

"But I did have the iron too high, he was right." Sherlock snorted.

"Of course I was. Pressure marks from the dial on your fingers." There was an awkward pause.

"Let's just go. Behave, Sherlock, we'll be back around nine. Bye!" The two left in a hurry, still with twenty five minutes before they were due to pick up their skates and leaving behind Zoe's scarf and Mycroft's left sock, which he'd been about to put on when the doorbell rang. Sherlock, still lying on the sofa, picked up his dressing gown and switched on the telly.

…

When Mycroft came back, Sherlock was arguing with Mrs. Holmes about his bedtime, rather loudly, but when Mycroft walked in both stopped their argument to let him collapse into a chair before his legs gave out. Sherlock was quiet for once before giving and almost unnoticeable smirk.

"I knew one of them was seeing someone else who was French. Is she coming back?" Mycroft kept his eyes on the floor.

"No." He said hoarsely. Sherlock's smirk became something much more visible as he stood up.

"Excellent." He said, before moving towards the door, stopping only to pull the abandoned blue scarf from its hook before going upstairs to find his pyjamas.

It's been a week and I'm still sad.