Notes: Some more kid!lock in this chapter. Well... adolescent!Sherlock and University-aged!Mycroft. I figured kid!lock was a little catchier.

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Don't Let Me Get Me by Pink

Mycroft rapped his knuckles against the familiar front door, thinking that it was nice to be back home from Uni. He was only visiting, like he promised his mother he would, but it still felt comforting to be back. He recognized the rustic bench on the front porch, covered in ivy and surrounded by healthy, potted plants. Mum always did love planting and gardening; he'd have to see how her garden in the backyard was coming along. He also identified the doorbell that, when pressed, did absolutely nothing; it had been broken for years, and she still hadn't fixed it.

As if on cue, his mother opened the door with a warm smile, her eyes already beginning to mist. She pulled him into a hug, holding him there for what he decided was a very long, very understandable time. He had been gone for months, and she was his mother. He was under the impression that they did things like that.

They exchanged sentiments over schoolwork and news, all the while Mycroft wandered around the living room, trying to spot anything that changed. Nothing much was different other than the rug placed not quite in the center of the room. It was tilted to one end of the room and turned skew, certainly not something his Mum would want to do voluntarily. As they spoke about a recent change in politics, Mycroft used his toe to lift a corner of the rug, revealing to him a dark, purple-tinted stain underneath. He raised an eyebrow and looked at his mother, who was staring at the stain with a knowing smile. They looked at each other and shook their heads.

"Sherlock," they muttered in unison, sharing a small chuckle. Mycroft let the rug back down and wandered for a few moments more before pausing and putting his hands in his pockets.

"Speaking of Sherlock," he started, looking around as if expecting the boy to pop out at any moment, "where is he?" His mother nodded in the direction of the young Holmes' bedroom, giving a sad smile. Mycroft knew Sherlock was a little sour after he had left for Uni, but to not even come out and greet him? He headed off in the direction she had gestured to, walking down the hall and turning the corner. When he came to the door, he leaned up against it and listened in. The only sound was a small flicking noise that repeated every few seconds, sounding like some sort of metal-on-metal. He opened the door and—

"Sherlock!" Without thinking, Mycroft lunged forward and stole the lighter from his brother's small hands and the cigarette pack from his desk. The younger boy looked up at him with big, bright eyes, a curl falling down the center of his forehead. Mycroft couldn't move momentarily, and could only gape at him with a mixture of fear and anger boiling up inside of him. When he regained his composure, he was able to turn and shut the door with a soft click and sit down on Sherlock's bed, holding the two offenders in his hands. His brother just stared at him with a calm expression.

"What," he trailed off, biting his lip painfully. Things he wanted to say jumped around in his mind, but he had to be careful with his words when he was dealing with Sherlock. He could become… sensitive, at times. What the hell were you thinking? Don't you know what these can do to you? Are you mad? He settled for a simple question, figuring it was the easiest way the get information out of his brother. "Why?"

Sherlock was quiet for a while more, blinking carefully, obviously thinking of a good response. When he opened his mouth to speak, he looked at the floor, avoiding eye contact. "I was curious," he whispered quietly, making Mycroft sigh. How could he be furious with him? He was eleven, for God's sake; he was just naive.

"Where did you get them?" When Sherlock seemed to realize he wasn't in terrible trouble, he looked up from underneath his bangs.

"They were in someone's coat pocket." Mycroft tried not to label his brother as a pickpocket, though he hoped dearly this wasn't going to become normal for him.

"You can't just steal from a coat that's lying around. You know that, right?"

"He still had the coat on," Sherlock said simply, looking at him full in the eyes now. Mycroft was finding it extremely difficult not to be impressed by such a feat, but he had to remind himself of the situation. His brother— his little brother— had cigarettes. And he'd be damned if he let him get into such a habit.

"Sherlock, do you realize how dangerous these… these things are?" The young Holmes nodded that he did, but Mycroft wasn't sure he did. "They're addictive, first off, so even if you know the harm they can inflict you don't care. They hurt your body and your mind, Sherlock. Do you want that?" He looked at the floor again, looking like a kicked puppy. Sherlock mumbled something so quietly Mycroft couldn't hear, and he leaned forward, furrowing his brow. "What?"

"Please don't tell Mummy," Sherlock repeated, louder this time. He sniffled, and Mycroft realized he had tears streaming from his blue-green-gray eyes. His shoulders immediately slumped forward in defeat, knowing he couldn't continue to be angry at him.

"Come here," he whispered, stepping away from the bed and kneeling in front of Sherlock. He took the boy in his arms, letting him cry into his shoulder. After a while, the kid calmed down, pulling away to wipe his face with the back of his palm.

"I-I'm sorry," he managed to choke out, still avoiding eye contact. Again, many things flashed through his mind that he wanted to say. You damn well better be sorry. You're going to be sorry when I let Mum know. Sorry? You're sorry? Instead, he stood and placed a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"Just remember what I said," he muttered, trying not to sound angry. He couldn't bring himself to say 'It's ok,' because it most certainly was not. It was all he could do to leave the room without saying anything more, because he definitely had much more to say to his brother. He just put the lighter and cigarettes into his jacket pocket, knowing he wouldn't end up telling their mother. He didn't want Sherlock to be in trouble, and he knew that an angry Mum sent upon his little brother was the last thing he needed. If she happened to find the cigarettes in his own pocket, he'd welcome the onslaught. Better him than Sherlock, he knew.

But because he didn't actually look inside the packet, Mycroft didn't know that one of the cigarettes was missing. And he didn't know that Sherlock most definitely had matches in his desk drawer.