*This and next chapter connected. )
Couple 1
"You're lucky, though," Greg says to Mycroft.
Mycroft snorts, "Lucky? Tell me how, please."
"You've got a sibling. I grew up alone."
"That's not true, I met your step-brother two weeks ago."
"Alright, but a rightful, completely blood related human that has the same genes as you and—"
"Sherlock's adopted…" Mycroft says like Greg should know.
Greg stops and looks at Sherlock, "Is he?"
"Yes," Mycroft sits on the sofa and continues, "My parents brought him home when I was seven, I realized my mother was never pregnant, I knew all along."
"Geez, I didn't know that. I'm sorry, I—"
"Don't apologize, it's not a bad thing."
"Yeah, but going on and on—"
"He's my brother, Greg. It's never changed because he's adopted. He's my baby brother, he's my mother's baby, and furthermore: he drives me up the damn wall!" Mycroft more or less shouts the last part.
"What'd he do?"
"What doesn't he do? I'll tell you what he doesn't do; he doesn't have the common decency of a normal man."
"Last time I said he wasn't normal—"
"We went over this. That was an insult. I grew up with him, I'm allowed to insult him."
Greg sits back and sips his tea, waiting for Mycroft to continue. When he doesn't, Greg asks, "What are some good memories you have of him?"
Mycroft looks taken aback and stares at Greg like he's very confused, "What do you mean?"
"Good memories of your brother. From when you were young, anytime. When my parents got divorced, I had to talk about good memories with both of them to get over how I felt. What are some good memories of you and Sherlock?"
Mycroft lost the confused looks but changed to look annoyed, "Greg, I really don't think this is—"
"Just try it, please. I'd like to hear."
Mycroft takes a swig of his tea and thinks. He's had a ton of memories with Sherlock, sure, but trying to think of a good memory on the spot was more difficult than it seems. But slowly he began to form stories in his head, so he talked and Greg listened.
"After my father left, Sherlock and I grew closer because I had to take care of him."
"How old were you?" Greg asks.
"Let's see," Mycroft thinks, "I was eleven. Sherlock was four. It was…" Mycroft trails off.
"It was what, Mycroft?"
"It was the weekend of his birthday. My father left two days before Sherlock's fifth birthday and never returned."
"I'm sorry, Mycroft."
"Stop apologizing, Greg, it's not your fault," Mycroft sips his tea and continues, "Anyway, after that I took care of Sherlock. We did everything together."
Greg lightly smiles at the thought of the young brothers being attached. Greg secretly loves when the two of them are together, like the sick weekend. "That sounds nice, Mycroft."
"It was. We had fun. We didn't go to school, so I felt it was my responsibility to teach him," Mycroft takes another sip of tea, and when he pulls the cup away from his lips, he's smiling. He chuckles.
"What is it?" Greg asks, smiling.
"One summer, I took Sherlock around the property every day teaching him about plants. I'd quiz him on different things. One day, he was about five-years-old, he went out on his own and brought me back a plant I hadn't showed him," Mycroft pauses to laugh, "It was poison ivy. We both got poisoned."
"That sounds terrible," Greg laughs.
"It was terrible! But it was funny. I was proud of him for finding a new plant but…"
"What else did you two do together?"
"We read a lot. He loved when I would read to him. I taught him how to play chess, when he was seven he finally beat me. He gloated for months until I challenged him to a rematch and won."
Greg laughs. "That sounds like Tom (Greg's step-brother) and I. I'll never forget the day he kicked a football farther than me. He was a little guy, too."
Mycroft laughs with Greg, "Yeah, that's Sherlock and I. He tried to beat me at everything. We grew to be very competitive. Which is good, I think, because it's helped very much with who he is today."
"Yeah, I see it." Greg says.
Mycroft smiles, "He told me he was going to be a pirate. I was disappointed, but I realized children have crazy dreams."
"What did you want to be growing up?"
"I'm not sure, I think I was always hell bent on being Prime Minister. Or King."
Greg laughs very hard at that. "That's you alright."
"What about you, then?"
"I always wanted to be an astronaut. Tom and I built a space ship in our backyard and took it to space each day. We'd hop around the yard pretending we didn't have any gravity. My mum made us space suits and helmets."
"Lucky for you," Mycroft says, "You two are close in age. I was playing with Sherlock until I was headed for university."
"I'm sure you had fun, though."
"We did. He always had me going to tasks. As a child he had the wildest imagination. I'm sure he still does, it helps him to see every possible thing a person does or can do."
"I see that."
Mycroft silently sips his tea. He pulls him from his lips but sits quietly for a few minutes thinking of other things he and Sherlock did as children. "Thank you, Greg," he says.
"For?"
"For this. It helped, thank you."
Greg smiles, "You're welcome. Truth is, I just want to hear stories from your youth. I'm sure you were an adorable child."
Mycroft laughs, "Yes, if adorable is tall and lengthy and awkward with red hair that finally turned dark and a little brother that was attached to me at all times."
"Sounds adorable to me." Greg says, kissing Mycroft's cheek.
Mycroft contently takes Greg in his arms and lets his eyes wander to the single photo of him and Sherlock on the fireplace mantle. It's of him and Sherlock sleeping on the floor when Sherlock was a newborn. It's always been Mycroft's favorite photo. He smiles and closes his eyes, thinking of himself and Sherlock playing together as kids. Sometimes he misses the days when he and Sherlock were close, but when he snuggles close to Greg, he realizes he wouldn't have Greg without his and Sherlock's problems. He faintly smiles and pulls Greg closer, then kisses the top of his head. Anger toward Sherlock diverted, Mycroft falls asleep.
Couple 2
After John moves back in with Sherlock and they become a couple, John doesn't purposefully unpack his things in his room. He takes advantage of this new arrangement and lets it be known that this is his flat, too, by unpacking his things wherever he wants. Sherlock takes advantage of wanting to learn about John by looking through John's things.
When John gets home, Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on their bed looking through a large box of photos containing almost the entirety of John's youth (Harry's flat flooded a few years ago and in fear of losing things, she sent John the important things). Sherlock has four piles: his favorites, his not-so favorites, a pile of Harry alone, and a pile of John and Harry.
John walks through the door and pauses as he sees Sherlock looking through his things. Sherlock, who is trying to be more considerate of John and his things, looks at John and says, "I'm sorry."
John smiles at Sherlock's attempt. "It's alright, love," he goes to the bed and begins to get on. "What have you got here? Shove over."
"Photos. This box was full of them, so I decided to go through them."
John frowns because Sherlock's attempt to be more considerate is over. The frown doesn't last long though, because Sherlock plants a firm kiss on John's cheek. John looks at him and they both smile at each other. Then Sherlock's attention goes back to the photos.
"What's going on here?" John asks, pointing to each pile.
"Well, these are just Harry. These are you and Harry. These are just you. And these," Sherlock picks up the largest pile, "These are my favorite ones of you."
"Just me? Harry's not your favorite?"
"Harry has never been my favorite," Sherlock glances at John then back to the photos, "Don't look that way, she's not your favorite either."
"You don't have to be so blunt about it."
Sherlock shrugs. John takes the favorites pile and begins to look through them. Every few he chuckles.
"What's funny?" Sherlock asks.
"It's just these photos. I didn't realize they've been saved this whole time."
"Tell me about them."
"Huh?" John looks puzzled.
"Tell me about the photos. What's the story behind this one?" Sherlock picks up one where toddler John is laughing and smiling with something in his hand.
John laughs at the photo, "Let's see, I must have been three-years-old? That sounds right. That, in my hand, I think it's a mud pie. Yeah, it is. I made them for my mother every afternoon. I thought it was a suitable snack."
"You ate dirt?"
"Of course. Every young boy has at one point in his life."
"What about this one?" Sherlock hands John a photo where John is a little bit older and his hands are colorful.
"Ah! This one. One of my person favorites. I discovered paint. I was about five, and I finger painted our entire white fence."
"Were you in trouble?"
"No, my mother had a soft spot for my adorable face."
Sherlock takes the photo from John and examines it, "Your mother and I have this in common."
"So you won't be angry if I tell you I accidently burned your blue robe when I threw it in the dryer?"
Sherlock looks at John quickly, "You did what?" he asks, looking at John's face. John looks sympathetic and sorry, his eyes as large as he could get them and he cutely frowns. Sherlock sighs and his attention goes back to the photos. He picks up another and hands it to John.
"This is my school picture. I think I'm eight or so."
"You look charming." Sherlock says.
"I tried."
"How about here?"
John examines another picture. John's older and taller, and he's shyly looking at the camera. "I was on my way to my first school dance," he says, "I didn't want my mother to take pictures, but she insisted. This is the only one she managed to get without my date."
"What was she like?"
"Who?"
"Your date."
"I can't remember. I think her name was Cindy or something. She really liked me, so I asked her."
"Didn't you like her?"
"I don't think so. No more than a friend."
"I was your friend," Sherlock says while looking at photos.
"Sherlock, I was fifteen. Are you…jealous? Jealous of a girl I knew over twenty years ago?"
"Of course I am. Look at you. Why wasn't I around then?"
"I've seen your teenage pictures. I probably wouldn't have given you a second glance."
"Yeah, and you were straight back then."
"That's not entirely true," John says, "There were a few boys down my path."
"You never told me that." Sherlock says, stunned.
"You never asked."
"I don't ask."
"Yeah, you observe. Never saw that coming, did you?"
Sherlock laughs, "Of course I did. I turned you down that night at Angelo's, I saw what you were after."
"I told you, Sherlock, I wasn't asking you out that night."
"Sure you were. Nobody says, 'Right. Good.' to someone being single if they don't want to change that."
John laughs, "I will never admit that."
"We can agree to disagree, John. Tell me about this one."
John picks up a picture of a baby him crying. "Why's this one in your favorite pile?"
"It's not. I just want to know what's going on here."
"Let's see then. I was about three. I think Harry pushed me."
"Why was it taken?"
"I think it was an accident. See, it's not straight? It's like someone's holding it down at their side."
"Why did Harry push you?"
"I don't know. She was mean. She used to sit on my chest."
"How awful."
"Yeah. But we had fun."
John and Sherlock look at the pictures in silence for a while. After Sherlock's seen them all, he sits back against the headboard and puts an arm around John's waist. John continues looking at the photos, telling Sherlock trivia about each one and enjoying Sherlock's silence. Sherlock nuzzles against John's shoulder and John kisses Sherlock's head.
When they're finished, Sherlock takes his five favorites and puts them in different places. He stands one on the mantle, one on his bedside table, one in his closet, one on his laptop, and one in his coat pocket. Each day when he looks at them he smiles, knowing that the boy in those photos are his John.
