John brought with him loads of things. I didn't realise how much he had amassed in such a short amount of time and he said he had left a lot behind.
"I don't see this all fitting," I told him as he brought in not one but two large toy chests.
"We'll have to give Rosie the bigger room! The one she's in is barely larger than a cupboard!"
"Does she really need all this?" She had enough clothes to clothe all the children in town. "67 shirts? Who needs 67 shirts?"
"You'd be surprised how quickly she goes through clothes."
Rosie was wearing a stained white shirt and had holes in her leggings.
"And the toys!" She had dolls, a doctor's set, blocks, dress up clothes, play jewelry, her own kitchen, her own vanity, her own house, the chemistry kit that I had bought her… and there was still more coming!
"Yes… she's a bit spoiled," John shrugged it off as if it was no big deal.
"Whatever happened to imagination? Moderation? And what are you training her to be?" I said, pulling out a naked baby doll. "Where's the science and mathematics? All I see is primer for motherhood: for cooking and cleaning! You should be stimulating her mind not forcing her into a pink box!"
"She likes pink!"
"She likes animals and her own creativity, not these social stigmas! She'd be happy with a tin can and a stick!"
"I'm doing my best!" He argued. "And where were you when I was buying all this? That's right! Tucked away in your own world! Not helping me with anything. Now put these toys in the larger room and get over yourself."
I obliged, begrudgingly. Not believing that a child should get a large room when she herself was so tiny.
"We can put the rest of her toys in the garden, I suppose. She's not had a proper outdoor play area before," John said, quickly finding out that space was tight no matter what.
"Why don't we just replace the kitchen with a toy kitchen, the furniture with toy furniture, and we live in a toy house?" I offered.
"Very funny, now help me move the bed."
John insisted on employing me for back breaking labour instead of hiring a mover. In the end we were exhausted and only had managed to get two-thirds of the furniture indoors.
"I'll donate some of her toys. Would that make you happy?" John asked, leaning back in his chair.
Bart took a seat on the foam play sofa and made it his own while Jack and Morgan fought over a plush animal. They didn't have toys of their own and didn't know what to make of all the mess.
"I'd be happy to have some space of my own again."
"Welcome to my life!" John said, throwing a plush pig for the dogs to chase.
We bickered over the silliest of things. What Rosie wore, what she ate, what she played with… John made it impossible to make a single decision.
"She can't play outside in the mud, eating worms, in her underwear! The neighbours are going to call social services!" John shouted.
"She's exploring her environment! It's natural!"
"She's filthy!"
"It'll all wash off," I assured him as he brought the muddy little girl inside. "Where's the fun in being young if you can't do things that are otherwise socially unacceptable?"
"She is 5 years old, she must be taught right from wrong."
John dragged her kicking and screaming to the tub to wash her off. She was livid that he was washing her hair and combing it out. She reminded me of myself at that age. Oh, to be young again…
Growing up was harsh. Other children were cruel. My siblings psychologically tortured me and scarred me for life. I turned out… fine… mostly.
"Sherlock, help," John pleaded.
"You're doing a fine job," I assured him.
He glared at me before smacking me in the shin with a wet flannel. The doorbell chimed.
"I'll get it," I told him; he rolled his eyes.
I opened the door.
"Yuck," I said, coming face to face with my brother.
"Who is it?" shouted John.
"It's one of those damned door-to-door sex workers!"
"Oh, do shut up," Mycroft sneered.
"No unwanted solicitation applies to you, brother dear," I said pointing at the sign beside the door. Even the hounds were uninterested in the unexpected visitor.
"You've been busy, I see," he remarked. Either he meant the state of my living space or my face, either way his comment was unwelcome.
"Very busy, now goodbye!" I tried shutting the door in his face but he stuck his umbrella in the way.
"This isn't a social call, Sherlock. I've come on business. Family business," he said with a look of discontent that we were actually related.
"A text wouldn't suffice?"
"I'm afraid not."
I stepped aside and allowed him in. The fat cat, Queen Fuzzybottoms (or whatever his name was) took an interest in my brother. Probably because he smelt like herring. He rubbed up against Mycroft's leg and Mycroft shooed him away. This made the cat fancy him even more. Mycroft hated most living things and cats were no exception.
"You should have a seat," he told me.
"You can just tell me who's died, I don't need all the theatrics."
"Nobody has died, now have a seat."
I furrowed my brow. "Cancer?"
"Stop guessing, you look like a fool. Your surroundings have lowered your IQ. Think, why would I possibly be here to deliver the news in person?" He waited a moment. "You are clueless."
I took a seat. I couldn't think of anything that should be more upsetting than death or terminal illness.
"Our mother and father," he took in a sharp breath. "Are getting a divorce."
"Is that all?" I asked, getting up from my chair. "You came all this way to tell me-"
"There's more, have a seat."
I took a seat, seeing the grave look on his face. I was certain what he was about to tell me was of a fate worse than death.
"There was a mistress," he explained. "And a… child."
"You mean…"
Mycroft nodded, solemnly.
"How old?"
"Roughly your age."
"No," I said, refusing to believe there was another one. "There can't be!"
"Calm down."
"No! I will not calm down. Don't you tell me to calm down," I told him, pointing a finger at his big fat nose.
"I knew this was how you would react."
"React to what?" John asked. He was standing in the room, soaking wet from head to toe.
"Nothing!" I told him.
"Our father has had an affair; Sherlock and I have a half brother." he said as if he was reciting the weather report.
"No I don't! You've made up lies before!"
"Sherlock, you're being unreasonable," Mycroft told me.
"Sherlock, you should have a seat," John said, grabbing me by the arm.
"Stop telling me I should have a seat! I'm fine!"
"You're clearly upset," John said.
"I'm not upset!" I told him, yanking my arm away. "You have to ruin everything!" I told Mycroft.
"Sorry to ruin your idea of domestic bliss; I was simply relaying the information," He glowered at me. "Better to hear it from me."
"I hate you," I seethed with rage.
"Sherlock, everything's ok, this doesn't change anything," John said softly.
"No, I can't take it," I told him. "Not another one."
I was shaking. I couldn't see straight.
"He's only after money," Mycroft chimed in. "He's not interested in anything else."
I closed my eyes, I felt uneven on my feet. "What is his name?"
"Sherlock," John said.
"HIS NAME?" I shouted at the top of my lungs.
"Tobias Gregson."