From cjnwriter: Young Sherlock rescues a baby reindeer and intends to nurse it back to health. How does his family react?
The Holmes family decided that Christmas to holiday in Gare Loch, due to a suggestion from Mrs Holmes's friend that Scotland was beautiful that time of year. Her husband, ever reticent, hadn't argued and so they had travelled there on the 12th December. They arrived to heavy snow and a poorly-heated house, the only respite being that it was a large enough property that Mr and Mrs Holmes's interactions were kept to a minimum. She sewed in the living room whilst he read his papers in the study.
Mealtimes were the only times they were forced to spend together, along with their two sons Sherlock and Mycroft. Sherlock was only six and Mycroft thirteen, although both very intelligent for their age. They did not get their academic intuition from either of their parents.
"I found a baby reindeer t'day."
Sherlock's announcement was met with a resounding silence from his father, a faint smile from his mother and a crinkled brow from his brother.
"She's called Dasher!"
"Oh, that's nice dear," Mrs Holmes said, and called the maid for more tea.
"We don't get reindeer in Scotland," Mycroft said, but then, because his brother rarely lied, "Where did you find her?"
"In the stable, she was hurt!"
"What were you doing there?" Mr Holmes demanded. "That's not a job for you, Sherlock."
Sherlock, sensing his father's impending anger, shrugged mulishly. The conversation was dropped.
The next day, Mycroft was sitting by the window in his bedroom, reading one of the books he had brought with him on the trip. Unlike his younger brother, he preferred indoor activities to outdoor and when his mother had announced where they were going he knew there would be little to keep him entertained.
Speaking of which, he could see his brother now, with an armful of apples no doubt pilfered from the kitchens. It had stopped snowing for the time being, but the snowbanks were deep and Mycroft observed as Sherlock sunk and tripped, huffing every time he dropped one of his many apples.
Mycroft rolled his eyes and returned to his reading.
"So, where is she?"
After a week, Mycroft's boredom and curiousity had gotten the better of him, and he had gone to investigate the mystery of his brother's baby reindeer. The stables, however, were bare. Save for a few chewed apple cores.
Sherlock shrugged, throwing his mittened hands wide. "Gone."
"Gone where?"
Sherlock smiled beatifically and pointed to the sky outside. "That way."
"But that doesn't make any sense," Mycroft whined, stomping outside the stable to peer up at the white sky. It looked as though more snow was on its way. "Who ate the apples?"
"Told you! Dasher!" Sherlock shoved one of the cores into Mycroft's hand. "See?"
Mycroft turned the core over and saw what his brother meant - the bite marks couldn't belong to any of the horses, they were too small. But definitely not human.
"Was she still hurt when she left?"
"Her friends got her." Sherlock tottered outside. "C'mon Mycrof', let's play snowballs!"
Mycroft groaned. Little brothers were one of the most frustrating inventions on this earth!