They woke early, mostly because Sherlock wouldn't let them sleep much past six in the morning. He was far too energized for his own good and going crazy stuck in the flat. He propelled himself onto John's bed to wake him and jumped on Mycroft's chest to shake him into conciousness.
John attempted to make them a filling breakfast with the limited things in the fridge and then they set out. Sherlock would rush forward, realize no one was close enough for comfort, and then run back, grabbing either Mycroft's or John's arm and dragging them forward with him until he lost the contact and would repeat the whole process again.
They arrived at the museum with a small crowd, though because it was a weekday, it wasn't too busy. They shuffled in with a few others and John squatted down to tell Sherlock the rules. He didn't feel like he was being too condescending, since he had had to do the same thing on a few occasions when the boy had been a grown man.
"Alright, Sherlock. You stay with me and Mycroft, understand? You do not wander off on your own and you are not to be rude to the people here. If you do lose us, go to one of the employees and have them announce it. Understand?" Sherlock rolled his eyes but nodded, taking John's hand with a grin. John smiled back and patted the boy's curls, threading his other arm with Mycroft's. The teen looked up, confused, before he shrugged off the feeling and let John do as he liked with his arm as he used the other to study the museum map.
They wandered for a few hours, Sherlock jumping from one exhibit to the next, and John found most of his attention drawn to the little mass of curls and energy while Mycroft shuffled along behind them. He looked utterly bored but was loathe to say it.
When this had originally happened, he had not really been planning on museum visits and watching out for his little brother once again. He sighed. He could have been at home, behind his lovely wooden desk, working on important issues and having foreign dignitaries shaking beneath his carefully worded letters. He wouldn't have been able to do anything face-to-face, but he would have been able to do enough to retain his position.
The longer they wandered, the more he began to fume beneath his careful composure. This was not what Getting Out Of The Flat was meant to be. It was just too boring. He already knew everything that these exhibits were showing off, and he didn't rightly care one lick about any of it. He glanced in Sherlock's direction and found that the little hellion was beginning to look a bit peaky, slowing down and rubbing at his eyes before showing John yet another fascinating plaque and going off on a ten minute lecture about it. Mycroft just leaned his head back and sighed lowly to himself, hoping that Sherlock would either grow hungry or tired very, very soon and then they could leave this Fortress of Deathly Boredom.
His nose wrinkled up in distaste at his own thoughts. What, was he sixteen now? Oh. He grinned to himself and sighed once again. Now he understood why teenagers seemed to default to moody, angry blobs while forced to do something they found truly detestible.
"John, I'm getting a bit hungry." After a second's pause, he turned to his brother and asked, "Are you hungry, Mycroft?" He asked it as innocently as possible, glancing to his brother for the first time in hours.
"Absolutely starving." He gave his brother a slightly tight grin and followed them out as he smiled for real. Finally, they were leaving!
They had an uneventful lunch where Mycroft sat ram-rod straight in his seat, suddenly annoyed and angry for no reason. He didn't even know why he was suddenly grouchy and frowning. Sherlock was yawning while he ate his chips while continuing to talk incessantly and John was watching them both with a tiny smile he was trying to hide behind his cup of coffee.
They left the little cafe soon after and wandered back home. Sherlock raced up the steps and Mycroft followed John up, frowning even deeper now. Even Mycroft felt that teenagers were far too moody, and he hoped Anthea could fix this soon. He didn't think he could go through this stage again, even if he was near the tail-end of the worst of it.
Mycroft flopped down in Sherlock's chair and watched with an unhelpful grin as John tried to coerce Sherlock into taking a nap. The boy seriously looked about ready to drop right then and there, but he was fighting it strongly, stubborn to the last moment, and pushing John away loudly.
"I'm not tired! I don't need a nap. I'm not a toddler." He pouted quite dramatically and ran for cover behind Mycroft's chair. Mycroft, however, was on John's side in this matter. Sherlock had taken naps for years when he was little, until school got in the way. He reached behind the chair and lifted Sherlock into his lap, tugging him close as he struggled.
"Lemme go, Mycroft! I don't wanna take a nap! I'm not even tired." Mycroft just held him until he stopped fussing, stopped fighting him and actually laid his head on Mycroft's shoulder, shifting so he was sitting comfortably in his brother's lap before truly falling asleep, wrapping an arm around his neck.
Mycroft leveled a gloating smile in John's direction and John nodded, clapping quietly. "Bravo, my brave Sherlock-whisperer." Mycroft smiled smugly and stood, taking Sherlock into their room and setting him on the bed, sighing as he looked around. He really, really, really, REALLY didn't want to be here. John was nice and all, be he needed to think. He needed puzzles and his work and his books. What he didn't need was to be looking after his baby brother again, cleaning up after him, making sure he didn't maim himself, didn't do any permanent damage to anything important. He didn't want to do this all again.
John came in to check on them a few minutes later and motioned for Mycroft to follow him to the kitchen. As he sat, Mycroft was presented with a cup of tea as John took the seat opposite him. They each played with their cups but neither really wanted them. Finally, John set his down and sighed, long and slow.
"I noticed you were a bit quiet at the museum. Not really your cup of tea?" John asked, smiling as he glanced down at the table, chuckling dumbly at his little joke. Mycroft could feel his face tightening, but he tried to keep himself neutral.
"It was a bit boring," he allowed, fiddling with the handle to the mug. "Sherlock seemed to enjoy it, though."
John looked around the room randomly, seemingly looking for something before he turned his eyes back to Mycroft. "I'm trying. I really am trying to make you both happy. I know this isn't going to be fun for anyone, but I want you to be happy. At least, to try. I'm not going to push anything, but I would like it if you tried as well. Or at least told me the truth about things. If you're not having fun, we can go somewhere else. Not everything's got to be about Sherlock." John smiled wide down at Mycroft. The teen, for his part, was now very uncomfortable. His whole life had revolved around his little brother. If Sherlock wasn't happy, then God-forbid anyone else have the right to be happy.
"Sorry. I'm just not that good at telling the truth when it comes to that sort of thing." There, that was good enough to get John off his back for a while, right?
"Oh, come off it, Mycroft. You're a really terrible liar." Apparently not, then. "Your unhappiness was painted all over your face as we walked around today. I would just like a bit of honesty."
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You've lived with Sherlock long enough to know that we do not give our true feelings very easily. Or rather, we do. But I have learned not to show my feelings; it saves a lot of time." He felt like he might be saying too much at once, but John was staring at him, really looking at him, and it was making him uncomfortable. "What?" he snarled, his arms flying up protectively around his chest.
"You do not need to hide in this house, do you understand? I'm not going to get angry with you for telling me the truth. I want you to. There will be no lying here, yes?"
Mycroft's face screwed up in delayed anger. Who did John think he was, a shrink? His father? He couldn't make him do anything he didn't want to. Mycroft caught himself before he voiced his opinions, and damned this teenage body. Youth definitely came with a price. "Sorry. Whatever you say."
He stood and wandered down the stairs, to the door. Confused, John followed him down and found him sitting on the stoop, his hands hanging between his knees and his breathing coming in quick bouts. Giving him some space, John went back upstairs to check on Sherlock.