"Mycroft! Mycroft, John said we could actually leave the flat by ourselves today." Sherlock jumped on their bed, which unconvieniently still housed Mycroft, and waited for his brother to pay attention to him. "He's got to go to work, but he said we could do something as long as we let him know where we are. Mycroft, wake up! Aren't you tired of being stuck here, yet?" Sherlock knew he was being obnoxious, but he didn't really care. He needed to have something to do before his brain began to rot.
A groan from the blankets told Sherlock Mycroft was still alive, but was unwilling to get up just yet. "Where do you think we should go? The park seems boring. As does the library. My-croft!" Sherlock sing-songed, shoving at the Mycroft-shaped lump on the bed. Finally, Mycroft had had enough and sat up, yawning widely.
"Alright, I'm up. Where do you want to go?" Sherlock bounced with excitement and flopped against the bed, thinking.
"I take it back. We should go to the park. And then lunch? Where else should we go?"
"Yes, we can do that. I have to do some errands myself, but that should be fine, little brother." Sherlock sighed in contentment and flew from the room, shouting to John that Mycroft had said yes.
Mycroft was regretting saying yes. Sherlock had run off three times and nearly given Mycroft multiple panic attacks. They were now in a bookstore that Mycroft used to frequent when he had been older. He was looking for something to keep him occupied at the flat. Sherlock came up to him with wide eyes and a pleading expression, holding a leather bound book to his chest. Mycroft sighed and nodded, picking a book off the shelf for himself and led Sherlock to the checkout.
Sherlock held Mycroft's hand, only because Mycroft had threatened to buy a leash if he wandered away one more time. They were home now and Sherlock dropped his brother's hand to run upstairs to show John his new acquisition.
Mycroft followed at a slower pace, dragging his feet. No matter how hard he tried, he just wasn't happy here. Sherlock being somewhat kind to him only made him feel so good for so long. And eventually, the little bugger would drop into a foul mood and rip him to shreds. The only solace he got out of the situation was that it was not supposed to be permanent. Anthea was working hard to find a solution to their age problem.
When he walked through the door, John looked up from the book Sherlock had thrust in his face and smiled. Sherlock huffed at being ignored and clambored up into John's lap instead, stealing his attention again. Mycroft rolled his eyes and walked away, deciding to hide away in their room until dinner. Maybe they would get the message and leave him alone.
God, he hated this.