A/N: Just realized that I completely forgot to thank Medcat for being my beta on this. She really helped a lot.
A Little Peek
Mycroft POV
It was a summer day among many summer days. Looking back, I see it as a remarkable
glimpse into the character of the man my brother would become, but at the time I percieved it merely as the act of a precocious seven year old who had tendencies bordering on impertinent. But I get ahead of myself.
It was one of those few cherished days when one could actually see the sun, and was not quite suffocating on the London pollution, so we decided to take a walk. Father was with us, another rare occurrence, brightly commenting on the flowers and the laughter, and we, Sherlock and I, trailed behind him nodding like dutiful sons. Hyde park was beautiful this time of year, and a favorite spot for beggars, offering an endless supply of people (all with pockets to pick), and plenty of places to hide if a constable happened to walk through.
On this particular day though, a young girl, stark raving mad wandered through the trees while talking to herself quite loudly, and shooting paranoid glances at the people walking by. Father pulled Sherlock closer, which was my first instinct as well, and said with a stern voice, "Sherlock, do not stare."
"Why not?" There was no trace of whining in his voice, only curiosity.
"Because it is rude." It was just like Sherlock to question Father's authority.
"But she looks lost." There was a hint of sadness in my younger brother's eyes, which was lost on father who merely adhered to conventions. "Why's she like that father? Can we help her?"
"She's ill. Now turn around." Father kept walking, "Why can't you try to be a little more like Mycroft?"
A brief feeling of pride shot through me before Sherlock retorted, "Because I'm Sherlock," He said that as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"Perhaps, but you are still a boy of only seven years, and little boys must listen to their fathers." And that ended the matter.
Years may pass, and they have, but this memory is a fond one among many other unpleasant ones. It was not long after this that father's verbal abuse escalated. I was forced to grow up, but Sherlock never ceased being that little boy who took in everything, and then questioned it all. I only wish father could have seen.