"Sherlock..." It's Mycroft's voice, taking on its mature tone which is probably his attempt at trying to sound intimidating. Being intimidating to Sherlock doesn't work when there's a door between yourself and Sherlock.
From my position of safety on the dresser in Sherlock's room – I am grateful for Sherlock to consider me before he lets the beetles out of the jar so they can run around the floor and he can see where they go – I watch as Sherlock lies on his tummy and tries to see where one of his beetles went.
Sherlock flaps a hand in the door's direction even though his brother can't see him and says in a bored tone, "Go away, Mycroft." He strains with his arm under the wardrobe as far as it can go but he still smirks when Mycroft sighs outside.
"Father wants us to get ready for tea, Sherlock. We need to look our best for when Granny Holmes comes to visit!" Mycroft tries the door handle again but finds that it is just as locked as it was several minutes ago. He growls in frustration. "Since when have you been so stubborn?"
"August of '82," Sherlock recites as if he's said it many times before. "Ah," he breathes quietly, extracting his arm from underneath the wardrobe. In his clutched hand must be one of his runaway beetles. He winks at me and sticks the little black beetle into his trouser pocket. Says loud enough for Mycroft to hear, "Now run off and play with your books or something."
"Granny Holmes is coming in half an hour and you need to get ready."
"I don't like Granny Holmes. Or Father. Why would I wish to waste an evening in the same room as them?" It is asked as a genuine question. Before Mycroft can even attempt to form an answer, he continues, "Father drinks too much, Granny Holmes wants him to quit and so all she's going to be doing this evening is nagging into his ear about responsibilities. You like that sort of thing, Mycroft; you can listen to it if you want to." He gets to his feet and picks up the empty jar and begins to round up all visible beetles.
I hear Mycroft take a deep breath behind the door. "If Mummy could see you now—"
Sherlock tenses but does his best to hide it. "If you could see me now," he quickly corrects, "you'd not bother playing the 'Mummy card'. It's old and tattered and I wish you'd just stop trying. Frankly, I don't care."
There is silence from behind the wooden door; a tense, stunned silence. It lasts for almost a minute. Sherlock continues collecting beetles from underneath boxes and underneath the bed and from inside shoes, seemingly oblivious. He counts the beetles in the jar quietly, "...Seven, eight... nine." He taps his pocket gently. "Ten."
He sets the jar on the dressing table beside me and turns me so that I have no choice but to watch them which is certainly not what I want to do but I don't have much choice in the matter. "Look after those," he says and it's the first words he's spoken to me all day. He then turns and takes his time walking across the room and to the door. He turns the lock tab and it clicks open.
He opens the door quietly to reveal a stony-faced Mycroft. "You don't have to say it. I know you care." He brushes past his big brother. "Nice suit. I'll just go and wash up for Granny Holmes and Father. We have to look our best for them," he says lightly, swinging his long arms as he saunters away down the hall and out of my sight, "isn't that right, brother dear?"
Mycroft narrows his eyes and clenches his fists at Sherlock's sudden change of heart, but he turns and marches along the hall in the opposite direction, slamming the door to Sherlock's room shut before he goes.
I watch the nine beetles as they scuttle around in circles, around and around, some even go over each other. Sherlock left a leaf in the bottom of the jar for them to keep them entertained as much as a beetle can be entertained. The sun has almost set outside the window when I hear the front door open and Granny Holmes' distinctive voice drift up the staircase.
At around seven I discover that Granny Holmes' scream is as distinctive as her voice.
When Sherlock storms back into his room he is preceded by a lot of shouting downstairs and followed by Mycroft. Sherlock flops down onto his bed and sniggers. Mycroft deliberately stands just inside the doorway on usually forbidden territory, the light from the hall silhouetting him. He reaches over with one hand to flick on the bedroom light.
Sherlock sniggers some more as he undoes the knot of his tie and unbuttons his shirt's top button. Mycroft glares. There is no trace of humour on his face whatsoever.
"Oh, come on, Mycroft!" Sherlock says. "You have to admit that it was funny." He giggles before he can stop himself.
"You put a beetle in Granny Holmes' trifle!"
"The old hag deserved it. You saw the look on her face."
"I did," Mycroft replies and there is a tiny flash of a smile before he sobers and his face goes blank again. I can see that Sherlock noticed it.
He regards his big brother. "What happened to you, Mycroft?"
Mycroft frowns. "I beg your pardon?"
Sherlock sits up on the bed and drops his tie to the floor. "I mean, you used to be so much fun," he elaborates. "You never laugh any more. Where has all of the fun gone, Mycroft?" Sherlock throws his head back and laughs, unable to hold it in any more.
Mycroft doesn't answer. Instead he smiles; a true smile. He watches his brother for a few seconds before he starts laughing as well. It's such a rare sound that it catches Sherlock and I by surprise. "I – I suppose..." he says through his rediscovered humour, "the old bag did deserve it. Goodnight, Sherlock." He turns and walks away, chuckling quietly to himself as he goes.