A/N: ...What happened there? Suddenly my email inbox was piling up with reviews begging me to let Teddy live. I'll be honest and say that I was planning on leaving it there, but you readers have all successfully changed my mind. But we are nearing the end now, I'm sad to say. I'll miss Teddy. Thanks again for reading this story, folks. Reviews, alerts and favourites are appreciated greatly.
Mycroft likes to study in the library. Unlike some places he could mention, it is devoid of little Sherlocks who would want to disturb him or ask stupid questions, or slightly bigger Sherlocks who would want to argue about something and anything. But in a library it is nice and quiet. Sherlock never comes here and that is just the way Mycroft likes it.
He chooses a book relevant to the subject he is trying to brush up on – maths this time – and searches for a free desk. The desks here are square and brightly-coloured. Each one is surrounded by shelves of books so no one can see what you're up to. He finds the perfect desk, a bright yellow one, and sits down on a plastic chair of a matching yellow that is a little too small for him. It's not like at home, where all of the chairs are huge and wooden and varnished to within an inch of their lives.
He opens the book. Flicks to a page with a set of simple-to-Mycroft equations on it. Pulls out the maths jotter he uses in school. When he was in primary school and Mummy was still alive, she'd replace the wrapping paper once it became too dog-eared. Mycroft has no time for such a trivial thing; he wraps his jotters in September and from then on it's a race to find out which jotter loses its cover first. The black and blue wrapping paper on his maths jotter has already fallen off for the most part. He realises he's been staring at his jotter for too long and sets it on the desk.
He has a biro in his hand, the nib about to make contact the jotter's page, when there is a commotion from the direction of the library's entrance. There are raised voices but no indistinct words.
That isn't right. Sherlock never comes here.
Mycroft reluctantly gets up and weaves his way through the shelves of tomes. For Sherlock to be here, something terrible must have happened at home. He isn't like Mycroft; he doesn't keep working after school finishes so he has no reason to be here. He never comes.
He reaches the sliding door at the entrance and all he can see outside is the traffic and pedestrians; inside there is no sign of Sherlock. Okay, on a second glace the librarian looks a little flustered. Mycroft casually leans on the desk with elbows. The librarian has her back to him but he can see that she's frantically writing down ISBN numbers. Mycroft clears his throat and she hits the low ceiling with the top of her head, startled.
"Oh – sorry, Mycroft, you made me jump," she says, rubbing her head and putting her hair out of place. She doesn't appear to notice. "Is something the matter?"
"Yes... I was wondering if you'd seen a boy of about this height –" he holds his palm parallel to the floor and indicates an approximate height, deliberately shorter, of course – "with curly, brown hair. Noisy fellow with bright eyes and a pale complexion. You wouldn't have seen him in here before."
She nods. Says, "There was a boy in here like – like that just a moment ago. He ran off in that direction, towards the science section. The commotion was me trying to – to stop him." She points as if Mycroft doesn't already know the layout of the library by heart.
Mycroft closes his eyes for a moment and sighs, "He bit you." The red semi-circular mark on her hand cannot be hidden easily.
"Yes... It – it doesn't matter." She rubs at the mark subconsciously.
"It does. I had hoped that my brother had grown out of such childish forms of self-defence—"
The librarian interrupts in a state of shock, "Brother?"
"—by now. Kindly give me your name and address and I'll have the compensation in your account by this time tomorrow," Mycroft finishes. Father doesn't have to know about this, or what happened to the home economics teacher for that matter.
"You never told me you had a brother, Mycroft." Mycroft doesn't answer her.
"I'll pick up your name and address on my way out then, shall I?" He turns to go and find his pesky little brother but catches himself. "Oh, and apologies in advance for any raised voices."
He starts in the science section first, but already knows before he reaches it that his brother will have moved on; he travels at such a speed that it would be difficult for even the swiftest of athletes to keep up. The table is brown this time, with little fossils painted on it for the younger children to marvel at. Mycroft is certain that his little brother falls into this category. He smirks a little at the thought.
When his brother is upset about something he either turns petulant or destructive – sometimes a combination of both. And more often than not Mycroft is caught in the crossfire and has to pick up the pieces. When he has passed the books on English literature and language he reaches the section for all things numeric. His brother is seated at the bright yellow table with Mycroft's biro in one hand as he scribbles in Mycroft's jotter. Mycroft creeps up from behind to peer over his brother's slender shoulder.
"Are you going to tell me why you are here, Sherlock?" asks Mycroft and as expected there is no answer. Petulant, then. He gives a long-suffering sigh and tries again, "Has something happened to Father?" Sherlock shakes his head. Mycroft watches as he puts some finishing touches on his doodle of Teddy. Mycroft checks his watch. After six in the evening. "Was he drinking again?" A nod; yes. Sherlock leans back in the chair and Mycroft doesn't move in time and dark curls tickle Mycroft's nose. Seemingly dissatisfied with his drawing, he leans forwards again and starts drawing on an eye patch to give Teddy the appearance of a pirate. It's only when Sherlock starts to colour in the patch that Mycroft protests, "Don't waste the ink. Or my jotter, for that matter." Half of the eye patch complete in blue biro, Sherlock stops and crosses the whole picture out. He rips the page in the process, since he leans so heavily.
"What are you doing here?" Mycroft repeats, keeping his voice level and gently prising the pen out of his brother's hand. He moves to stand at the side of the table so he can see his little brother's face. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock finally looks up then and the two Holmes brothers make eye contact, just for a second. But Sherlock doesn't let anything be seen in his eyes and neither does Mycroft. Sherlock stands up from the table. He runs.
Mycroft knows exactly where he's going to be so takes his time as he gathers his things back into his schoolbag. Takes a moment to stare at Sherlock's crossed-out drawing. The symbolism is painfully obvious.
He picks up the librarian's address on the way out.