a.n - many thanks for the response as such! Just a cute one here. Sort of fluffybrotherstuff. But the type of fluffybrother that... well these two un-fluffy brothers can have. Enjoy ;)
Brother... or are you?
Mycroft Holmes had one goal in life and that was to be exactly like his father.
As a young boy he had watched with deep adoration as his father conversed on political and financial topics - charmed their house guests - captured the heart of everyone who met him. His mother exuded a similar aura - but of course, as a boy, it was his father he aspired to be. And to be truthful, he had been given the first step of this goal from his conception.
Out of the two of them - it was Mycroft who had taken after his father's looks.
He had deep, blue eyes (which constantly wriggled him out of trouble for they always seemed so honest) and his father's dark locks - a signature of the Holmes' bloodline it would seem. For a young man, he almost duplicated his father in looks and in the way he approached things - always so rationally and with logic.
There was no doubt that Mycroft Holmes was a Holmes. Sherlock... well, in Mycroft's mind - he must have taken after some lost relative in his mother's genetic line for he looked nothing like anyone.
When Sherlock had been born, Mycroft (who would never admit to this in his life) had fawned over the baby like an obedient older brother should. They had been shocked at how quickly it was that Mycroft took the idea of a sibling. But then, Sherlock began to display odd behaviour - idiosyncrasies babies of his age should not be doing yet. And for a whole year, the young boy convinced himself that Sherlock was not his brother.
He was a changeling! An alien! Of course, now he had lost that idea.
Until of course, when Sherlock came up to him one Saturday morning and said very effortlessly,
"Do you think I'm adopted?"
Mycroft (who had been eating quite comfortably at the time) almost choked on his cornflakes.
"Good morning to you too, Mr. Brightside." He chuckled. He then eyed the young, curly haired boy and blinked as he realized that he was serious.
"Why do you ask?" He drawled innocently, "Saw an extra hoard of chromosomes in your blood or something?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, clearly dismayed by his brother's lack of scientific knowledge. Mycroft shrugged, progressing on to ignore the boy until Sherlock seemed to scowl.
"I'm serious Mycroft." The eight year old sighed.
For a few moments, a little voice told Mycroft to humour the boy and say yes. I do believe that you are not of our blood. Knowingly of course, he approached it the correct way and shook his head,
"Sod off, Sherlock." He said with a wink, "Of course you're not adopted."
Spoon scooping another fill of yellow cornflakes, Mycroft rolled his eyes as he realized that his brother still seemed to be pondering the subject. Instead of pressing his conclusion further though, he went with -
"Why do you ask then, brother?" He asked, taking a mouthful and chewing in rhythm.
Sherlock seemed to be hesitant as he spoke. Mycroft noted the slight vulnerability he conveyed - something he never saw Mr Stoney Eyes ever display,
"I feel like I don't belong in this family."
The older boy's face grew a slight crease. He swallowed his food and prompted a small chuckle, "You must be joking. Sherlock." He rolled his eyes, "Yes. You're a little odd. But this whole family's a bit of a windmill of insanity..." Mycroft knew this very well - after all their parents were nowhere near the bay of normality the rest of the world seemed to dwell in.
Instead of saying how one's day has gone, his father would rattle on about political bloodshed on the table while his mother would sing Christmas Carols in the middle of April as she shared the food around.
"Yes. But I don't look like any of you."
"Genetics are unpredictable." Mycroft argued back softly.
"Mummy treats me differently," Sherlock seemed to sigh - Mycroft noted that this must be where the problem lies - "It must be because she has adopted me and she feels like that... Jacob Roswell is adopted and he complains about that all the time..."
"It's because you're a child, Sherlock. She can't treat you like she treats me."
"But I don't want to be treated like a child." Sherlock scowled deeply, scratching his head. His older brother had to hide a smile at his old-fashioned striped pyjamas (the one Nana had got him for Christmas) - "And you still qualify as a minor! You're not that old."
"True, I give you that." Mycroft toasted with his juice cup, "But come on. Do you really think you're adopted?"
The small boy nodded firmly. The fifteen year old sighed. Being stubborn... it definitely runs in the family, "How about this. Look at us. We're not that different."
Sherlock snorted. "Right, Mycroft." The maturity of the eight year old seemed to crumble as the young boy poked his tongue out, "We are."
"Fine. Name one difference." The fifteen year old chewed his bottom lip, convinced he was to win this argument, "And nothing about looks. We are all pretty sure you got your looks from Sergio Armand - Mummy's old lover from Italy."
Mycroft smirked widely as Sherlock's eyes seemed to darken,
"That's still not funny."
"Yes it is," The boy choked, "That's why it's ironic that you hate pasta so much."
"...Christ, I hate you." Sherlock growled.
"Hate you too." Mycroft winked, "See. That's a similarity."
"That doesn't count." Sherlock sighed, scratching his hair thoughtfully as a brightness entered normally dull eyes, "You like order and... crazy, lunatic stuff with neatness... and I'm chaotic."
How to argue with that? "Mummy is organized chaos. Could have got it from her."
"I thought we were talking about you and I!"
"Were we?" Mycroft posed innocently.
"Mycroft! Honest!" The young boy protested, frustrated with his brother's lack of seriousness, "I'll experiment on your stupid dolls! I will!"
The words caught the back of Mycroft's throat and venomously, he leaned forwards, "They're not dolls!" He argued back, equally as childishly (much to his younger brother's elation) "They're figurines. How many times have I told you that?"
"There's one of a ballerina."
"She was doing an arabesque. That's my favourite ballet move."
"You have a favourite ballet move?" Sherlock blinked - for once at a loss.
Mycroft reddened knowing his mother took him to Covent Garden far too many times. It had been so many times that it was difficult for him not to have a favourite ballet move from the various productions he had seen.
"And it was not an arabesque," Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes, "I'm pretty sure it was -"
"I know my arabesques, Sherlock." Mycroft snapped.
"No...I'm sure its-"
"No-"
"-Let me finish!"
"No." Mycroft repeated, watching the boy go blue with rage, "See. We both like ballet."
"I don't like ballet. I've read books. There's a difference." Sherlock seemed to wave it off, face returning to normal, "Now... as I was saying. I do think I'm adopted."
"Just ask Mum then."
Sherlock seemed to gasp, "What? I can't just do that." Mycroft blinked, unsure entirely what was wrong with just asking. But then again this was Sherlock and he seemed to make things difficult for himself even in the simplest of means.
"Then what are you going to do if you are?" Mycroft exhaled, "God. Stop wasting your time and go upstairs and do all that odd stuff you do."
"I can't. What if I am?"
"What if you are." Mycroft had to resist throwing the rest of his breakfast on the boy's face, "Sherlock. Seriously."
"You really don't think I'm adopted, Mycroft?"
There was a moment of silence before Mycroft inhaled softly and tenderly glanced at his sibling,
"No. In all honesty, I think you are about as adopted as I am dumb."
"That's questionable."
"Shut up and go be weird."
Sherlock smiled widely, "If I was adopted. Would you still treat me like a brother?"
"Course I will." Mycroft beamed, watching the pale, grey eyed boy affectionately, "I've lived with you for eight years, haven't I? That's a hell of a long time in my opinion..."
The curly haired boy nodded, seemingly content with his experiment and glanced at the older boy vacantly,
"Mycroft."
"Yes, Sherlock."
"Can I just say - if you were adopted... I would laugh at your face." Sherlock noted with a small, innocent sneer, "And... I was the one that poised all of your portraits askew in your room last week when you had a primadonna meltdown..."
Mycroft found the cornflakes suddenly tasting bland in his mouth as Sherlock darted out of the room, with a loud yell. The tall, athletic boy brushed his lips off cleanly and then ran out of the kitchen, face angrily growing crimson,
"I BLOODY WELL KNEW IT!" He shrieked, "You bugger Sherlock HOLMES! Come back now!"
It had taken him a whole bloody hour to get them straight again!
Sherlock seemed to be on a confession rampage,
"...I also cracked the code on your journal..."
Mycroft seemed to lose consciousness for a moment, "NO WAY!" That code had been entirely random to prevent Sherlock from ever deciphering it. The boy seemed to grow bored when he was at home and in the past had used his journal as a past time.
No way...
"... Rose Dalfour...how radiant she looks against the light of the glass prisms of Physics class..."
"I swear... I am going to KILL you Sherlock! I swear!"
"Death threats brother," Sherlock's little voice boomed as he scuttled into his room, "are very much last century."
Reaching Sherlock's bedroom, Mycroft thumped his fist on the door, breathless before erupting into hysterics. Behind the wooden surface, Sherlock had collapsed in a heap in a similar state.
In the end, Mycroft knew that Sherlock could not possibly be anything but his brother. He was as loony as their parents.
Just with his little scientific and analytical twist of things.