A/N: Man, I'm not a big fan of shoveling, but thank God for snow days. Sorry for the enormous lag. That's what happens when your brain is in pieces with hundreds of other fandoms.
Two of the smaller faces in the church (one distinctly rounder than the other next to it and to which it bore an uncanny resemblance) stared blankly as the priest humbly delivered his sermon. Although Father Kilpatrick was infinitely more sincere than any other clergyman Mycroft had had the (dis)pleasure of meeting, the Good Lord had evidently not seen it fit to bestow an ounce of oratory talent upon the kind young man. Not that Mycroft minded much. "The more you say, the less is said," Father always told his boys. And it made for shorter homilies.
Mycroft's eyes rolled in the direction of his brother as Sherlock squirmed a little next to him. Sherlock, he thought with a twitch of a smile, would take off running in the direction of home as soon as the final hymn was over, not for any particular reason other than releasing the swollen mass of energy built up and rising inside him. Putting Sherlock in a crowded room and expecting him to sit still for an hour was, after all, about as effective as trying to contain a fizzing stick of dynamite inside of a bottle.
Mycroft snapped out of his thoughts as a chorus of "amen"s resounded through the small building. Father shot a look down at his son as Mycroft gave his own reply after a noticeable lag. Sherlock, whose mind was presently a million miles away from Church, only swung his legs and bit down on his lip.
"Go now in peace."
"Thanks be to God," Mycroft replied in perfect time and with all his heart. Good. Now he was going to go home, finish his exercises in mathematics and literature, and see if Father would just let him take apart that old piano in the sitting room and be done with it—
"Oh, goodness me! Just one more thing, if you all please!" The awkward, skinny priest remembered with a high-pitched yelp as the people began to mumble among themselves.
"Thank you, thank you," he floundered, blushing an incredible shade of scarlet as the room fell silent once more.
"Now, as you all know, most of us here are acquainted with Frank Ferr—er, Mister Ferrin, who has been a devoted member of our parish for many years...and many more to come, we hope," he sputtered on excessively. Mycroft plainly rolled his eyes.
"And as we are all aware, it has now been three months since the passing on of Missus Ferrin, God rest her soul. As such, Mister Ferrin, now the sole resident of his farm, is no longer able to tend to it by himself."
Oh, he knew where this was going. And he knew the place well; everyone did. Most of them passed the small farmstead every week on their way to the church. Of course, the Holmes boys (and Father) had figured out that the old man's wife had taken seriously ill weeks before it became common knowledge. Most people who have been accustomed to putting in a long, hard, solid day's work just to make end's meet all throughout their lives are not quick to let something so trifling as a sniffle or cough come between them and their daily routine, however laborious that routine may be. And weekly mass was part of the Ferrins' routine. Invariably. So it was not altogether uncommon to occasionally hear a lady's delicate sneeze or a man's cracking cough coming from the pew that the Ferrins never failed to occupy every Sunday.
But then, one day not too long ago, Mycroft noticed that there was only one set of footprints—a man's—cutting across the farmhouse lawn and leading down the road.
"Boys," Father had said not seconds after Mycroft had made this observation, "do say a prayer for the well-being of Missus Ferrin when we get inside."
And pray they did, but whether their prayers served to ease the lady's suffering or mercifully hasten her departure from this world to the next Mycroft never knew, as they certainly did not effect some sort of miraculous recovery.
Mister Ferrin had not been seen in Church since the funeral.
"That is why I am asking for at least one of us to drop by his estate a couple of times a week and assist him with any odd chores that are perhaps too demanding for him to undertake at this time. Just a few days a week, if you could spare it. For as the Lord Jesus said to the righteous, 'Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.' Go now in peace."
Before the organist could strike the first note of the closing hymn, Mycroft's eyes widened ever so briefly in realization. It was also true of the laboring-class that many of them were possessed of a certain dignity from their toils. They worked for every last thing they had, after all. Emery and his two sons knew the feeling well; the Holmes family didn't come from money. A few lucky relatives had happened upon it, but Sherlock and Mycroft were the first generation of Holmes children not to grow up in an environment that was strikingly similar to that of the Ferrins'.
Mycroft would be lying if he said that he hadn't a trace of this characteristic pride in him, himself. It stirred within him just last night when Father had tried to give him money. The offer felt like nothing less than a slap in the face. Father was never the kind to be condescending, especially to his own sons, but damn if Mycroft didn't feel just a little bit as though he were being patronized.
So if his mind was set so firmly against accepting charity, then naturally...
Mycroft shoved past his brother (and nearly crushed him to death in the process) out of the bench as soon as the song ended and pushed through the crowd muttering insincere "excuse me"s until he finally reached the priest. He doubted anyone would jump at the opportunity to do unpaid farm work, anyway, but it didn't hurt to be careful.
He waited patiently while some idiot wrung the priest's hand and chewed his ear off for a good five minutes. He dearly hoped this was going to work. It was something of a long shot, after all...
When the moron finally left, Mycroft mustered up his most convincing smile. The priest smiled back.
"Hello, son. What can I do for you?"
"I just wanted to let you know, Father, that I would be more than happy to assist Mister Ferrin whenever he needs it."
Mycroft's sculpted grin faltered for a moment. He felt his face began to grow warm—even he couldn't believe how false he sounded. Father Kilpatrick, however, was nothing short of impressed, and he clamped Mycroft on the shoulder excitedly.
"Oh, would you really? Why, thank you from the very bottom of my heart, lad! How encouraging to see such spirited generosity from among the youth..."
Mycroft's blush deepened as the clergyman went on about how saintly he was. Now he truly was embarrassed.
"It is really no trouble at all, Father. If you will please excuse me, my father and brother are waiting for me."
"Of course, of course. Thank you again...I say, child! I never got your name!"
"Hm? Oh. Holmes. Mycroft Holmes," he supplied casually. As expected, the clergyman looked slightly miffed.
"Alright, then... Mister Holmes."
Mycroft nodded and turned away with a smirk. He hated having such an odd name; people would always have to ask for it twice when introduced to him, for fear of having heard it incorrectly. He was surprised Kilpatrick had been able to pull himself out of that one so smoothly...
His smirk dropped like a dead fly when he caught sight of the smoldering glare Father was sending him presently.
The walk home was a silent one at first. Contrary to his expectations, Sherlock didn't bolt as soon as the mass ended. He could certainly be dull at times, but even Sherlock wasn't unaware of Father's mood right now.
And then, quite suddenly, Father gave his younger son a gentle, almost affectionate pat on the head.
"You're a little bundle of nerves, Sherlock. Why don't you run along."
Sherlock looked up at him with round, hopeful eyes.
"May I, Papa?"
"Go right ahead."
With this affirmation, Sherlock did bolt. Mycroft bit down on his lips to keep back a roar of laughter, for Papa was still quite serious.
"Now, Mycroft," he began. The mirth welled up in Mycroft's throat vanished. He envied his little brother, who had long since become a black speck disappearing into the distance. He wished he was able to run far, far away right about now.
"Do you want to tell me why it is that you, the most tightfisted and lethargic young person I have ever known, are suddenly looking for extra work?"
Mycroft's heart sunk to the pit of his stomach. Of course he knew Father would smell something funny, but he'd had no time to plan for this eventuality. So, having been forced to rely upon improvisation, he turned to a tactic that was often his little brother's wont: answer a different question.
"Well... I can go there after school and finish my exercises after I get home. I don't get that much school work, really—"
"That's very good. Why?" Father interrupted impatiently. It was evident he'd grown tired of his son's dodging and indirect responses. Mycroft's breath halted, and his palms began to grow moist. He already knew how this discussion would end, but even now he considered giving a wise-crack response. He thought briefly back to that night at the dinner table just about two years ago, when he was twelve and Sherlock was but five. Accidentally, he'd let out a rather loud hiccup followed by a belch after swallowing a mouthful of painfully dry ham. Sherlock giggled, and Mycroft went right on eating as if nothing had happened. Father rolled his eyes and pointedly laid down his fork.
"Now Mycroft, I am sure I don't even have to tell you what you should say."
Without missing a beat, Mycroft replied, "Sorry. Must have been the Holy Spirit moving within me."
Little Sherlock exploded into laughter, and Mycroft received a backhander the likes of which he'd never forget. It was one of the few times Father had ever struck him (although he probably would've dared to have been hit more if the blows weren't so painful!)
So should he give in to the inevitable now or go down fighting?
"Well... there's no reason why I can't help. I'm perfectly capable of—"
"Enough. No more games. Do you think I'm blind, boy? Of course I know you're just looking for money!" all-knowing Father stated firmly.
"Money?" shot the perspiring Mycroft impulsively. "I am, but not there! Unless Father Kilpatrick mentioned something about a weekly salary that I happened to miss, I don't see how I could possibly make a profit out of this!"
As soon as it came out of his mouth, Mycroft knew he'd said too much. Oh, damn, damn, damn, he repeated frantically in his head. He chomped down on the inside of his cheeks, bracing himself for the sharp reprimand and blow.
The sharp reprimand and blow that failed to come after a good minute.
Slowly, Mycroft turned to glace at his father, who only gazed straight ahead, looking pensive and stern as ever but effectively calm.
"Beg pardon, sir," mumbled Mycroft.
"You're hardly over five years from twenty, Mycroft. Do you really need to wait for me to strike you for you to understand when you've done something wrong?"
"No, sir," answered the younger Holmes, staring at the dirt road.
"Good. I should like to think my boys are past the age when I need to beat them like dogs in order to correct them."
I should like to think so, too, sir, thought Mycroft in full agreement. They could now see their small but well-kept house growing closer and closer as they continued down the lane, and Mycroft felt he had to speed things along a bit and come to the point now, else they might wind up discussing it in front of Sherlock.
"So, you do not wish for me to assist Mister Ferrin."
"Oh, I never did say that, son," replied Emery Holmes enigmatically and with an undertone of something akin to mischief in his voice.
"Then what am I to do?" asked Mycroft somewhat warily.
"You're going to do exactly what you told Father Kilpatrick you would do."
Really? That's it?
"Well...Of course I will, sir. I'm not sure that I understand your objection."
"And if I discover that you've accepted so much as a farthing from Mister Ferrin," Father went on, "rest assured I will cane you for your troubles."
What?
"But...But you just said that—"
"I just said that you're too old for me to be punishing you all the time. Now act like it. You know who takes on a charitable work with the intention of making profit? Scoundrels, thieves, and, unfortunately more often than not, extortionate politicians. However, I see no reason why a good, responsible young adult cannot sacrifice a small piece of his time to help a poor old man in need of a pair of extra hands...and perhaps even learn a thing or two about how to properly milk a cow in the process," finished the eldest Holmes on a playful note.
What? WHAT?
"Well...Of course, sir," murmured Mycroft, trying desperately to recover his wits. "Although what I stand to gain by acquiring that particular skill is a mystery to me," he added, a little bit disgusted at the thought of having use for it someday. Didn't his father know he planned on moving to the city the moment he was of age and become a professor of mathematics?
"It was my lot when I was a lad, son. And do you know what? Once I was old enough to start school, I could not study hard enough or too long to assure myself that I could rise above such work and spend my life on something worthwhile. But that's exactly what I did. While you, Mycroft, already seem to have this drive, I still think it would do you much good to see firsthand what you were so fortunate to have not been born into."
"Indeed, sir," responded an only half-coherent Mycroft flatly.
There is absolutely no way I can get out of this one.
His heart now flooded with dread and despair; disaster had struck.
A/N: I don't understand why this site no longer allows the use of a question mark and an exclamation point back-to-back. It might be horribly abusable (I'm pretty sure that's not a word) but I think it gives great expression if you use it right. Oh well. Mycroft's a selfish little thing, isn't he? Will he indeed find a way out of this one? Will it pay?