He was fourteen and back home for the holiday. His friends had visited because it was his birthday, and his family threw a 'small' bash by the pool to celebrate.

Piles of presents from both family and friends adorned a table somewhere on the other end of the garden, while various games and entertainment were set up across their huge yard. Picnic blankets and various sheeting were strewn across the garden for people to sit on and eat at, and the hors d'œuvres were on small tables found at every corner for the visitors to pick up their snacks.

His parents even hired a band—one of those loud, insolent things that he never had the taste for but listened to anyway since everyone does. No, not out of peer pressure, but simply out of the need to relate to everyone. It was important, to be able to relate to people, Mycroft had realised once he got into boarding school. You needed to be social —or at least, fake it well enough—to be tolerated by everyone. Also, if you want to get somewhere, you need to work well with people. It was something that he hoped to be able to teach his little brother someday.

Although, knowing his petit frère, it might never pan out. Sherlock had, what others might call, a "free spirit". Try as everyone might in the household, they couldn't quite contain the little ball of energy, or even, at the very least, direct it to something other than what he would like. Violin worked a little, but it simply wasn't enough to contain him. He was two years ahead of his home studies and was blazing through, but even his tutors were having a hard time catching up with him. He was, reportedly, a right terror, and they were yet to find someone who didn't want to quit after two months.

But he was young. Mycroft hoped he would grow out of it.

Speaking of Sherlock, he had not made an appearance yet for the past few hours. This concerned Mycroft greatly, since this usually meant that Sherlock was up to something. If there was anything that Sherlock liked, it was showing off one of his experiments, and it mattered not if it was appropriate or not. This party would have been quite an opportunity for him.

But his brother still wasn't there, so he waited with bated breath as the event rolled on. It was fine, though, as he was enjoying himself, even if the band's songs were a bit inane. They weren't that bad, after all, and the songs were beginning to grow on him. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad, once Sherlock appeared.

Then came opening some of his gifts.

Really, he should have known better than to think it wouldn't be that bad.

Halfway through the pile, Sherlock had appeared, running through the party with mud all over what should have been a pristine shirt and short-trousers, holding out what looked like a steel tray out in front of him. His whole entourage followed, from his tutor to the two sitters that were assigned to him.

Mycroft sighed, and glanced at everyone apologetically. Everyone else watched the dirty little child bound towards the birthday celebrant. As Sherlock grew closer, Mycroft could sort of see what the boy was carrying—it appeared to be a dissecting pan, and there seemed to be something on it.

Oh. Bloody. Hell. No.

Mycroft could only look on with horror as Sherlock weaved through the crowd, everyone scattering and leaning away in disgust from both the mud and whatever Sherlock was carrying. Mycroft cringed.

'Mycroft! Mycroft!' Sherlock screamed as he ran. 'Look! Look what I've got!' The child paused, and approached slowly. 'Why are you all red?'

'Just get on with it, Sherlock,' Mycroft said, gritting his teeth in a fake smile. 'Please.'

His brother smiled shyly at him, and held out the tray. 'Happy Birthday, Mycroft!'

He looked at the tray, and his face twisted into a mix of horror and maybe a bit of pride, but mostly embarrassment. He took the tray and put it aside, excused himself and Sherlock, and went behind the stage for a moment.

'Sherlock, get out of here —what the hell have you done?' he whispered, almost hissing. His mind tripped over what he'd read the other day on personality disorders, and his mouth just ran on with it, saying the first thing that came to mind when he saw the dead frog. 'You sociopath, for crying out loud—leave! You're ruining my party!'

Sherlock blinked at him, and looked back at the gift he proudly presented. Tears welled in his eyes, and his lips quivered. 'You didn't—You always like what I make, but—"'

'Just leave!'

Mycroft watched the two sitters hovering from a distance and nodded to them imperceptibly. Sherlock wiped at his eyes, mud streaking over his face. 'Sorry for ruining your birthday,' he mumbled and ran around toward the front door of the house.

Mycroft breathed deeply, plastered a rapidly devolving smile on his face, and stepped back onto the stage. As they say, the show must go on.

The party ended, and the gifts Mycroft had been given were brought to his room. It was only then Mycroft really looked at Sherlock's gift again.

It was a frog, neatly dissected, organs painstakingly labelled with bits of paper in 7-year-old handwriting. There was a small note at the bottom, saying 'Happy Birthday Mycroft! Look I learnt all the organs! Love, Sherlock'. It was smudged in places with mud, but the blue script was visible and clear.

Mycroft frowned. He really regretted what he'd done to Sherlock, but his brother needed to know that there was a time and a place for such displays. As everyone left, Mycroft had heard remarks among the guests on his weird brother, and Mycroft had to restrain from filleting their dignities using his weapon of words. They did not have the right to talk about his brother that way. He was only being very nice and actually thoughtful about his gift. It was Sherlock's version of a macaroni artwork, and as ghastly as it might seem, it was very, very good.

Mycroft called for a butler to pack Sherlock's handiwork away into one of the small fridges they had at home for such. He went to Sherlock's room and knocked politely. 'Sherlock?'

'Go away.'

'It's Mycroft.'

'Heard you. Go away.' There was a sniffle.

Mycroft sighed. 'Come on, Sherlock. I only wish to talk.'

'Go away, Mycroft.'

'Please?'

'Fine.' There was a slight click from the door, and Mycroft slowly entered.

Sherlock's room was a mess, with his toys strewn all over the floor, clothes everywhere like his wardrobe had exploded, and books piled haphazardly in a corner. At least, however, the bed was clean and clear, and Sherlock himself had been scrubbed clean of the mud he'd had on earlier. He was buried under his blanket, quivering a little. He'd obviously been crying—and might still be sobbing, even.

Mycroft was confused. Sherlock wasn't usually like this—he would normally have forgot why he was upset after an hour or so, engrossed in a new lesson, game, or minor experiment. What would have distressed Sherlock this much? He tiptoed around the floor, eventually making it to where his brother was.

'Sherlock?' Mycroft said softly, sitting on his brother's bed. 'I saw your gift. Thank you. It was well done.'

Red-rimmed eyes appeared from behind white sheets. 'You didn't like it. You were very angry and upset earlier.'

Mycroft smiled a bit, and scooted closer. 'Sherlock, the gifts that you make for me are very… special. And no one really understands how special they are—all they see is that it's very, very odd.' He patted Sherlock on the head, and pulled down the sheet. Sherlock scowled at him, and pulled it back over his head. Mycroft sighed. 'It was really well done, you know. Even the spellings of the different organs were correct.'

'Really?'

'Really.'

'Thank you.' The sheet ruffled a little, showing that Sherlock had given as slight nod. He, however, didn't remove his sheet.

Mycroft frowned. 'Sherlock, will you please remove the sheet now?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Am I really a sociopath? I read in the encyclopaedia what it is. Do you really think that I'm a sociopath?' Mycroft winced. Damn, he shouldn't have said that. Of course Sherlock would have looked it up—he hadn't meant to say it, he just wanted Sherlock to leave for a bit until… Mycroft sighed, prepared to speak, but Sherlock babbled on. 'I didn't want to hurt the frog but I really wanted to learn about the organs—I even said sorry to it and my tutor said it was okay! Did I do something really bad? I didn't want to kill the frog—I'm really sorry!'

Mycroft sighed again, and leaned over and gave his little brother a hug, pulling the sheet off him. Sherlock struggled a bit. 'No, Sherlock, you're not a sociopath. I am sorry for saying what I said, I was upset because the guests would think that it was disgusting and uncouth, what you did then. You didn't look presentable, and you know that other people talk among themselves about things. It was… well, it was Not Good.'

His brother froze. 'Not Good? But I was merely showing—'

'Yes, but people have a funny way of thinking, remember? They do not think like us.'

Sherlock hiccupped a little. 'Okay. Not Good, then. But how would I know—'

'You can always ask. You can ask me, all right? It's fine. You didn't know. Don't worry about it.' Mycroft soothingly ran fingers through his brother's hair. He had to make it up to him, somehow, even if he knew he was already forgiven.

The next month, Sherlock received a new dissecting kit for his birthday, and a dissection book really meant for secondary students, with a note saying that he could only use it with the tutor and/or Mycroft present. It was the only thing Sherlock fiddled with for the entire month.

Thank you Shwatsonlocked and airamcg for beta work! More to come soon. (I think I might break my once a week promise and try to update earlier. Haha.)