"Very well"

He spent his first two years of life in the family nursery. In the same crib I was placed in. He was a very happy little baby. But not for everyone. As soon as mummy recovered from giving birth she went back to work. So Sherlock was looked after by servants and a wet nurse. However whenever I came home from school and went to see him his little face would light up. He would make the sweetest gurgling sounds.

I would pick him up and hold him. I'd tickle his feet, belly or the back of his neck and he would roar with laughter. He would roll around on the floor and I would lie next to him and he would roll over so he hit me and giggle. Like it was the most amusing thing in the world.

When he discovered crawling, all hell broke loose. Suddenly he was mobile and he was incredibly fast. But he would always rush to me if I spoke his name. His little hands and knees would pound the floor and he would throw himself into my arms, giggling his little head off and wrap his chubby arms around my chest.

The older he got, the cheekier he became. But only around me. Father was a solemn fellow and smelt of whisky and smokes, he commanded respect by his mere presence. Sherlock was more sweet around mummy, I think he reserved his playful side chiefly for the person he saw most. Me. Sometimes he would pull my hair or my nose and laugh. He'd throw his bear at my head and collapse into a pile of giggles.

He was a very curious toddler. Always getting into trouble. He always had a large group of servants following him all over the manor. Our parents were very busy people you see. My little sibling exhausted the whole household. So they usually entrusted him into my care. At fifteen months he was already walking, or rather running, everywhere. His hair was a lot longer now and very very curly. He was forever getting into things. One time I found him in the kitchen with a saucepan on his head, grinning at me. He seemed to adore me.

Im sure he adored mummy and father but when they couldn't get him to stop crying they would give him to me and he would stop immediately. I was everything to him. Sherlock was even more mischievous as a toddler. He still threw his toys at me and giggled when I growled. He liked to poke my cheeks and play with my tie. When he was tired he would climb into my lap and snuggle against my chest to sleep.

I practically raised him. I read him bed time stories, made sure he was dressed warmly if it was cold, made sure he ate everything, brushed his teeth. He wouldn't obey the nannies, or the servants. Only me. I was his whole world and he was mine.

But.. he never spoke. Not until he was about three years old. Nothing seemed to be wrong with him. In fact he seemed very intelligent for his age. Very happy and precocious. But mummy and father were worried that something was wrong. I tried to convince them that some people were late talkers. Like Einstein. They didn't really care. I was just a boy, what did I know. Actually a lot, thank you very much.

I remember the day he did speak though. Mummy and father were having one of their boring business dinners. I say boring because although the topics were interesting they were never directed at myself. But then I was not invited. No, as always I was having to keep on eye on my cheeky little sibling. We were both peeking around the corner when we heard it.

One of the nasty, new money, ladies was bragging about her new son. How smart he was, how adorable he was. I'd met the boy. He was just charming and of very average intelligence. The lady began to pat mummy's hand and say how sad it was she had a 'special' child. Mummy seemed upset, father started to get angry, because the stupid lady wouldn't shut up. I remember bursting into the room and yelling at her.

Sherlock is very smart I told her. Smarter than her son. The child in question, crept up behind me, in his little bee patterned pyjamas. Hugging his favourite soft toy, a large blond teddy bear that was almost as big as he was. Father told me to be quiet and leave things to him. But I was angry. The woman had on that stupid condescending smile that adults give to children. Sherlock was confused. Mummy defended her son and started to cry. Stress I think, she loved Sherlock but she worried about him.

Little Lockie himself picked up on the rooms atmosphere and his lower lip began to quiver, tears welled up in his eyes and he looked to me for an explanation. I told him exactly what had happened. Mummy and father were worried because he hadn't spoken and that this stupid woman had called him 'special' and not in a complimentary way.

Sherlock looked from mummy, to father, to me and began to sob. I hugged him tightly and father started to get even angrier. Sherlock hiccuped and looked into my eyes. Mycwoft, he says, I just wike to wisten. He spoke, he actually spoke! I couldn't believe it. And his first word was my name! Albeit pronounced incorrectly, but he was only three. You wearn stuff when you wisten, he explains. His vocabulary large for his age, but then mine was too. Had some problems pronouncing those L's and R's but again, only three. I hugged him again and mummy rushed over to do the same. Sherlock stuck out his tongue at the rude lady.

That night he was treated to huge amounts of ice cream and sweets and received two brand new soft toys in the morning. I was so proud.

"Sounds like he was quite the handful" John mused as he smiled at a photo of little toddling Sherlock, holding his favourite bear, later named Aristotle. "You have no idea. But I suppose I can give you some." Mycroft smiled as he began to remember again.

Sherlock received a chemistry set for his fifth christmas. Not the usual gift one gives a child of that age. But our family was never 'usual'. Of course, yet again our parents were off on a trip. So it was I who was awoken at six am by someone bouncing on my bed, exclaiming at the top of his lungs that it was Christmas. Like I cared. Still, might as well get up. Sherlock had stopped believing in Father Christmas the year before. Father had told him that he wasn't real and to stop blubbering that he couldn't go see him at the shops like everyone else.

I was less than impressed, father didn't have to deal with the sulking.

It had come to my notice early on that he, like myself, was a highly observant child. I wondered just how observant and began to ask him questions. Why is that woman crying? Why does the maid of soot on her apron when no fires have been lit? Why does that manservant have lipstick on his collar? It became a game and he excelled at it. We called it Deduction.

I was secretly pleased to have found someone who had the same observational abilities as myself. Father never liked it. He said we were too nosey. Secretly he thought we were plain weird, he was certain it did not come from his side of the family.

Lockie loved to explore, he considered himself an adventurer. Always finding somewhere new to explore. Drove the household mad when they couldn't find him and he would turn up in a cupboard or the attic, one time in the fireplace. He loved to perform experiments as well. A passion I shared. I had my own, proper chemistry set hidden in the basement, it was a real victorian one too. Except I didn't always approve of Sherlock's experiments.

Mainly because one involved the melting of my umbrella. It was on a particularly stormy day and I was not impressed one bit. But I was late for school. I came home soaking wet, drenched completely through and ended up bedridden for a weak with a terrible cold. Sherlock felt incredibly guilty and spent his entire allowance on a brand new umbrella, an adults one. I was touched and I still have it. This one in fact.

"Didn't you tell me he wanted to be a pirate when he was little?" Mycroft chuckled. "Oh yes, he did. Now that got him into a lot of trouble"

He was seven at the time, if I remember correctly. He had become fascinated with pirates, his favourite book at the time was Treasure Island, previously it had been the Hobbit and Peter Pan. He was forever dressing up as a pirate and attempting to duel with the servants or claiming sweets from the kitchen as his treasure.

He was a lot quieter now, after a year or so at school. He was bullied a lot already, partly because of his observational skills and the fact that he was a lot smarter than the other children as was due to skip a grade or two. Like me he had spent his childhood so far away from other children. It wasn't his fault, rather our parents. But come holidays he went back to being his loud, exuberant self.

Which is why, one afternoon, I saw him standing on top of one of the couches, broom sticking out between the cushions with one of his sheets tied to it like a sail. He was in one of his black and white stripped long sleeved tops, his jeans ripped at the bottom. He'd cut them himself. He was wearing an eye patch and pirate hat, beneath of which was..

"Is that mummy's best scarlet, silk scarf?"

"Avast! Ye land-lubber!" The rascal pointed his wooden sword at my chest. I raised my hands in mock surrender. "Sherlock if mummy finds out you've taken that scarf" The pirate captain didn't seem to listen. "Avast! Or ye'll walk tha' plank!" I sighed in annoyance. "Listen, 'Captain', get off the couch before you get into trouble. Matron could come around the corner at any second!"

Matron ruled the household with an iron fist. She was a tall, house of a woman. She tolerated no nonsense and she and my brother were always knocking heads. "Threatenin' me with tha dreaded Kraken, are ye, scurvy dog? If it's a duel ye wan't, it's a duel ye shall get!" He raised one hand in the air, the sword pointed outright at my chest again.

"Sherlock" I sighed. His face fell. "Just play along, Myky..please.." He whispered. "But I don't even have a sword" I whispered in reply. He removed one from around Aristotle's "belt". He had been acting as first mate. He threw the object at me and I caught it with one hand. "En Garde!" I cried and leapt onto the couch. Sherlock's face lit up and then he growled and thrust his weapon forward.

"I shall have you in chains, pirate scum!"

"Never!"

We pounded around the living room, leaping from couch to couch. I felt terribly silly but exhilarated, it relaxed me for some reason. Sherlock was having the time of his life, at least he was before he topped backwards off the back of the couch. "Sherlock!" I cried, forgetting my sailor persona. I climbed off the couch and ran to his rescue. His arm was folded awkwardly beneath him. Clearly broken.

"Mycroft Holmes!"

Matron had indeed heard our fighting and come to investigate. Immediately blaming me. Which I suppose was correct, It was sort of my fault to encourage him. She swatted me over the head and barked out orders to a maid seated in the hallway. "I expected better from you Master Mycroft. You're supposed to be the good one, well behaved. Now look at what you've done!" I bit my lip and tried to erase the glare from my eyes. I knew she thought of Sherlock as a good for nothing whelp. Just because he was boisterous and didn't like authority figures. But come on, he was only seven. He needed this outlet. I needed it.

Sherlock ended up having to visit hospital and have his arm x rayed. Which he found fascinating and wasted no time in asking the technician as many questions as possible. Like myself he had a thirst for knowledge. The limb was broken and he was sent him in a cast and sling. Father was furious. He yelled at me, I should have known better, he said. I thought you were better than this, he said. Which translated as because I did what he wanted I was the good son, because Sherlock was a carefree soul, and did what he could to have fun, he was the bad son. Maybe if you were around more, he'd actually listen to you. I cried, ignoring the fact that long ago I learned that father was old fashioned. Children were to be seen and not heard. He slapped me.

I know he regretted it as soon as he did it, I also know it wasn't the last time he slapped one of his children. He was a very busy man and he did love us, he just wasn't sure how to look after two children he didn't even have time to raise himself, who were both a little odd and too smart for their own good. I remember raising my hand to my cheek and slinking away. But I wasn't sorry for myself. I had been standing up for my little brother. I would always stand up for him, always protect him. Even if no one else did. Lockie asked me what had happened. I didn't tell him, but he knew. Of course he did, he was like me.

"I'm sorry Myc"

"Not your fault, Lock."

"Maybe I shouldn't have made you play...you just, need to relax from studying all the time. It's all you do"

"I don't study all the time"

"Do so"

"Do not"

"So"

"Not"

We stared at each other for a few minutes before bursting out into a fit of laughter. "Don't stop playing Sherlock, if it makes you happy." Sherlock beamed back at me. And of course , a few weeks later.

"Hoist tha sails! Raise tha Jolly Roger!"

"I am not being your first mate. I am the eldest. I should be Captain"

"You'd be the most boring Captain that ever sailed on the Seven Seas"

"Maybe , but I'd be the most efficient one"