The rain fell harder that afternoon, almost as though it had a purpose. Mycroft knew that thought was foolish and wholly unscientific: rain fell because of the hydrologi cycle, because of pressures and temperatures and evaporation and wind patterns… but as he walked back to the primary school to fetch his little brother, he could not help thinking the earlier, listless rain had been a warning and the current rain with its anger and force was a condemnation.

His umbrella had proven partially useless. It stopped the bulk of the rain from hitting him until the wind picked up. It did so now, just outside the school, sending a spray of heavy droplets to soak Mycroft from the knees down.

Just lovely.

The deeply dissatisfied look on Mycroft's face seemed older than his years, the decided frown and the chill in his eyes indicating the sort of intellectual disapproval uncommon in one at so emotional an age. He made no effort to join in the groups of mothers and nannies waiting for their children and charges. He knew better: they drew away from him, turned just slightly to lock him out with turned shoulders.

It was unintentional, unconscious even, but they reacted with subtle hostility to the wrongness they sensed in him.

Their coldness only bothered Mycroft because he knew they had taught it to their children. Whether intentionally or not, they had imparted to their young ones that this was the appropriate response to someone different. They spurned a twelve-year-old whose expression and mannerisms were too grown-up. What would their offspring do to a boy like Sherlock?

No, he realized, that was not the question. It was not about what their children would do to a boy like his little brother. As he watched the doorway where the mass of small children would soon emerge, Mycroft knew that the sense of dread in his belly was more to do with the past. What had their offspring done to Sherlock?

The rain picked up and Mycroft thought a word about the mothers and nannies, a word he pretended not to know in his father's presence.

Whatever happened, it is not my fault. He had been given no choice. Mycroft told himself this over and over: they had kept Sherlock home after what happened in playgroup, but he was five years old now, he had to go to school, he needed an education…

The door opened. The flood of kids boiling out of the school nearly toppled the teacher. Shrill, high-pitched voices called out as they parted from friends and greeted caretakers. The carers called to them, too: "Here I am, Kate!" "Tracy, Tracy!" "Come to Mummy, Markie!" to one particularly confused boy.

Mycroft did not call out. When he saw Sherlock step out of the school and pause, looking around, Mycroft did nothing to draw attention to himself. He did not shout or wave—particularly the shouting. He was sure Sherlock's first day at school had in some ways been similar to his own. What sort of a name is 'Mycroft'? What sort of a name is 'Sherlock'?, little snot-noses sneering because anything different must be inferior.

Anything different, name or boy. The last thing Sherlock needed was for Mycroft to call his name in front of the mothers. For them to go home saying, "'Sherlock'? What kind of a mother names a little boy 'Sherlock'?"

Instead he simply stood and waited. Sherlock spotted his brother and grinned. Mycroft smiled back and raised his hand in a subdued acknowledgment.

Sherlock darted through the crowd, skirting around his classmates and the bigger children, his schoolbag bouncing against his hip. There was a look of grim determination under his eagerness to reach Mycroft. When he did, he skidded to a halt in front of his brother and looked up at him with one of those devastating looks. Sherlock knew how to smile and get anything he wanted.

This was different. Not happy at all now, he looked almost resigned, like Mycroft telegraphing comprehension beyond his years. He quivered. He seemed uncertain as to whether or not he wanted to speak. Mycroft waited until Sherlock made a decision, and when the younger boy turned and began walking, Mycroft fell into step beside him.

He tried to formulate a good question. 'How was school' would be stupid, since Sherlock was obviously miserable about something. He was too young for homework, too different for friends. Launching into a lecture on the importance of education would only annoy Sherlock, who might very well dig in his heels and insist he had loved school, even though he clearly didn't, just to spite anyone assuming they knew his mind.

So Mycroft contented himself with comments like, "Left, Sherlock," and, "Look both ways before you cross the road, please," because he had no idea how to actually address the subject of school.

The rain continued to fall, bouncing off the umbrella. Mycroft did his best to shield both of them and managed to keep both of them somewhat dry.

Sherlock grew more and more agitated. By the time they were within a few blocks of home, his tiny fists were clenched and he took each step heavily, like he was trying to punch his feet through the pavement. He breathed angrily and his face soon became very pink. And were those tears clouding his eyes?

"It's only school, Sherlock," Mycroft to him gently.

"Well I hate it!"

Sherlock slipped his bag off his shoulder, spun it in a circle and hurled it onto the sidewalk. He looked from the bag to his brother. His eyes were wide in expectation, but expectation of what? Father would have been angry, but Mycroft only felt a bit confused. Sherlock had asked no questions, so Mycroft could give no answers. In truth, Mycroft simply did not know what to say.

He glanced around. They did not know most of the people who lived on this street. Most of the houses looked to be empty, no lights on, no cars; at least one family was on holiday.

"What happened?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock stomped his feet in response. It struck Mycroft as almost funny. He remembered, sometimes, very suddenly, how small Sherlock was. Not even 20 kilos, not even 115 centimeters, but what chance stood the world against Sherlock Holmes?

But did he have to wage his little war in public like this?

"It's okay." Mycroft touched his brother's shoulder. Normally, Sherlock was more receptive to Mycroft than to almost anyone else, but today he rocked back. One more step and Sherlock stood out in the rain.

Mycroft sighed and stepped nearer, to keep both of them under the umbrella. Sherlock stepped back again.

"It's not okay! It's boring!"

Mycroft had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. What a wonderful relief! That was the trouble, that was the torment for his little brother: not the teasing from his peers as Mycroft had feared, but boredom!

"There are worse fates. Pick up your bag."

Sherlock pouted and crossed his arms over his chest. Fat drops of rain pattered across him, darkening his uniform.

"Pick up the bag, Sherlock," Mycroft said, indicating the bag still lying on the sidewalk. It had, luckily, remained shut. That would not save its contents once the rain soaked through, but he was having enough trouble with 'pick it up'. 'Clean up your things' would have surely been impossible.

"I know what the bag is," Sherlock snapped. Apparently he had taken Mycroft's indication not as emphasis but as clarification.

"Well then pick it up."

"I will!"

"Do so."

"I will, Mycroft, I really, really will!"

"So you say."

Defiantly, Sherlock picked up his schoolbag and put it over his shoulder. He was a clever little boy, no one doubted that, but he was still only five. He understood manipulation as far as grinning angelically for a cookie. So far as Sherlock was concerned, he had won a major victory. Mycroft felt no need to correct him.

Instead he extended his hand, just in case Sherlock had tired of marching half a step ahead with his chin held high, in case he wanted to be a little boy for a while longer. Sherlock held out his arms.

"You're getting big for that," Mycroft told him.

Sherlock's eyes widened. His lower lip jutted out and he tilted his head. Mycroft knew that look all too well. Nothing made him more jealous of his brother than that look. Mycroft had been cute in the way all small children are, but Sherlock… how could anyone say no when all they saw was bright eyes under a mop of black curls?

"That doesn't work on me," Mycroft retorted.

Sherlock said nothing.

Mycroft sighed and reasoned, "I can't carry you and the umbrella."

"We're nearly home," Sherlock said with the saccharine affected innocence of a child who knew he did not really deserve what he wanted.

"We'll be soaked when we get there."

Later, years and decades on, Mycroft would tell the story of what his strange little brother used to do when things were not going his way. He would tell what resembled friends in his life and what resembled a friend in Sherlock's life that when he was just a little boy after a difficult first day at school, Sherlock Holmes looked up at his big brother and batted his eyelashes.

And Mycroft, in turn, folded his umbrella, then crouched down so Sherlock could climb onto his back.

to be continued

I really did mean this as a one-part story... but then it got into my head. And grew.