"Mummy, where is Sherlock?" Mycroft runs in from school and dumps his satchel on the table, hastily rifling through it, looking for something. By the time he finds what he is looking for, he has the table covered with books and pens.
"Mycroft!" Mummy snaps angrily, rubbing her hand across her face. She hasn't been sleeping well. Sherlock is teething again and cries almost constantly during the night. "Tidy those books away at once!"
"Sorry, Mummy." He mumbles, eyes down turned as he piles his books and other school supplies back into the bag, leaving one book out and tucking it under his arm.
He deduces from Mummy's mood that Sherlock is napping, and he takes his satchel and the book up to his bedroom. Dropping his bag onto his bed, he heads back into the hall and glances down towards Sherlock's room.
Slowly and quietly, he tiptoes his way across the soft carpet and creeps into his little brother's bedroom. Sherlock is sleeping in his crib. He looks so big in there now. At nearly 18 months old, he is really too long for the baby crib but Mummy prefers him in there. "So I know where he is" she says.
Mycroft thinks that Sherlock will soon be in a big boy bed like his brother, and it makes his chest swell with pride to think of Sherlock as a 'big boy'.
He sits himself down on the nursery chair and, clutching the book to his chest, he closes his eyes and waits.
When Sherlock wakes, he will read it to him.