"Mycroft. Will you play with me?" Sherlock wandered into the kitchen carrying 3 toy cars and a backpack.
Mycroft looked at the homework on the kitchen table and sighed.
"I can't, Sherlock," he replied, frantically scribbling out the mistake he had made in his algebra before turning to face the five-year-old, "I have to finish this homework. I have an important test next week."
Sherlock's bottom lip began to wobble, and he moved closer to his brother, his eyes pleading and beginning to tear up.
"Please, Mycroft? Mummy is too tired and Nanny Peggy and Cook are too busy. I don't want to play on my own."
Sherlock face was the picture of sadness, his mouth down-turned and his eyes glazed.
"Sherlock," Mycroft's voice was stern, he sounded like Daddy when he was getting cross, "I cannot play with you now. I have to pass this exam so I can get into Eton. It is important." Then Mycroft, at just a mere twelve years old, said something that for all his life he might regret having said to his little brother, "It is much more important than playing with you."
For a brief moment, Sherlock stood stunned. Mycroft hadn't meant that, had he? Didn't he like playing with his little brother any more? Was everything so much more important than Sherlock?
He chewed his bottom lip, trying not to cry, and turned tail, running down the hallway and up the stairs into his room.
He would play with his cars alone then.
