Sherlock slammed his pen down on the kitchen table for the third time that hour.
"Stupid algebra!" he cursed, pushing the book away and dropping his head down onto the worn, hard wood surface. "I'll never get the hang of this."
Mrs Beeston hid the smirk on her face before she turned around to the eleven-year-old. For somebody with such undeniable intelligence, the poor boy did struggle with maths.
She crossed the kitchen, wiping her hands on the dishcloth as she walked, and headed out of the room.
A few short minutes later, the kitchen door pushed open again.
"I can't do it." Sherlock mumbled into the tabletop, bringing his hands alongside his head and flattening them, palms down. He looked a sight.
Mycroft pulled out the chair next to his brother and slid the book across to take a look.
"Let me see." he said, picking up the pen and resting his other hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I can help you."
Sherlock raised his head, obvious surprise on his face at his brother's appearance. He had assumed, of course, that the door opening was one of the staff coming back in. The last person he had expected was his brother.
He scowled momentarily before glancing at his book again. He really did need help with this, and Mycroft was, he conceded, just the person to give it.
He sat back up straight in his chair and gave his brother a brief nod.
"It's this bit here that I don't understand," he started, pointing to the page that was giving him problems.
Mycroft shuffled his chair closer to Sherlock, enabling them both to see the book clearly, and proceeded to aid his brother with his study.
Mrs Beeston peered through the crack in the kitchen doorway and smiled.