A/N: This little idea, which is really more of a ficlet or drabble than a chapter, came to mind and my fingers flew. It's not Rose focused—it's pre-Rose in fact, as the title suggests, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!
Mycroft was the most interesting person Sherlock had ever known. Granted, he was three so he didn't know all that many people, particularly on the level that Sherlock knew Mycroft. But the little boy was certain just the same that Mycroft was the most interesting person. For one thing, Mycroft had his own bedroom and it did not look like Sherlock's. Instead, it was neat and orderly with everything in its place. Sherlock's own bedroom looked as though a hurricane had passed through, with stuffed animals, a trainset, several drawing and various coloring implements on the floor, and a whole host of other times out of place.
But Mycroft's bedroom was different. Everything about Mycroft was different. He was big and tall and did very smart things in school. He made Mummy smile and Daddy nod with approval far more often than Sherlock did. Granted, Sherlock was well loved and he knew that, but he was more prone to causing mischief and chaos than Mycroft seemed to be. Mycroft seemed just about perfect sometimes.
It was little wonder then that Sherlock was always very curious about what his big brother was up to. The last several days, Mycroft had been working on a project for school in his room and had not let Sherlock in to see it.
"You'll just get too silly and ruin it Sherlock," Mycroft had said, firmly shutting his bedroom door.
That wasn't wholly unusual, as Mycroft considered his bedroom his sanctuary and Sherlock was rarely allowed inside it, at least with permission. When he snuck in without permission, Mycroft generally scolded and sent him on his way out of the room with a smack to his bottom. Sherlock, of course, responded with an exaggerated pout and mostly put-upon tears.
None of this was a deterrent though when Sherlock really wanted to get into Mycroft's room. When he did, he simply waited until Mycroft wasn't home and went in anyway. If he was careful, Mycroft never even knew! Though Sherlock was rarely that careful, he was getting better at it and the overly intelligent three year old was certain the day would come that he could go in Mycroft's room, do as he wished, and never be caught.
Today was a day in which Sherlock hoped that would be the case. Mycroft was off at school, meaning his super-secret project in his room was not being guarded and therefore free to be looked at! At his earliest opportunity (silly Mummy, thinking he would nap just because she told him to), Sherlock tip-toed into his brother's room and looked in amazement at Mycroft's project. It was a very grand project, a very precise model to scale of the Tower Bridge. Sherlock recognized what it was and was quite impressed by it, carefully turning it to survey each side. It was beautiful and wonderful and perfect and Sherlock was properly in awe of his brother.
But not, however, in enough awe to keep from touching the bridge. Or from scurrying to his room to collect some matchbox cars to drive across the bridge. Much to Sherlock's delight, the cars fit perfectly on the bridge and he spent an hour or so playing traffic warden and running the cars over and around the bridge. Then, just to make it interesting, he tried to create a traffic pile-up, in the most literal sense, right in the center of the bridge. Just as he was piling the twelfth car on the bridge, it collapsed and the cars went crashing to the desk below. A gaping hole was left in the bridge and Sherlock could only stare at it in horror. That… was a bit not good.
Or rather, it was very not good. In fact it was bad, awful, and downright terrible! Just as his mind reeled with how to fix this so Mycroft wouldn't know anything had happened, Sherlock's ears caught the sound of the front door opening and his brother announcing his arrival home from school. The little boy's flight or fight response kicked in and Sherlock flew. Certain Mycroft would be absolutely furious and never forgive him or play with him again, Sherlock scurried to the attic where he hid himself away, hoping to never be found. As much as Sherlock aggravated his big brother, he never meant to harm Mycroft's things (usually) and did not like it when his brother was angry with him.
Just as he slid in between some old pieces of furniture and crouched down into a tiny ball, an angry shout of "SHERLOCK!" was heard from downstairs. Upset and frightened, Sherlock closed his eyes and wished he were anywhere else.
His family, however, wished he could be found! As soon as Mycroft had shouted Sherlock's name, Maud had hurried upstairs to investigate and a search for the loveable little miscreant got underway. Only Sherlock wasn't to be found in any of his usual hiding places. Mother, brother, and father when he arrived home, grew increasingly alarmed at the fact that Sherlock had disappeared, fearing perhaps that he had run away. The police were soon called and began searching the neighborhood, along with Sherlock's parents. It wasn't as if the little boy hadn't wandered before, it was likely he had wandered off yet again. Mycroft stayed home, in case Sherlock returned.
Several hours passed with the family growing more and more frightened, including Sherlock. The sun was beginning to set and the attic was thrown in shadows. Old clothes, trunks, and various items that looked perfectly normal during the day suddenly became very scary looking as darkness closed in. And soon it was very dark indeed. Sherlock could hardly see in front of his face as only one street lamp peered in through an old dirty window, casting a wee bit of light into the room. It was not enough light to make all the shapes look less scary, nor enough for Sherlock to find his way out. Unable to bear being alone and scared in the dark, Sherlock began to cry. His tears soon turned to pitiful wails of fright as he cried out for Mummy and Mycroft and Daddy.
Despite being hidden away in the attic, his tears and calls for help reached the ears of his big brother and Mycroft quickly followed the sound upstairs. He followed it all the way to the attic and entered the dark room, groping for a moment to find the string to turn on the single lightbulb in the center of the room. There was no doubt Sherlock was here, the only question was where! Once he had some light, it didn't take long for Mycroft to find his scared little brother. The anger that had welled up inside him hours earlier when he'd seen his maths project damaged, disappeared in an instant in the face of Sherlock's genuine distress. The little boy was sobbing and shaking and practically threw himself at Mycroft.
"Alright, alright, I've got you," Mycroft said, picking up the little boy up. Immediately he cuddled Sherlock close, trying to stem his tears. "We've been looking for you *everywhere* Sherlock! Mummy and Daddy are out in the car and the neighbors are all walking and looking. Mummy even called the police! Have you been here this whole time?" Somehow Mycroft wasn't surprised when Sherlock nodded and cried out, "I'm sorry Mikey, don't hate me! Didn't mean it!"
The fourteen-year-old, wise beyond his years, could only sigh. "I could never hate you Sherlock. Don't be daft," he scolded as he carried the boy towards the attic door. Though he scolded, his tone was quiet and firm with no trace of anger at the silly little boy who couldn't leave well enough alone. "Come on, we're going to go call Mummy so she can go home and send the police to do actual policing."
The drama of the missing three-year-old was wrapped up in short order. The police went back to the tasks they'd been at before, thankful the boy had been found unharmed. The neighbors went home and rolled their eyes, thinking 'Only Sherlock Holmes!' Sherlock himself got a smacked bum (six whole spanks over his clothed bum) and had an extended time out (fifteen minutes) during which he wailed as though he were dying. Finally he was released, only to be put straight to bed, as it was already his bedtime and even a little bit past.
Sherlock, in typical fashion, did not stay in bed though. Holding his beloved stuffed bumblebee, aptly named Mr. Bumble, the little boy crept across the hall to Mycroft's room and let himself in.
The eldest Holmes child did not suppress an eye roll as he looked over to find Sherlock standing in the doorway. "Better come in then, before Mummy sees," Mycroft said with a sigh. "What do you need Sherlock?" He was busy trying to repair his project and didn't really have the time to spare to play with an un-sleepy Sherlock.
Shyly, the little boy crossed the room and hugged his brother tight with one arm, since the other held Mr. Bumble. "Sorry Mikey," he murmured, eyes downcast.
Mycroft sighed and ruffled Sherlock's curls. "I know Sherlock, I know. You never mean any harm, even though that tends to be the outcome. I've got to put this back together right now, so I can't sneakily read you any stories just now."
"Can I help?" Sherlock asked, looking up at Mycroft this time. He looked so eager that it was almost impossible for Mycroft to say no.
"Alright, I suppose so. But you have to do *exactly* as I say and Mr. Bumble has to stay on the bed. He might get in the way, being a rather large bumblebee and all," Mycroft pointed out. A smile tugged at his lips as Sherlock ran to deposit Mr. Bumble on the bed and then bounded back to help.
Three hours later, Maud headed upstairs to tell Mycroft it was time for bed and give him a kiss. He didn't always like being tucked in anymore, so Maud didn't force it on him. Kisses, though, were not optional! She knocked lightly on Mycroft's door before letting herself in, surprised not to hear him call to her in response to the knock. Once the door was opened, it became clear why he hadn't- Mycroft and Sherlock were cuddled up in bed fast asleep, with a storybook still open in Mycroft's lap. Sighing softly, Maud carefully removed the book and tucked the covers a little tighter around her boys. Last but not least, she pressed a kiss to each of their heads before leaving them to sleep