Title: As Close As Hands And Feet
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Sherlock, Mycroft, Mummy Holmes, Holmes Pater
Word Count: 1100
Summary: Brothers and sisters are as close as hands and feet. ~Vietnamese Proverb
Notes: Inspired by this prompt from : So, I was at the store, and, unsurprisingly, there were some babies and toddlers crying. Babies get overstimulated really easily. So does Sherlock.
So, I would like to see baby or toddler Sherlock spontaneously throwing a fit in the store and someone having to comfort him. Bonus if Sherlock is usually a quiet, withdrawn kid up until he explodes.
Or, for more lulz, have the adult Sherlock do the same.
Mummy’s people did her Christmas shopping early, but when Mycroft came home an inch too tall for all of his trousers Mummy decreed they all would head go to Harrods together. As family shopping excursions went, it wasn’t bad. Father grumbled but handed over the credit card and didn’t roll his eyes once at the trousers Mycroft liked or even make remarks about where Mycroft’s allowance was going if not to new clothes. Mummy let Mycroft chose the clothes rather than try to impress her tastes on him, and Sherlock stuck close, his hand wrapped around Mummy’s jacket or Father’s pant leg until they told him to let go.
“Mycroft,” said Mummy as they wound their way through the racks and displays, “take Sherlock’s hand. He keeps getting in the way.”
Mycroft sighed and looked down at Sherlock. Sherlock held up his hand expectantly. “Yes, Mummy.” He took Sherlock’s hand, grateful that at least it wasn’t sticky.
Most of the time, having a brother was little more than a conversation piece to Mycroft. He carried a picture of Sherlock in his wallet because girls liked to exclaim over his sweet face and thick curls, and then Mycroft would tell them Sherlock stories, and then they’d snog him. But he had no idea what Sherlock was like, really, though he supposed at the age of four Sherlock wasn’t much like anything. He didn’t say much to Mycroft, nor to anyone as far as Mycroft could tell, though Mummy’s letters were full of Sherlock climbing trees to look at birds’ nests, digging up rosebushes to see where the flowers came from, pulling out every book he could reach in the library to build bridges, crawling under hedges, and getting into the cupboards in the kitchen so he could “cook,” which meant for him mixing together baking powder and rice and cooking sherry and smearing it over the preparation tables.
Sherlock tugged on Mycroft’s hand, and Mycroft looked down at him again. “What do you want?”
“Up,” said Sherlock. “Carry me.”
“No,” Mycroft said. “You’re too big to carry.”
He tugged on Mycroft’s hand again. “Carry me, Mycroft!”
“Mummy,” Mycroft said. “Aren’t we done yet?”
“Soon,” said Mummy and held up another shirt to Father, who’d no sooner where something off the rack than he would wear a t-shirt, but Mycroft supposed she was just taking advantage of how rarely the four of them were in public together anymore. Had the last time been Sherlock’s christening? It was possible …
Someone bumped into Mycroft, trying to squeeze past. “Sorry,” the woman said, sweeping onward through the shoppers. Mycroft glared at her back, thinking what a wretched woman, couldn’t she see the small child right in front of her–
Sherlock yanked his hand from Mycroft’s, opened his mouth and wailed, loud and sharp enough to make Mycroft’s eardrums twinge.
“Good lord, what’s wrong with that child?” said Father.
“Sherlock!” Mummy said, horrified. “This is no way to behave!”
Sherlock continued screaming.
“Young man,” said Father, “stop it this instant or I’ll have Peterson take you out to the car.”
Sherlock’s face was turning an alarming shade of red.
“Should’ve drowned him in the river like a bag of kittens,” Father growled, not loud, but loud enough for Mummy to give him a sharp look and what was probably a sharper prod with the heel of her shoe, judging by his wince.
“You’re not helping!” she hissed and knelt in front of Sherlock. The little bugger didn’t even open his eyes to check that his attack was working. Oh, he was good. “Sherlock. We’re not done shopping and you have no reason to cry.”
Sherlock threw himself onto the carpet. He beat his hands and feet on the floor, the picture of four-year-old rage.
“Peterson,” said Father, and the man looked around for a place to put the bags he was carrying.
Mycroft felt a bit of pity for him — looking after Father had to be frustrating enough, now Mummy had him playing nursemaid — and said, “I’ll take Sherlock out. We can put the bags in the car and wait for you to finish there.”
“Oh, Mycroft, would you?” said Mummy, and Sherlock wailed even louder.
Mycroft scooped him up, ignoring Sherlock’s renewed screaming and determined squirming, and said, “Come on, Peterson,” and led him out of the store.
The walk was short, but still enough time for Sherlock’s wails to reduce to whimpers, and he finally stopped struggling to get out of Mycroft’s arms. Mycroft supposed this was what Sherlock wanted, if he even knew what he wanted, but Mycroft hadn’t known any four-year-olds since he was one himself and had no idea if this was normal or not.
Once they were in the car, Sherlock curled up in the far side of the seat, sniffling and making pitiful noises. Mycroft had Peterson put the bags in the boot before he went back into the store, and then Mycroft got into the back seat with Sherlock. He said conversationally, “This won’t work twice, you know. This carrying on to get your way. Mummy won’t stand for it.”
Sherlock sniffled, and Mycroft searched his pockets for a handkerchief. He had one — he was his mother’s son, after all — and said, “Come here,” as he pulled Sherlock onto his knee. He wiped Sherlock’s face. “You’re an utter brat, you know.”
Sherlock dropped his head on Mycroft’s shoulder with an exhausted sigh. Mycroft sighed too, but patted his back anyway. There were some bits about having a little brother that were all right. He could be sweet sometimes, and very funny when he chose to speak, and the Sherlock stories Mycroft told girls at school were the truth.
“Brat,” Mycroft said, affectionately this time, and went on patting Sherlock’s back. “What if Father Christmas decides to leave all your presents behind?” Sherlock shook his head and Mycroft smiled. “No, you’re right. He wouldn’t do that. But you must learn to control yourself, Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s voice was tiny. “I’m sleepy, Mycroft.”
“You can sleep here,” Mycroft said and looked out the window. “Don’t drool on me.”
Sherlock patted his cheek and went limp against him. Mycroft thought this was one Sherlock story he’d keep to himself.