Sherlock Fic: Fragile, Like Frost
Belatedly posting more holiday fic. Wee!Holmes are almost as much fun as wee!Petrellis. I couldn't justify giving Sherlock footie pyjamas, though he would have been adorable.
Title: Fragile, Like Frost
Characters/Pairing: Gen: Mycroft and Sherlock
Rating: G
Warnings: None.
Author's notes: Thanks to redandglenda and jaune_chat. Written for lefaym for fandom_stocking 2012. Also available at AO3.
Summary: On Christmas Eve, Sherlock thinks he knows why the Holmes parents are arguing.
Mycroft stood in the chilly darkness of the upstairs corridor with his hands in his trouser pockets, listening to his parents’ voices grow sharper, their consonants more clipped. Neither would do anything so untoward as raise a voice in anger, but even at ten, Mycroft could read the variances in tone easily enough to recognize this as a serious argument.
A thin squeak behind and to his left signalled the opening of the door to Sherlock’s room. Mycroft marked the time against his personal estimate of how long his brother would stay abed; having been sent to his room without supper for the second time this week, Sherlock’s limits of patience had been sorely tested. His tiny feet padded quietly against the thick, plush rug until he stopped at Mycroft’s side. He turned his pale eyes up toward Mycroft, then down the stairs to where the lamplight from the sitting room dispelled some of the gloom. He listened for a moment in silence, then turned his gaze back to Mycroft.
“You needn’t be concerned,” Mycroft said in answer to his brother’s unspoken question. “Adults often have such conversations.”
Sherlock plopped down on the top step and plucked at the garland wrapped around the banister.
“Holidays can be especially stressful for some families,” Mycroft explained.
In the sitting room, heavy steps and the firm thump of a closing door signalled Father’s retreat to the study. Mycroft predicted that a glass of port would soon be allaying the elder Holmes’ stress. Mother, undoubtedly still in the sitting room, remained completely silent. Mycroft could visualize her expression: the cold, neutral mask she wore even when alone.
Mycroft braced his hand against the arch at the top of the stairway and strained his ears, but there was nothing more to hear. “They won’t be coming up for some time,” he concluded.
“It’s because I’m wicked.” Sherlock hugged his knees to his chest, wrinkling his crisp flannel pyjamas.
“Who told you that?”
Sherlock shook his head.
Mycroft mentally reviewed a list of possible suspects-it was not long-and marked Sherlock tutor, Ms. Seville, for further investigation. “Are you worried Santa won’t bring you presents?”
Sherlock favoured Mycroft with a pitying glare. It had been too much to hope that he’d maintained his innocence another year. Though of course, last year two-year-old Sherlock’s deep suspicions had only been held at bay by an elaborate campaign of misinformation and false evidence of which Mycroft had taken full charge. He’d been greatly pleased with his efforts, then. Now, of course, Sherlock resented any reminder of his former ignorance.
Mycroft settled onto the top step next to his brother. “There won’t be a separation. It wouldn’t be advantageous for the family.”
Sherlock merely tucked his head against his knees.
“If you don’t like this tutor, we’ll find another one.”
“Won’t help,” Sherlock mumbled. He uncurled enough to look up at Mycroft. “Mummy and Father will still hate me. I’m too difficult to love.”
Mycroft’s brow furrowed as he stared down at his baby brother: wide, pale eyes that saw everything, too-serious frown, hands that pried into every secret place, and terribly small: too small to defend against the weapons-grade words wielded by the rest of the family. “If you are,” he offered, “I am, too.”
“No, stupid,” Sherlock said with a scowl. “You’re good, everyone says.”
“You’re my brother.” Mycroft braced a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to hold him still. “I love you, and I’ll always take care of you.”
Sherlock fixed his eyes downwards. “Even if I’m wicked?”
“You’re not wicked.”
“But if I am?” Sherlock looked up, met Mycroft’s eyes, and held them.
“Even then, yes,” Mycroft promised.
Sherlock raised his arms expectantly. Mycroft picked up Sherlock and held him close while Sherlock clung like a monkey. Mycroft set a mental reminder to take Sherlock to the zoo next time they were in London and point out the similarities.
“Your room,” Sherlock demanded.
Mycroft carried his brother down the corridor and shut the door to his room firmly behind them. He managed to toe off his shoes with his arms full of Sherlock, but that was the limit of his dexterity. Sherlock burrowed under the duvet and tugged Mycroft in beside him. Little hands tucked themselves under Mycroft’s waistcoat to get warm, and tussled black curls tickled Mycroft’s face as Sherlock tucked his head against Mycroft’s shoulder.
“G’night,” Sherlock muttered, already halfway to sleep.
Mycroft sighed. Sleeping in his dinner clothes would crease them abominably, but he deemed that an acceptable loss. “Goodnight, Sherlock.” He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, and closed his eyes.
Title: Fragile, Like Frost
Characters/Pairing: Gen: Mycroft and Sherlock
Rating: G
Warnings: None.
Author's notes: Thanks to redandglenda and jaune_chat. Written for lefaym for fandom_stocking 2012. Also available at AO3.
Summary: On Christmas Eve, Sherlock thinks he knows why the Holmes parents are arguing.
Mycroft stood in the chilly darkness of the upstairs corridor with his hands in his trouser pockets, listening to his parents’ voices grow sharper, their consonants more clipped. Neither would do anything so untoward as raise a voice in anger, but even at ten, Mycroft could read the variances in tone easily enough to recognize this as a serious argument.
A thin squeak behind and to his left signalled the opening of the door to Sherlock’s room. Mycroft marked the time against his personal estimate of how long his brother would stay abed; having been sent to his room without supper for the second time this week, Sherlock’s limits of patience had been sorely tested. His tiny feet padded quietly against the thick, plush rug until he stopped at Mycroft’s side. He turned his pale eyes up toward Mycroft, then down the stairs to where the lamplight from the sitting room dispelled some of the gloom. He listened for a moment in silence, then turned his gaze back to Mycroft.
“You needn’t be concerned,” Mycroft said in answer to his brother’s unspoken question. “Adults often have such conversations.”
Sherlock plopped down on the top step and plucked at the garland wrapped around the banister.
“Holidays can be especially stressful for some families,” Mycroft explained.
In the sitting room, heavy steps and the firm thump of a closing door signalled Father’s retreat to the study. Mycroft predicted that a glass of port would soon be allaying the elder Holmes’ stress. Mother, undoubtedly still in the sitting room, remained completely silent. Mycroft could visualize her expression: the cold, neutral mask she wore even when alone.
Mycroft braced his hand against the arch at the top of the stairway and strained his ears, but there was nothing more to hear. “They won’t be coming up for some time,” he concluded.
“It’s because I’m wicked.” Sherlock hugged his knees to his chest, wrinkling his crisp flannel pyjamas.
“Who told you that?”
Sherlock shook his head.
Mycroft mentally reviewed a list of possible suspects-it was not long-and marked Sherlock tutor, Ms. Seville, for further investigation. “Are you worried Santa won’t bring you presents?”
Sherlock favoured Mycroft with a pitying glare. It had been too much to hope that he’d maintained his innocence another year. Though of course, last year two-year-old Sherlock’s deep suspicions had only been held at bay by an elaborate campaign of misinformation and false evidence of which Mycroft had taken full charge. He’d been greatly pleased with his efforts, then. Now, of course, Sherlock resented any reminder of his former ignorance.
Mycroft settled onto the top step next to his brother. “There won’t be a separation. It wouldn’t be advantageous for the family.”
Sherlock merely tucked his head against his knees.
“If you don’t like this tutor, we’ll find another one.”
“Won’t help,” Sherlock mumbled. He uncurled enough to look up at Mycroft. “Mummy and Father will still hate me. I’m too difficult to love.”
Mycroft’s brow furrowed as he stared down at his baby brother: wide, pale eyes that saw everything, too-serious frown, hands that pried into every secret place, and terribly small: too small to defend against the weapons-grade words wielded by the rest of the family. “If you are,” he offered, “I am, too.”
“No, stupid,” Sherlock said with a scowl. “You’re good, everyone says.”
“You’re my brother.” Mycroft braced a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to hold him still. “I love you, and I’ll always take care of you.”
Sherlock fixed his eyes downwards. “Even if I’m wicked?”
“You’re not wicked.”
“But if I am?” Sherlock looked up, met Mycroft’s eyes, and held them.
“Even then, yes,” Mycroft promised.
Sherlock raised his arms expectantly. Mycroft picked up Sherlock and held him close while Sherlock clung like a monkey. Mycroft set a mental reminder to take Sherlock to the zoo next time they were in London and point out the similarities.
“Your room,” Sherlock demanded.
Mycroft carried his brother down the corridor and shut the door to his room firmly behind them. He managed to toe off his shoes with his arms full of Sherlock, but that was the limit of his dexterity. Sherlock burrowed under the duvet and tugged Mycroft in beside him. Little hands tucked themselves under Mycroft’s waistcoat to get warm, and tussled black curls tickled Mycroft’s face as Sherlock tucked his head against Mycroft’s shoulder.
“G’night,” Sherlock muttered, already halfway to sleep.
Mycroft sighed. Sleeping in his dinner clothes would crease them abominably, but he deemed that an acceptable loss. “Goodnight, Sherlock.” He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, and closed his eyes.