Former Days, Chapter 1
Title: Former Days
Author(s): ShizukaAme (aka EclecticRegard) and Surrenderdammit (aka reflecting). These are not collaborated drabbles, but rather individual contributions. It will state who has written what at the beginning of each drabble
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Characters: young!Mycroft, young!Sherlock
Rating: G/PG
Warnings: Brotherly cuteness and kids being kids. These drabbles also go on with the assumption that Mycroft and Sherlock are ten years apart, though it was later brought to light that they are seven years apart. Ten years is just easier to remember, I think.
Summary/Prompt: A collection of drabbles involving you g!Mycroft and young!Sherlock.
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Author: ShizukaAme
Title: Nightmare
Summary: Even odd children like Sherlock needed comfort after nightmares.
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Sherlock Holmes had never been classified as a 'normal' child. He enjoyed things far too strange for that of a child or, often, an adult for that matter. He enjoyed science, reason, logic and deduction. From an early age, he could usually be found overanalyzing things: why Mummy had a specific emotional reaction to something he did or said or why the neighbor's dog seemed to dislike children, for example. Trivial, childish things, yes. But Sherlock still wanted to know.
Sherlock had spent a majority of his youth around his older brother Mycroft. The elder Holmes boy was always so irritatingly calm and collected. He seemed to know everything the younger one didn't and found great pleasure in refusing to teach him how to do certain things (like picking a door lock). Despite the countless number of times Sherlock got annoyed with him, often accompanied by his refusing to speak to the older boy, he still found something insanely comforting about the older brother who was forever nearby whenever he needed him. He had indeed been strange, but that didn't mean he never had the occasional bout of 'normalcy' in his childhood.
Seventeen year-old Mycroft was lounging on the luxurious bed in his tastefully decorated bedroom late one night. A copy of an old book lay open in his lap, gray eyes scanning over its text by the light of a nearby lamp. The large house was quiet, as it tended to be at such an hour. The staff had long-since gone home and he'd put Sherlock to bed himself; Mummy was away on business.
The teenager had been so engrossed in his book that he didn't notice the door open.
A small set of fingers curled around the edge of the door, slowly pushing the large thing open just far enough to allow a tiny body inside. The boy, no older than seven, stood in his favorite set of pajamas ("Not true, Mycroft. They're only clothes." he'd insisted earlier that night), eyeing the elder boy uncertainly. His brown curls were more of a mess than usual, nearly covering pale orbs that held tears he refused to let fall.
He gave a slight scowl when his brother didn't acknowledge him. Mycroft noticed everything. He lifted a tiny fist to rap three times on the door. Mycroft looked up from his read, brow quirked.
"Sherlock, it's late." he stated in his usual even tone. The boy didn't respond other than to bite his lower lip. The tears grew thicker, threatening to streak down his pale face. Mycroft set his book aside, beckoning his younger brother over.
When he finally reached the side of the bed, the older Holmes leaned over and lifted him with relative ease. He settled back against the headboard, bringing the child to sit in his lap. Mycroft pulled him flush against his front, petting the thicket of hair.
"Did you have a bad dream?" His voice was still even, but much softer this time around.
Sherlock nodded once, not trusting himself to speak without sobbing. He hated crying; it made such a mess of faces.
"Would you like to talk about it?" A shake of the head. "Do you want to sleep in here tonight?" A quick nod, accompanied by the head tilting back to reveal a bright, hopeful gaze.
Mycroft pressed a kiss to the curls covering Sherlock's forehead, "Go to sleep, little brother. All will seem right in the morning."
The youth snuggled as close as he could to his brother, giving a soft sigh. Why was it that Mycroft always seemed to know just what would make the tears go away?
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Author: ShizukaAme
Title: Giggle
Summary: Mycroft knows Sherlock is ticklish. It's just not fair.
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Mycroft was aware that he often tried his little brother's patience, not that the boy had any to speak of in the first place. Being the keen observer that he was, he knew just what buttons of Sherlock's to push to get specific responses. Occasionally, he would press the buttons that made Sherlock pout and try to ignore him.
The five year-old was slumped in a large armchair in the family room. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest and his face was contorted into a half-glare, half-pout. With Mycroft's eager support, Mummy had recently enrolled him in an after-school program in hopes of broadening his social skills. Needless to say, Sherlock was less than thrilled.
What need did he have for other children his own age? They were all stupid and dull, anyways, and they never liked him because he asked too many demanding questions regarding their games of make-believe. It wasn't his fault he couldn't see the point in playing house.
Sherlock had been perfectly happy coming straight home after school. There were plenty of things for him to do to entertain himself. Personally, he found the staff to be much more riveting to spend time with. They usually indulged him in his eccentricities and even cooed at his 'adorable little curls', not that he liked being cooed at, of course. But then Mycroft had gone and stuck his big stupid nose into Sherlock's business, and there wasn't a single thing the boy could do about it.
Mycroft came across his brother some time later, smiling slightly to himself. He knew that body language well.
The teenager strode over to the chair, kneeling beside it. He laid a hand on his brother's knee as he addressed him with a nickname Sherlock never much cared for, "'Lock, what's wrong?"
The boy huffed, pointedly turning his gaze far away from his older brother.
"You're still upset about the after-school program? It's only until summer. You'll be able to terrorize the staff again before you know it." he stated in a light, teasing tone. The corners of Sherlock's mouth quirked ever so slightly. "Come on, Sherlock. Mummy can't stand to see your brooding about the house."
The teen's hands snuck up on the boy and, before he could even try to get away, they were tickling his stomach. Sherlock practically squeaked as he tried to fight the offending hands off. Mycroft only tickled him more. Finally, the child couldn't hold back and he screamed his laughter loud enough to echo through the hallways.
Mycroft soon stopped after that, ruffling Sherlock's hair. "Too bad, you laughed. No more sulking now."
Pale eyes shot a fiery glare at the older boy, "You never play fair, 'Croft."
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Author: ShizukaAme
Title: Reflection
Summary: Sherlock never understood what the big deal was until he got older.
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Sherlock never really cared about what he looked like. He wasn't obsessed with appearance, unlike Mummy and Mycroft. However, one thing about his physical exterior drove him crazy.
Every night before bed, he would stand at his bathroom sink and stare at his reflection in the mirror, eyes fixed on his mess of curls. Often, he wondered what he would look like if he had straighter hair, like Mycroft. Or if his hair only had a gentle curl, like Mummy's. It would no doubt be more manageable than the hair he was born with.
He supposed he wouldn't mind his hair if Mummy would just let him cut it. He brought up the subject once, but Mummy quickly shot him down. It would be a crime to hide such a cute sight from the rest of the world, she'd said. Another time, he'd grabbed a pair of scissors, planning to cut it himself. Mycroft had stopped him just before he cut the first tuft of brown, and gave him an earful for his trouble.
He complained, loudly, to no one in particular, even going as far as to point out in detail why shorter hair would be better for him. Nobody ever gave it a second thought, though.
Years later, when Sherlock was an adult and living on his own, he decided it was time to get a haircut. This time, he frowned deeply at his reflection in the mirror, supposing he finally understood his family's reasoning.
He looked presentable, certainly. But he just wasn't Sherlock Holmes anymore.
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Chapter 2