literature

SHERLOCK - And Here's a Hand, My Trusty Friend ch1

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"I don't know why they all think you're so special anyway. They don't have to live with you. You're positively dull." Seven year-old Mycroft Holmes huffed as he paced.

It wasn't even truly pacing. He had picked out a pattern in the nursery rug that wove back and forth in an uninterrupted line, and he walked along it carefully as if balancing on a tight rope, his arms out slightly to his sides. He called it pacing because that's what the grown ups did. When father would fret, about what Mycroft never really knew, he would march up and down the length of the sitting room. He thought it made his father look strong and serious, like a soldier. Mummy would tell him to stop pacing, have a drink, and try not to think so much.

Mycroft couldn't imagine anything worse than not thinking, and if father thought so much while he paced, then he reasoned pacing would help him think so much as well. And young Mycroft Holmes had weighty matters to consider.

"My-my-my-my!"

With a sigh Mycroft turned to face the cooing, gurgling voice in the corner of the room. "I keep telling you, my name is Mycroft, not My. Mycroft." He stomped to the cot and peered at the curious being imprisoned within. A chubby, slobbering, surprisingly moody, always attention grabbing, bundle of dark unruly curls and wide keen eyes stared back at him. And screeched.

"My!" The baby babbled and held out the drool soaked teddy bear he'd been chewing on.

"Ugh, William. I don't want that soggy old thing. Don't bepeprostrerous." Mycroft smirked at his brother. He'd been practicing that word for days, ever since he'd heard one of father's dinner guests use it. He liked big, grown up words. Like peprost... pepostrer... pre-pos-ter-ous. Yes. That. So he'd looked it up in the big, old dictionary father kept in his study.

He'd also been practicing his smirk. Mycroft didn't know the facial expression had a name, but he had seen one of the older boys in his history class (all the boys in his class were older, because he had advanced two years above the other children his own age) make the face when he had coolly corrected a fact the teacher had misquoted. The other students had giggled and thought him to be very clever.

Mycroft was clever. He knew he was clever. So, he practiced his smirk. It looked more like a grimace to be honest, but at only seven years old, it was a rather respectable attempt.

"You see, your problem is that you can't do anything. I can play four Christmas songs on the piano. Four, William. You cannot do that." Mycroft kept track of his list of accomplishments by counting them out on his fingers. "I can feed myself. I can even cut my own food now. You can't do that. The knife is too tricky. And you just get everything all messy and in your hair." He frowned with disdain, understanding the concept long before knowing the actual word, and smoothed the imaginary wrinkles in his vest, as he'd watched the grown ups do. He resumed his list making. "You aren't able to dress yourself. Look at that gown mummy has you in. I tried to tell her boys don't wear dresses, but she said it's tradition and that even I wore it. I don't believe her."

Straightening his bow tie, the red one to match father's, Mycroft once again smoothed his pinstripe vest. He inspected his cuffs, and frowned at the pink smudge near his wrist. He thought he ought to feel bad for having that peppermint stick, but those were his most favorite, and mummy had said he was allowed one before dinner. There was nothing to be done about it now. Glancing down past his neatly pleated trousers, Mycroft smiled at the new wellies grandmother had given him. They were splendid (another favorite grown up word), and he had insisted on wearing them as soon as they were out of the box. They were all black, with real metal buckles on the side (they didn't actually unfasten, but they looked important).

William cooed and grinned at his big brother. He had pulled himself to standing in the cot, and seemed to be looking at the boots too. Mycroft shook his head in pity. "Is there anything you can actually do, William?" The baby reached both hands toward Mycroft, tottered in his spot for a moment, and plopped down on his bum. He stared, wide eyed and startled, then laughed and blew a slobbery raspberry. Mycroft giggled. "William."

"Mycroft, dear, what are you doing in here? You haven't seen your cousins for months. Come out and play with them. We'll be pulling crackers soon." Mummy hugged Mycroft to her side and ruffled his hair.

"Mummy!" Mycroft carefully smoothed his hair and sighed. "William was bored. I was keeping him company."

"He's supposed to be napping." Mummy smiled and Mycroft could tell she knew the real reason he was hiding in the nursery.

"It's difficult being the youngest, isn't it love?" Mummy picked William up from the cot, and he immediately snuggled against her.

"I'm not!" Mycroft huffed.

"William hardly counts, now does he?" She settled into the rocking chair and pulled Mycroft over as well. He leaned against her knees and blinked back the traitorous tears.

It was true. The cousin nearest Mycroft's age was Nicholas. He was two years older than Mycroft, but they were in the same year at school, and he was humiliated that his younger cousin had better scores than he did in every subject. Nicholas had broken Mycroft's new model train, on purpose, and then convinced the other boy cousins to exclude "baby" Mycroft from their games.

The eldest of the cousins, thirteen year-old Leah, had, at one time, been Mycroft's favorite of all the cousins. She was funny, clever, had learned things in school he hadn't yet, and most of all, she doted on him. He had awaited her arrival to the Christmas festivities with anticipation. Upon her arrival, she had hugged him tightly, scooped up William in her arms, and spent the remainder of the day cuddling the baby and regaling the younger girls with stories of boys and make-up, and hair styles and rock stars.

All of the adults just shooed him away when he tried to listen in on their conversations.

"It's not fair," Mycroft sniffled. "Leah only loves William now, and Nicholas and the others hate me because I'm cleverer than them. I wish they would all just leave. I hate Christmas." He stomped one booted foot to make his point.

"Mycroft!" Mummy scolded gently. "I know that's not true."

"It is. I hate it," he pouted with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Do you hate the lovely gifts you've received? Or grandmother staying here with us?"

"Nooo..."

"What about baking cookies for the neighbors? And the fournew songs you can play? The decorations, and all the food?"

"No, I love those things."

"All of those things are part of Christmas. And so is family. I know they can be difficult, but so can you love." Mummy grinned at him, and he knew she was teasing. He buried his face in her lap to cover the embarrassed blush. "Why don't I put William back to bed, and then you can help me with the Christmas pudding?"

"You want me to help you?" Mycroft peeked through his fingers, eyes wide with surprise.

Mummy laughed. "Of course. I must have my most trusted helper in the kitchen. And I think I heard Leah looking for you right before I came in here to find you. Maybe the two of you can be in charge of the Christmas crackers together?"

"Really?" Mycroft flashed her a wide grin, revealing four missing teeth. "But, I thought Leah only liked William now."

"Oh, sweetheart, she doesn't love him more than you. He's just so new, she wanted to get to know him. She loves you because of who you are, just like she will love William for who he grows up to be as well." Mycroft nodded as Mummy kissed his forehead and stood to place William in his bed. "Come along, darling." Mummy smiled at him and motioned to the door.

Mycroft glanced at the cot. "I need to tell William something first, mummy."

Mummy nodded and smiled once more. "Come to the kitchen when you're done." She pulled the door closed quietly behind her.

Gently Mycroft brushed his fingers through William's feather soft hair as the baby snuffled peacefully in sleep. "I'm going to teach you so many things, William. And when you get big enough, we will be best friends. We will be cleverer than everyone else, and they will all want to play with us because we will have the biggest, funnest adventures."

William sighed, content.

Mycroft kissed his finger tips, reached into the cot on his tiptoes, and brushed his fingers softly along William's brow. "Happy Christmas, little brother."
CHAPTER 1: CHRISTMAS DAY, 1980 - MYCROFT & SHERLOCK



Before they met, Sherlock and John had each already celebrated, ignored, and vilified, a lifetime of Christmases. This is the story of those Christmases, the ones before Sherlock and John were Sherlock and John... And there will be a few Baker Street celebrations as well, for good measure. Plenty of fluff, with the occasional side of angst (which wouldn't be seasoned properly without the tiniest bit of my specialty: whump).

Each chapter will be a different story. POV will change as well.



*Notes: I'm going to try a thing, and it's completely new for me... I'm going to write as many of these as I can between now and Christmas. My fluffy (and sometimes angsty) gift to you, my lovely friends and readers. I hope you enjoy.*

**The title is a line from "Auld Lang Syne." I highly recommend the version by the band Barenaked Ladies, which you can find on YouTube.**
© 2015 - 2024 Scrub456
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Tamuril2's avatar
Awww, little Mycroft. I can see him getting jealous of baby Sherlock. Poor boy. It's not easy being the eldest sometimes (I know from personal experience).

His Mum is such a sweet woman, letting him help in kitchen.  Good idea, Mum! :D

Also, I loved how Mycroft was lecturing Sherlock. So typical. ;)