![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
FIC: Prompt#3 Older/Younger (Sherlock BBC, Gen, Ficlet)
And yet another, because ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
penfold_x is as relentless as a Dalek. Oooh, crossing my fandoms here. Sorry! LOL.
Title: Prompt #3: Older/Younger
Author:mrwubbles aka Yuma
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: G
Words:657 words
Genre: Gen
Warnings/Triggers: I'm not Brit, can't even play one on TV (telly?) but I thoroughly enjoy Hob Nobs. Does that help? :)
Spoilers: none
Summary: Mycroft receives a very large revelation from something very small…
"Stay close."
Mycroft received the mild reminder with disinterest. It was rhetorical: he has no intention of wandering off, seeing as he carried no currency of his own. He was only eleven. What purpose would it serve if he strayed?
Nevertheless, he caught eyes flitting towards him on occasion to verify he was indeed obeying. Mycroft stepped closer to his mother, the shopping crinkling noisily between her dress and his arm.
"Stay close," his mother murmured again when someone knocked into her, sending her a half-step closer.
"Yes, Mum," Mycroft dutifully replied. He resisted taking a step back to preserve his toes from her heels. Mycroft bit back a sigh; he didn't understand why he had to accompany her to the plaza on a Saturday. Between the bland upper Third set readings and his tutor’s unimaginative dedication to rote maths worksheets and lengthy Latin translations (never mind that Mycroft had demonstrated his mastery of the second declension weeks ago), he had precious little time to pursue his own curricula. And just when he’d gotten to a most instructive passage of The Prince.
Mummy nodded distractedly as she examined a hat Mycroft hoped was for the little baby in the pram, rocked by the nanny sitting on the edge of the stone fountain. He spared a glance towards the newest Holmes with a wrinkle of his nose. The adults did not seem to mind having a baby, even though it meant foul smells, endless clutter and ludicrously excessive compliments and praise, as if the baby was borne not of biology, but shaped by something more impressive. The newborn itself, at least, was surprisingly quiet.
Another murmur from Mummy alerted Mycroft he had not followed as diligently as he should. She was already by the next rack, inspecting the quality of the stitching on a suit jacket far too formal to be practical, pointless for one who thus far had demonstrated few talents apart from the ability to sick up on itself.
Mycroft took the obligatory shuffle towards Mummy, his eyes on the fountain. Mrs. Carter was chatting with a man in a suit a bit too short in the arms, too long on the legs. He stood there, map folded to a section, finger pointed specifically at a spot as if he already knew it was there, yet he asked for directions, head canted away from the nanny as if he was truly puzzled. The nanny, nodding, smiling, uncurled her hand around the pram's handle and turned to point towards a street clearly marked in the distance—
"Mycroft!"
Later, in the police station, Mycroft would explain why he dashed across the street and swung all of Mummy's shopping at the knees of a man bent to reach his arms into the pram. Later, after the nanny stopped sobbing "Oh my God. I didn't see him. I didn't see him!", Mycroft would describe the other man, the one who kicked him, knocking him into the pram and turning the carriage, the baby, and Mycroft into the cobblestone street before taking off with his conspirator.
Later.
For now, Mycroft cradled the baby, an icepack on his throbbing knee, and watched the adults bicker and cast blame. Sherlock, who hadn't cried the entire time, blinked up at him with dark, bottomless eyes, like Mycroft was a curious object orbiting his crib. Tiny fingers wriggled up out of the blankets, reaching and grabbing his chin, finding it disinteresting then letting go. The nanny, perhaps compensating for her lack of vigilance, had swaddled his brother tightly, pinning the baby's legs. But contrary to what one might expect, Mycroft's brother merely screwed up his face and squirmed as the world around him wailed and yelled and shouted and threatened helpless babies, easily snatched by strangers. And for the first time since Sherlock was brought home all pink and tiny, Mycroft understood what his mother meant.
"Stay close," Mycroft murmured as he tightened his arms.
`fin`
| master fic list | (should you be interested)
penfold_x is as relentless as a Dalek. Oooh, crossing my fandoms here. Sorry! LOL.Title: Prompt #3: Older/Younger
Author:
mrwubbles aka YumaFandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: G
Words:657 words
Genre: Gen
Warnings/Triggers: I'm not Brit, can't even play one on TV (telly?) but I thoroughly enjoy Hob Nobs. Does that help? :)
Spoilers: none
Summary: Mycroft receives a very large revelation from something very small…
"Stay close."
Mycroft received the mild reminder with disinterest. It was rhetorical: he has no intention of wandering off, seeing as he carried no currency of his own. He was only eleven. What purpose would it serve if he strayed?
Nevertheless, he caught eyes flitting towards him on occasion to verify he was indeed obeying. Mycroft stepped closer to his mother, the shopping crinkling noisily between her dress and his arm.
"Stay close," his mother murmured again when someone knocked into her, sending her a half-step closer.
"Yes, Mum," Mycroft dutifully replied. He resisted taking a step back to preserve his toes from her heels. Mycroft bit back a sigh; he didn't understand why he had to accompany her to the plaza on a Saturday. Between the bland upper Third set readings and his tutor’s unimaginative dedication to rote maths worksheets and lengthy Latin translations (never mind that Mycroft had demonstrated his mastery of the second declension weeks ago), he had precious little time to pursue his own curricula. And just when he’d gotten to a most instructive passage of The Prince.
Mummy nodded distractedly as she examined a hat Mycroft hoped was for the little baby in the pram, rocked by the nanny sitting on the edge of the stone fountain. He spared a glance towards the newest Holmes with a wrinkle of his nose. The adults did not seem to mind having a baby, even though it meant foul smells, endless clutter and ludicrously excessive compliments and praise, as if the baby was borne not of biology, but shaped by something more impressive. The newborn itself, at least, was surprisingly quiet.
Another murmur from Mummy alerted Mycroft he had not followed as diligently as he should. She was already by the next rack, inspecting the quality of the stitching on a suit jacket far too formal to be practical, pointless for one who thus far had demonstrated few talents apart from the ability to sick up on itself.
Mycroft took the obligatory shuffle towards Mummy, his eyes on the fountain. Mrs. Carter was chatting with a man in a suit a bit too short in the arms, too long on the legs. He stood there, map folded to a section, finger pointed specifically at a spot as if he already knew it was there, yet he asked for directions, head canted away from the nanny as if he was truly puzzled. The nanny, nodding, smiling, uncurled her hand around the pram's handle and turned to point towards a street clearly marked in the distance—
"Mycroft!"
Later, in the police station, Mycroft would explain why he dashed across the street and swung all of Mummy's shopping at the knees of a man bent to reach his arms into the pram. Later, after the nanny stopped sobbing "Oh my God. I didn't see him. I didn't see him!", Mycroft would describe the other man, the one who kicked him, knocking him into the pram and turning the carriage, the baby, and Mycroft into the cobblestone street before taking off with his conspirator.
Later.
For now, Mycroft cradled the baby, an icepack on his throbbing knee, and watched the adults bicker and cast blame. Sherlock, who hadn't cried the entire time, blinked up at him with dark, bottomless eyes, like Mycroft was a curious object orbiting his crib. Tiny fingers wriggled up out of the blankets, reaching and grabbing his chin, finding it disinteresting then letting go. The nanny, perhaps compensating for her lack of vigilance, had swaddled his brother tightly, pinning the baby's legs. But contrary to what one might expect, Mycroft's brother merely screwed up his face and squirmed as the world around him wailed and yelled and shouted and threatened helpless babies, easily snatched by strangers. And for the first time since Sherlock was brought home all pink and tiny, Mycroft understood what his mother meant.
"Stay close," Mycroft murmured as he tightened his arms.
`fin`
| master fic list | (should you be interested)
no subject
As if I would forget this gem. SuperMycroft saves BabySherlock. YAY!
And the last bit is killer.
(Those damn nannies... can't even watch a baby correctly. I is ashamed.)
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Well done, you. :)
no subject
I would like to say its because I've mastered the POV of a child, but no, it's just the kid in me hasn't grown up yet and won't shut up. LOL
no subject
I love this story, really explains his almost desperate need to keep Sherlock safe as an adult. I can totally see it as a flashback on the series itself. The characters were spot on!
Thank you.
no subject
But if I had Tim Tams and Hob Nobs, er...
LOL. Thank you for the review!
no subject
But you had me at "just when he’d gotten to a most instructive passage of The Prince".
I hope to see much more Sherlock goodness from you!
no subject
:) I wish I could take credit for that, but no, it was as per my beta reader's suggestion. She masterfully channels Mycroft. :) Thank you for posting what you thought of the ficlet!
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Well done, you!
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject