The tiny hand in his went rigid for a long moment before curling inward and tugging as hard as it could, halting Mycroft in place and startling him out of scanning the sea of small children scattering the schoolroom. He turned to look down at the top of the dark curly head of his baby brother, brows pinched in concern. “What is it, Sherlock?”
Shaking that head of ringlets back and forth, bright grey eyes stared wide at the table Mycroft had been steering them toward, before narrowing calculatingly and looking away indignantly. “No,” Sherlock muttered, horrified gaze snapping up to Mycroft’s in an instant, highly offended that his older brother had picked such an unacceptable place for him to be dropped at.
“What’s the matter? These kids look perfectly nice,” Mycroft tried to reason with the six-year-old currently clutching his hand, sighing tiredly as Sherlock shook his head again and frowned at his big brother.
“Absolutely not, My,” Sherlock blinked at him, emphasizing the words heavily like he’d just learned recently, already crafting the art of disdain perfectly at such a young age.
“Fine,” Mycroft conceded, floundering on what to do next with a quick look around the room. “Where then?”
Sharp gaze dropping away from his, Sherlock glanced around them, taking stock of each table and person occupying it, young mind already learning to weigh the pros and cons of each potential situation before diving in. Mycroft had to stifle a grin with the back of his hand, chest warming at the sight of his already brilliant brother sizing up his new playmates carefully, observations practically glittering in his irises.
Mycroft was most definitely a proud older brother today.
Grey eyes landed on their target and before Mycroft had a chance to catch on, that tiny hand in his was yanking and those already long legs were marching, moving with purpose to a table off in the corner occupied by one little blond boy bent over what appeared to be some sort of coloring book, red crayon wrapped tightly in his fist, concentrating intently on his work.
Storming up behind him with his taller sibling in tow, Sherlock stopped just short of running right into him and huffed when the boy didn’t turn, glancing up at Mycroft in expectation, clearly waiting for a proper introduction since this other boy was clearly not going to whip right around and provide the attention Sherlock was obviously expecting.
Doing as Holmes the younger silently demanded, Mycroft cleared his throat. “Erm, hello.”
The blond head at the table startled for only a moment, turning and taking a cursory glance at Mycroft, flicking blue, unimpressed eyes over him and not bothering to turn all the way around to view his companion, before turning back to his drawing. “Hi,” he muttered, apparently not at all interested in these proceedings.
Attempting not to be impressed by the gall this six-year-old had, Mycroft continued, “This is Sherlock,” feeling the hand in his squeeze ever so slightly and trying not to smile. Maybe Sherlock would be meeting his match today. “What’s your name?”
Wiping the back of his hand across his nose and sniffing like the germ-infested child he probably was, the boy didn’t turn from his project. “John,” he murmured down to his artwork.
“Hi John. Do you mind if Sherlock joins you?”
The shrug of an unaffected child was enough for Mycroft to shove his still silent brother into the seat next to this busy kid, having just about enough small talk with people this age for one day. Sherlock, thankfully, went willingly, placing a hand on the table and staring intently at this blond boy, grey eyes flickering up and down his small frame.
Finally turning to level a gaze at his new tablemate, John sized up Sherlock equally good and proper, regarding him for a long moment of awkward silence before offering the tiniest of smiles and flicking a gaze up to the crown of Sherlock’s head. “I like your hair.”
Sherlock, to Mycroft’s shock, stayed silent, blinking at this new boy in what could only be wonder, looking positively enamored, lips flapping momentarily before giving up entirely and, to Mycroft’s utter delight, scooting his chair just a tiny bit closer to his new friend.
Mycroft’s chest ached just a bit, his gobsmacked brother just a bit endearing, though it was entirely unclear to him just what exactly Sherlock was so fascinated by but whatever it was, this John boy clearly had it. Sherlock always did have a knack for seeing things other people didn’t.
Frowning when Sherlock didn’t respond, John eyed him suspiciously long enough for Sherlock to duck his head shyly, a move Mycroft had never ever seen him do in all his six years on earth.
And, astonishingly, at that, John grinned. “Wanna color?”
“Yes,” Sherlock replied quickly, accepting the paper and crayon John slid to him, watching in awe as John babbled away about what it was he was drawing, his own artwork not nearly as important apparently as the words coming out of this kid’s mouth.
Taking that as his cue to head out, Mycroft crept backward toward the door, terrified of startling this pleasant little encounter too severely, though curiosity was getting the better of him. Sighing, he turned to head out, pausing long enough at the door to check one last time.
And just as Mycroft cast one last glance at his little brother on his first day of the school year, he was lucky enough to catch a small hand belonging to that blond boy he’d just left Holmes the younger in care of reach up and pat dark curls once, twice, three times so gently, like if he tapped too hard they may break, a grin only barely visible from Mycroft’s point of view from the door as John smiled widely at Sherlock Holmes and patted his head.
And Holmes the elder lingered just long enough to watch his tiny brother’s pale neck going crimson as he practically full-body blushed at the attention and ducked his head, hiding any other reaction from Mycroft’s view.
And something niggled and promptly snapped into place in Mycroft’s brain.
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