#kid!lock

***

Sherlock quite liked Mr Sim: he played the grumpy businessman excellently. To some extent, the young boy understood his irascibility. Even at his age, Sherlock had encountered enough idiots to last a lifetime, thank you very much!

When a man’s face appeared on Scrooge’s doorknocker, though, Sherlock got a bad feeling in his stomach. He inched a bit closer to his brother, but he was unable to tear his eyes away from the screen. When invested in something, William Sherlock Scott Holmes’ perseverance was staunch. That didn’t mean he couldn’t seek comfort from his brother. He was after all not yet seven years old.

As the bell started to chime – without moving an inch – followed by the growl from what sounded like a gigantic hound, Sherlock felt like his curls had turned straight. He didn’t even register that he sat flush against Mycroft’s side. To his brother’s credit, he kept silent about it.

***

The Ghost of Christmas Past sent Sherlock’s heart racing like it did when he ran through the forest with Redbeard, but not in that exhilarating way the running evoked. To his horror, an anguished sound escaped him, which made him want to punch his brother for suggesting this fascinating but also horrific film.

“Don’t be afraid, brother mine,” Mycroft said softly and put his arm around Sherlock, pulling him closer.

“I’m not a baby, Myc,” Sherlock protested, but he was unable (unwilling) to withdraw from the embrace.

His brother said nothing, but his arm stayed where it was, and if Sherlock snuggled into the warmth emanating from Mycroft’s body, neither of them mentioned it.

It was slightly disconcerting to see Mr Scrooge smile and cheer up when he watched himself dancing. Sherlock had grown so custom to the man’s scorn and horror, that the laugh and glee seemed indecent.

Something warm rolled down Sherlock’s cheeks when the young Ebenezer’s sister died, and she begged him to take care of her infant son. He rested his head on Mycroft’s shoulder and whispered: “Don’t ever die, Myc.” 

His brother still didn’t speak, but Sherlock thought his inhale was a bit more unsteady than usual, and his grip on Sherlock tightened.

***

The next spirit – The Ghost of Christmas Present – wasn’t terrifying at all. It looked like an intermingling between Father Christmas and the head of the Greek gods, Zeus. Not that Scrooge was less frightened; he was clearly in distress, but he had after all estranged himself from everyone – even his own family.

“You will always be my brother, won’t you, Myc?” Sherlock asked with a trembling voice.

“Of course, Lock. I will be there for you, always. I promise,” Mycroft replied.

His voice was fond, and Sherlock felt a calmness fall over him. 

It only lasted until the third ghost appeared on the telly, though. The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come was dressed in a black hooded cloak, its face hidden. This apparition indicated that Mr Scrooge had died, and the scream when the ghost led him to his gravestone, chilled Sherlock to the core. He hid his face on Mycroft’s chest for a moment, but then Ebenezer started to plead with the ghost, telling it that he had changed his character. Sherlock had an urge to tell the man to not be afraid anymore when he woke up in his bed, but he was after all nearly seven, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself further in front of his teenage brother.

***

A happy ending wasn’t Sherlock favourite, but he would definitely make an exception for this film. The tormented man finally made things right, and Sherlock didn’t find his happiness disturbing anymore.

They sat in silence for a while before Sherlock extracted himself from Mycroft’s embrace at the same time as his older brother released him from the tight hold. None of them could look the other in the eye, but the mood between them stayed (almost) friendly until the new year appeared, and they went back to their respective schools.

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His excellent plan (if he did say so himself) was to collect samples of local bugs and to examine the rate at which they would decompose. His new nanny (vegetarian, going off the hemp tote bag, and the small scrunched up expression she pulls as she makes his ham sandwiches) seemed completely opposed to the idea, so sneaking off was necessary.  

Thankfully, there was plenty of data to find, with his house located on the edge of town with plenty of woodland area a short walk away (even when walking with child-sized legs). Speed however was imperative, he had approximately 25 minutes before the nanny realised it was not sherlock ‘playing’ with his microscope that she could see, peering into his room. But rather a stack of pillows wearing a jacket and a curly black costume wig, with a tape looping his voice including all of his latest deductions, of which he had recorded the day before.  

When you are 9, any plan that takes more than one day of planning feels astronomically important, even for the mature William Sherlock Scott Holmes, and succeeding was paramount. Because of this, Sherlock was running fast as he could, nothing on his mind but finding soil damp enough for worms, and rocks large enough to cover up significant family of woodlice. Therefore, he wasn’t able to notice the tangle of his undone shoe laces, making the little boy fall rather quickly, not even able to catch himself as both small hands were occupied with the all-important jar for his specimens.

Now, those who knew Sherlock Holmes rarely saw the little boy cry, even at age 9 he had decided it was weak and unbecoming (subconsciously copying his stiff and repressed older brother), so he was immensely grateful that no one was there to see the large tears that forced themselves from his eyes, stinging the rather large graze he has gotten across his cheek.  

“Hello”  

The soft voice startled the tearful boy, and for a moment all he could do was stare. There in front of him stood a boy, maybe slightly older than himself dressed in jeans, a muddy blue and white rugby top and dirty shoes that were once white and pink, with black marker smudged over the pink in an attempt to cover it, if sherlock was not so destressed he would have deduced that he was a poor boy, wearing his older sister's hand-me-downs, and is embarrassed about it.  

As Sherlock stared the boy got closer, choosing to sit with his legs crossed in front of him, pulling a crumpled packet of tissues out of his pocket, holding one out to Sherlock. This interaction snapped the crying boy out of his shock and he clambered to his feet, adamantly rubbing his tears away on his t shirt, feeling quite angry that this boy had walked in on his moment of weakness.  

The boy did not appear to be judging Sherlock though, he was not laughing at him or smirking. Still, he had little trust for people his age, and did not like to risk being made a fool. So, he held his head high and walked past the boy, aware of the time he lost to his fall and the questions he would need to answer upon returning home.  

“Wait!” the boy said, shocked at the cold reaction, and yet not deterred. No boy his age had ever acted like this boy, and the small John Watson knew he had to be his friend. Using all of his 10 years of knowledge in making friends, he decided the best course of action was to introduce himself.

“My name is John” he declared, walking quickly to fall into step with the dark-haired boy, and upon realised he was not getting an answer asked “what's your name?”

Now, weather John knew this or not he had just introduced Sherlock with a difficult question. At their age, insults were uncreative and simple, and yet one thing kids their age seemed to know was that Sherlock’s name was ‘weird’. He was therefore expecting the same reaction from this normal looking boy, and steeled himself as he plainly said “Sherlock Holmes”  

Sherlock had avoided eye contact as he declared his name, but if he had been looking at John he would have seen the amazement on his face “Wow!” he exclaimed, grinning “you sound like you’re from a book!”

This was.... new for Sherlock, something almost like a compliment, before he could figure out how to respond, John took his silence as a sign to carry on.

“really, you should take the tissue, if you let that cut get dirty you could get an infection, your face would swell up and get all gross” he sounded perversely pleased as he said this, the same way many little boys did when mentioning something ‘icky’.  

Sherlock was not one of those little boys and at the implication that his face could “get all gross” was not fun, and he promptly snatched the tissue that was still in johns fist and rubbed at the graze on his cheek.  

“no! Not like that!” john said, sounding rather alarmed as he stole the tissue back and to sherlocks horror spat on it, rubbing it onto sherlocks face to get rid of the grime. John did not see an issue with this, he saw plenty of mothers outside the school gates licking at their thumbs to rub dirt from their children's cheeks, this was no different, and it couldn’t be dirty if mums did it.  

“what on earth do you think you're doing?” Sherlock asked with horror at having a stranger's saliva on his face

“cleaning your cut, now stay still and stop talking like the queen” John said, with no malice, he had simply never heard anyone in real life talk the way Sherlock did, especially kids, and the queen was the poshest person he could think of.  

Sherlock wanted to reply, but as John wiped his face with one hand and held his chin still with the other, he felt oddly little need to protest. He felt... cared for.  

As John pulled away he smiled a big toothy grin at Sherlock, showing off a missing front tooth

“all better” he declared affectionately, stepping back “why were you running so fast with a jam jar anyways?”

Sherlock suddenly remembered his all-important task, and took off with a surprisingly serious expression for someone so young “I am looking for bugs, I want to keep them and then observe the rate at which they decompose”