Son of Holmes

Clean Up

Sherlock opened the door to his small, shoddy flat. He knew he could buy a house if he wanted to, with the size of his trust fund, but prefered to save his money for a rainy day. Or for if he doesn't get another case for a few months, and thus has no source of income. Same thing, really.

He started by sorting through the papers on the floor. Most he didn't need, but he kept a few papers that had to do with particularly interesting cases, so he could go over as references, as well as to remember who owed him favours and who didn't.

Next he cleaned up his closet, and picked up the clothes that were strewn along the room and under the bed. He placed them in a bag on his bed to be minded later.

Going over to his small table and the chair besides it, he surveyed the experiments on top of them. Sherlock knew that he had to get rid of them if he wanted his brother to let Slade live there, but he was loathe to do it.

Sighing over dramatically to an audience of none, he carefully put them all in separate bags, so as to avoid unnecessary disasters. Carefully as he could, he one at a time brought them out to the bins outside.

Picking up the bag of laundry on his bed, he took them to the launderette.

After a fruitful and rather tiring day, Sherlock lied on his bed, aiming for a few hours, then he'd continue.

Checking his mobile, Sherlock found that he had slept in.

Damn, he thought. At this rate, it'll take at least a week to make this place 'habitable.'

Jumping to his feet, Sherlock went through his usual morning rituals at cut-time*, he was back to work in only a few minutes. He moved on to the bookshelf and began organizing it, if only so that no-one would see any of the sightly more questionable books directly upon entering.

Besides, it would also serve to get rid of all the hidden bugs Big Brother had hidden in his flat.

In every shelf Sherlock found at least rwo books that he didn't remember getting, and presumed that he had deleted them. He placed these books on the table in their own pile.

By the time he had all the different texts in their own piles and off the bookshelves, the sun was setting and there was barely enough room to walk. He set an alarm on his mobile to make sure he woke up when he wanted to, and not when his body wanted to. After heating up and eating a bowl of canned soup, he fell into a light sleep.

It took the rest of that Wednesday to reorganize the bookshelf again, putting the most 'kid friendly' ones more towards the bottom, and the more interesting ones near the top.

The next two days followed similar schedules. Cleaning, organising, and washing everything he could see, as well as convincing his landlord to let him have the room directly next to his for half off. (there was no way that he would stop his expiraments. He would just have to keep his more dangerous possessions (ie knives, sword, and gun that he had hidden in small compartments) and cases in that room only.) The last day was spent puting together a set of bunk beds, buying clothes, food, a refrigerator, another chair, a deck of cards, and a chess set.

He never knew that gaining a child would cause this much of a hassle, even if it did help him get rid of no less than seven bugs in several books, a hidden space inside his skull, under the table, the cobweb, and inside his gun.

Really Mycroft? And I thought you couldn't stoop any lower. Though, the cobweb was rather ironic, what with all the power that he has webbed throughout Europe and the Americas.

He went to bed planning on picking up Slade in the morning.

Much of the week passed in a similar way that the first day had. Slade and his uncle making and eating meals together (it took Slade a couple of days to get used to that), slowly teaching him to play the piano (He's an absolute natural!), and telling the boy what different words meant ("It's better to start with easy books, then work your way up."), but mostly doing their own things in either their own rooms or the study, in Mycroft's case.

Whenever Mycroft didn't have any work to do, he would read with Slade some of the harder books and help him with his pronunciation and vocabulary.

Mycroft learned to never underestimate the boy, as he was always surprising him with the speed in which he could grasp subjects and remember information. Perhaps he remembered too well. He remembered the smallest things, and yet was so small himself. It was rather curious, Mycroft often forgot that Slade was in fact three, and not at the very least an adolescent. He as remarkably mature, yet at the same time could compete with Sherlock for the trophey of childishness.

In his own opinion, Slade thought that Uncle Mycroft was very nice. He never got mad at him, and let him do what ever he wanted to. He could even watch the telly if he wanted to, though the books were much more interesting. Mycroft taught him how to way words right and he learned more words than ever when he read with him. Whenever they worked together it was really fun, and Mycroft said that it was good to make mistakes. Slade didn't quite understand this, but apparently when you mess up, you learn from it. He decided not to think about it too much.

He was told that he only needed to clean up messes that he made, and that he wasn't expected to ("It means that you don't have to") clean the rest of the house. Slade made sure that it was always tidy though, because he liked to have lots of space to walk and play.

Mycroft was really good at playing pirates. He would be the evil Captain Croft, and Slade would be the Heroic Holmes. They would mock sword fight, Slade using a broomstick, and Mycroft using his umbrella.

Once when Slade had a nightmare that his Uncle Vernon thought that he left their house a mess and ate all of the food. Slade tried to tell him that he didn't do any of those things, but he found that he couldn't speak. As Vernon got closer, Slade tried to get as far away as he could, but he was suddenly stuck inside of the cupboard. He tried to shout for Sherlock, and then Mycroft, but nothing came out. Uncle Vernon was yelling at him now. Saying what an utterly ungrateful, worthless, waste of a human being he was. Uncle Vernon punched Slade square in the jaw, knocking him off his feet, and before he could get back up, Vernon started kicking him. Slade curled into a ball to protect his belly and chest, his arms on the back of his neck like Mycroft told him to do if he ever needed to protect himself. The pain seemed to go on for an eternity before it stopped very suddenly.

His door was open and light was spilling into the room. Two arms were wrapped around him and for a moment Slade panicked, thinking that Uncle Vernon had come to get him, before a familiar voice whispered, "They're gone. You have nothing to be afraid of anymore. You're safe now, and I promise that you will always be."

Slade stopped struggling and let loose the tears that had been threatening him since he woke up. Slade let everything out as he felt a reasuring hand massaging his back, rubbing soft circles, whispered words soothing him to sleep, fears forgotten.

Mycroft never mentioned that night to Slade, which made him feel better, and made him feel like he could trust his good uncle. Mycroft, however was too upset about it to confront Slade about the dream, though he made a mental not to tell Sherlock about it when he came to pick up Slade.