If prompts are still open, I have one for you— how about some sort of interaction between Mycroft and little Sherlock? Bonus points if there is brotherly arguing that John has to break up (extra extra bonus points if there’s threats of spankings LOL). Please and thank you!

Sadie: You have NO idea how much I love it when people request other characters popping in! 🙂 Here we go!

It had been going on for at least ten minutes and, quite frankly, while John was impressed that Mycroft could get a forty-going-on-two year old to sit still for that long, he wasn’t actually that surprised.

Nothing surprised him about the Holmes’ brothers anymore.

John didn’t know how the staring contest came about. All he knew was that it had been eerily quiet for he-couldn’t-rightly-recall-how-long before he’d started to wonder why Sherlock was no longer jabbering about the buttons along Mycroft’s new waistcoat and where they’d come from, nor about the technique used to sew them on when he looked up to find the overgrown tyke sitting in his brother’s lap, nearly nose-to-nose, staring him right in the eye.

John quietly set the timer on his phone, and sat back to watch.

Sherlock continued to stare intently at his older brother, unblinking, still as a statue…save for an occasional flutter from the dummy in his mouth.

Mycroft stared right back, equally as dilligent, and for a moment, John considered that they were not, in fact, having a staring contest, but were involved in an all-consuming war of the minds on a far-away, unseen plane of existence.

Sherlock stared.

Mycroft stared.

The clock ticked.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, and stared.

Mycroft took a deep breath, stared…then crossed his eyes and pressed his lips together and puffed out his cheeks like a trumpet player.

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide as he startled back from his brother but, even from across the room, John could already see the slow, sneaky smile playing from behind his dummy as the little detective started to break down into giggles, just as his brother had planned.

“I saw that.”

Quick as a flash, the face was gone. “You saw nothing.”

John only grinned back at him.

“In any case, I won.”

The giggling stopped almost instantly. “Nu-uh!” Sherlock protested, glaring at him with all the impotent, infant fury he could muster.

“You closed your eyes.”

“Did n’ah!”

“Did so.”

Sherlock pouted, and shook his head.

Mycroft smirked, and nodded.

Sherlock’s chest puffed out indignantly and John braced himself for the inevitable, ear-splitting shriek that was surely brewing just beneath the adorable, baby-faced surface, when Sherlock decided to surprise the both of them…and turned his dummy into a projectile missile by spitting it right in Mycroft’s face hard enough to make an audible THACK! as it hit him between the eyes.

Mycroft cried out and reeled back as he reached up to rub the sizable red mark that it had left. “Sherlock!!!”

“You c’osed your eyes,” the little detective sneered back.

John rolled his eyes and picked up his phone…huh, fifteen minutes before they’d lit into each other. That was a rec-…well, not necessarily a record, but it was at least in the top ten.

‘Nope, not surprising at all,’ John thought, then sighed as he heaved himself out of his chair to go break up the War of the Whingers before it ended with a little nappy-wearing someone in tears.