Sadie:
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“My’coff!”
“Sit still, I’m nearly done.”
“I y’am done!”
“And I’m not.”
“MY’COFF!”
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock whinged and leaned away from Mycroft’s hand as he dutifully smeared his fair-skinned little brother in a thick coating of sunscreen. “S’oooooooooopppp’iiiiiddddd!”
“This would go a lot faster if you would sit still.”
Greg, who had been lying on the towel beside them, made no move to help. “Just let him go play, Myc.”
“If you’re not going to help, hush your mou–SHERLOCK.” Mycroft barely managed to grab a slippery toddler by the back of his swim nappy before he could escape to the water’s edge, where his playmate was already splashing. Mycroft pulled him, squirming and fussing, back into his lap. “As I was saying,” he continued over a tiny detective’s deceptively loud protests, “…If you’re not going to help, shut up.”
Greg (who still hadn’t moved a muscle) lifted his sunglassed and grinned cheekily up at his increasingly flustered boyfriend. “Are you still mad because you burned the top of your head yesterday?”
Without missing a beat (and amazingly enough, without losing his grip on his wriggling brother), Mycroft reached over and slapped Greg’s bare thigh with a resounding *CRACK* that seemed to echo out over the entire ocean in front of them.
“OW!”
Sherlock’s struggling and crying came to a full stop, and he stuck his thumb in his mouth while hardly paying any attention to the fact that it was covered in sand as he stared up at Mycroft.
Greg sat up, rubbing the full-fingered thigh turkey that had been emblazoned on his thigh. “Touchy,” he muttered.
Mycroft tutted in faux-sympathy, and continued to carefully apply sunscreen to Sherlock’s cheeks and nose. “I’m sorry,” he said, how voice dripping in saccharine-sweetness, “…are you still mad about the handprint I left on your thigh?”
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