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Mycroft and Sherlock had been alone in the house together for precisely one week, and Mycroft was absolutely certain that he was going to either die himself or kill Sherlock.
As Mycroft was almost nineteen and no longer attending school or University (his University degree had been completed concurrently with his eight A-Levels) and was simply attempting to get a job in government, he was home for significant proportions of the day. Thus, Mr and Mrs Holmes had decided that it would be safe to leave their sons together and go on a two week 'second honeymoon' together. Mrs Holmes had left the two boys with a dire warning,
“If any real problems arise, I shall spank you both – I don't care if you're almost nineteen, Mycroft, you live in the family home and so you obey the family standards.”
With a slight eye roll and a reluctant nod, Mycroft had agreed, while Sherlock was already off doing something else, the threat having passed over his head. It was a threat, however, that Mycroft was slightly more vigilant of than he had been when he was younger – when he turned eighteen, his parents gave him the word that should he be the immediate adult present during one of Sherlock's mischievous moments, he was allowed to spank him.
Mycroft felt oddly powerful.
He had, in fact, spanked Sherlock thrice before. The first time had been when Sherlock had started a fire in the kitchen, and he had merely reacted with anger. The other two had been during the few years when they attended the same school, Wilkes Preparatory and College School. As a senior prefect and eventual Head Boy, he had had the power to slipper younger boys for misbehaviour, and on two occasions he had been the first responsible person to the scene when Sherlock had done something daft. The two things happened to be pouring a bottle of vinegar into a localised water tank in one of the science labs and coating the sink in baking soda, and throwing a tantrum when assigned a detention by another prefect and slipping almost a hundred tiny stinkbombs all over the floor of the prefect common room.
No one could accuse Mycroft of giving Sherlock preferential treatment. In fact, the slipper had been doled out viciously, and Sherlock had cried during both slipperings, perhaps even more so than when he got them from teachers.
It made it even sweeter to Mycroft that he had seen Sherlock's punishment for receiving a school punishment on both occasions: a sound bare bottomed spanking from their mother followed by a few whacks with a wooden spoon to really drive the message across.
Mycroft sighed as the telephone began to ring. He had been about to complete an application form for yet another sector of the government, the third one that afternoon. Really, he thought with a wry smile, they should employ him just to get him to stop annoying them with a flood of applications.
“Hello, this is Mycroft Holmes speaking?”
“Holmes! Very good to speak to you!”
His old headmaster. Already Mycroft could feel frustration bubble within him. What had the brat done now?
“Yes, sir, and you too. I trust that this isn't a pleasure call?”
A sigh at the end of the phone. “I'm afraid not, Holmes. Could you pass me over to your mother or father?”
“It's not possible, sir – mummy and daddy are away for another week. Sherlock is under my care at the moment – what is the matter?”
“Your brother was involved in an altercation with another student during Biology. It climaxed in the other boy throwing acid at him whilst Holmes smashed a beaker over his head. Neither boy is harmed, though they have both received eight with the slipper. Both boys are dismissed early for the day, so you need to pick him up.”
A groan welled up in Mycroft, but he maturely bit it back. “Certainly. I'll be there shortly. Thank you, headmaster.”
“And yourself, Holmes.”
Mycroft was very glad that he was able to drive and had purchased a car with some of the funds which his parents had put away for him, for instead of having to wait for the village bus and then trample another mile to the school, he could merely hop into his car and drive the three miles to the school, making it there in a few short minutes. After a brief but polite chat (oh, how Mycroft despised mindless chatter) with the receptionist, Mycroft walked to the headmaster's office and tapped firmly at the door.
“Come in!”
Mycroft entered what appeared to be a war scene: one boy stood at one side of the room, being very thoroughly scolded by an exasperated looking man in work clothes. Wife had died, probably from suicide – he could tell. Said boy had a long scratch on one cheek which was presumably from the smashed beaker, and an eye which was flourishing into a lovely bruise. Meanwhile, Sherlock was sat unconcernedly in a seat in front of the headmaster, slouched out. His shirt was crumpled in his hands (acid, of course) and so all he had to wear over his top was a vest and blazer, which did look rather comical.
“Ah, Holmes, you're here.”
“Call me Mycroft, sir. And yes, I most certainly am – I tried to make as good time as possible.”
The headmaster nodded briefly. “Sherlock has been dismissed, and you may leave with him now, Mycroft.”
“Thank you, sir. I can assure you he will be very well aware of why not to fight in a science lab when he returns tomorrow.” Grabbing Sherlock's arm, he launched the boy into standing position and landed a resounding smack onto his bottom before turning to the father of the other boy, who was staring at him. “I can only apologize for what he did. Rest assured he will be punished.”
“Mycroft, how could you smack me in front of the headmaster, and Edward, and his father?” Sherlock hissed as soon as they left the office, looking absolutely scandalised. He hadn't been best pleased when he had found out about Mycroft's new powers of punishment almost a year previously, for in the family, Mycroft was by far the best (or worst, depending on his perspective) spanker. The three spankings which he had given him stuck out in his mind.
“You deserved it, and you know you did.” Mycroft replied, his voice perfectly clear and pleasant as he gave the receptionist a small wave. “Now, we need to get home and have a very long discussion about your behaviour.”
Still with a very firm grip on Sherlock's arm, he was annoyed to find Sherlock suddenly resisting. “I'm not going home, then.”
Twelve year old boys can be very petulant and silly on occasion, and this was one such occasion. Yanking his arm from Mycroft's grip, Sherlock glanced back at the building: the car park happened to face the science block, and in the window of one of the rooms were a few children. Instantly, Mycroft realised the situation: certainly, Sherlock didn't want a spanking, but he was also putting on a show of bravado in front of his peers. Idiot.
“If you don't step forwards and begin to follow me to the car on the sound of three, I will spank you right in the car for disobedience before we even begin the spanking for fighting.”
Sherlock's eyes widened, but he stayed resolutely still, arms crossing. Mycroft hoped fervently that Sherlock would come around, for he really didn't want to have to embarrass Sherlock like that: he was already one of the most unpopular boys in his year, and he had (accidentally) parked awfully near the window to the science lab.
“One.”
Nothing. Not even a wince. Sherlock looked as if he was listening to the weather report rather than being threatened. Likely, he was attempting to assert his dominance against Mycroft, and show that he wasn't a little boy.
“Two.”
Still nothing. Before announcing the final number, Mycroft murmured, “Sherlock, believe me when I say that I happen to have a hairbrush in my car and it will meet your backside in front of those people in the window if you don't start to follow me.”
Sherlock's mouth opened, as if to speak, but nothing came out.
“Three. Come on then, if you're so stupid as to get yourself another spanking.”
Alarm showed in Sherlock's eyes: he truly was a rabbit caught in the headlights.
“No, I'm sorry Mycroft, I was just-”
“Save it. You're already putting on a very good show for the boys in the window, I doubt you'll improve your social standing much if you stand here and beg.”
Mycroft was not cruel, and was well aware of how much a spanking over the top of a slippering hurt. Plus, he wanted Sherlock's bottom to be in a good enough state for spanking when they got home. Ergo, in the backseat of the car it was only Sherlock's trousers that were lowered, and only a dozen or so thwacks were applied to the presented, already sore bottom. Interestingly, Sherlock seemed to have lost his fight and he merely lay and let Mycroft lay into him, his head resting in his hands. Where Sherlock's rather small underwear (Mycroft made a note to tell his mother that Sherlock needed more) didn't fully cover his bottom, two tiny crests of bottom revealed that Sherlock's slippering hadn't been as bad as all that, and his added spanks hadn't done much – his bottom was a light, dusty pink colour, and after a good long cool-down period (Sherlock had thrown a mug of tea in his direction when he referred to it as a time out) would be ready for a hard spanking.
“Put your trousers back on and we'll get home and start our discussion.”
As Mycroft slipped out of the car, he glanced up at the window and saw the same few boys giggling, along with Mr Jenkins, a biology teacher that he had had for one year and absolutely detested. Squinting his eyes in what he hoped was a threatening manner, he drew a single finger across his throat and smiled at how alarmed the boys looked. Mycroft had slippered them all during his tenure as prefect.
It was the fact that Mr Jenkins looked alarmed too that pleased him.
When they entered the house, Sherlock half expected his brother to start spanking him there and then. He probably would have preferred that, in fact – it would get the punishment over and done with, and due to the slight numbness caused by his earlier punishments, wouldn't hurt so much.
“Go up to your room, Sherlock, and get on with some studying. I'm going to question you during our discussion.”
There was a moment of silence before Sherlock responded, in a manner which can only be considered...'sassy'. “First off, can you stop referring to it as a 'discussion'? It's a bloody spanking, for god's sake, and I get them often enough without you idiot-coating it for me! Secondly, why are you going to question me? I'm the most intelligent person in the school .”
Mycroft smirked. “Stop trying to be smart, brother mine, you are well aware that I'm the smart one. I will be asking you Biology based questions, since you feel comfortable enough disrupting a Biology lesson to fight, so you obviously know everything there is to know about Biology.”
Sherlock's eyes widened. Biology was one of his worst subjects, though he was far and away the best in his year at it: he was studying at a 16-year-old level already. However, Mycroft had studied Biology at A Level, and had also completed a few other qualifications in it to stifle the boredom of school.
Doubtless, he knew far more than him.
When Mycroft entered Sherlock's bedroom, he was holding two things: a thin cane which his mother had purchased when he himself was about four and had shown him with the warning to be good, and a short list of lines for Sherlock to complete. Sherlock, who had experienced the cane on a few occasions at home and school, winced at the sight of it.
“Now, Sherlock, don't look like that – I will be entirely reasonable. You will receive a stroke for every two wrong answers, and I will ask twenty questions, so in a worst-case situation you will only receive ten, anyway. Lenient, really – you might end up getting nothing, and I'm certain that mother would have given you more than that.”
Sherlock nodded nervously. He really did despise the cane, for it was the most painful thing he had ever experienced.
“I have also decided to broaden the questions from just Biology to the entire curriculum, seeing as many teachers have complained of your inattention in class before.”
“No, Mycroft, that's not fair!” Sherlock immediately replied, shock dawning on his face.
“If you would prefer me to call mummy and inform her of this incident, I will...”
Sherlock shook his head fervently. His mother wasn't usually too angry at general fighting, but if she knew that he'd smashed a beaker over another student's head just for being annoying, he would likely get the cane anyway, and perhaps even a couple of bedtime spankings during the week to remind him to behave the next day,
“What position?” Sherlock asked roughly.
“Trousers and underwear down, over the bed.” Mycroft replied in his little pleasant voice, swishing the cane gently back and forth. “Oh, and after this you will write out these sentences a hundred times each. If you don't, I'll give you the hairbrush on top of the cane...if you get the cane, that is.”
Groaning, Sherlock saw no option but to obey.
“Was Romeo a Capulet or a Montague?” Mycroft asked briskly, tapping the cane smartly against Sherlock's bottom to emphasise the swiftness of the answers that he was seeking. Quietly, Sherlock swore: English had never been a strong point of his, for he saw it as a very soft subject and never paid any attention.
“Um...a Capulet?”
“Wrong! A Montague.”
Sighing, Sherlock wriggled his arms up so that he could rest his head on his palms.
“Who wrote the novel, '1984'?”
“Oh! I know this one!” Sherlock exclaimed, before inwardly berating himself for how infantile he sounded. “Give me a moment.”
“We have all the time in the world, brother.”
Sherlock had read the book, and he could remember being irritated that the particular cover his parents owned didn't have the author on it. As he only read the book, and not the foreword or other 'nonsense' part, he had never found out.
Shit.
“H. G. Wells?” Sherlock replied, knowing that it was a good estimate, even if it was totally inaccurate.
“Wrong! George Orwell!”
As Mycroft spoke, the cane swiftly came down and landed in the dead centre of Sherlock's bottom, making him jump violently. The initial light sting occurred immediately, followed a few seconds later by the awful, burning, searing sensation of a really well delivered cane stroke. Mycroft had never been caned as punishment, but on his way to Sherlock's room he had suddenly retreated and (as quietly as possible) thwacked the cane backwards onto his own bottom. Through trousers and physically limited, it hurt.
The questions actually grew easier for Sherlock. While Geography and History gained him two more strokes, Politics, Biology, Chemistry and Physics were all safe. The final six questions, Mycroft decided, would be a little different.
“I trust you are aware of our Aunt Janet?” Mycroft suddenly asked, watching with interest as three tramlines developed across Sherlock's bottom, all very neatly parallel to each other.
“Um...yes?” Sherlock replied, rather thrown off.
“What is the name of her oldest daughter, the one with four children of her own?”
Mycroft could practically feel the anger radiating off of Sherlock. Sherlock barely knew the names of his immediate family, let alone cousins and aunties.
“Denise.” he suddenly dragged up, certain it was correct. He could remember because when he was five or six he had had a slight disagreement with Denise's daughter Rosalind, who was his own age, and Denise herself had smacked his bare bottom when she found her daughter tied to a bedpost by her own long, spindly plaits.
“Correct.” Mycroft reluctantly replied, rather surprised. “What is the name of Denise's oldest daughter?”
Thinking for a moment, Sherlock drew up an image of Rosalind beside another girl, Bess, who was her twin.
“Trick question – Rosalind and Bess are twins.”
“Rosalind and Bess are both twins, yes.” Mycroft agreed easily. “But they were born one after another. Who was her oldest daughter?”
“Oh, that's not fair!” Sherlock angrily replied, drumming his feet on the floor. “I don't know – Bess?”
Mycroft snorted with laughter. “Bless you, brother dear, she has another older daughter, Michelle.”
“Mycroft, what happens if you asked the twenthieth question, say, and I am on one answer incorrect? Will you give me the extra cane stroke or leave it?”
“Leave it, I dare say. Now, what is daddy's middle name?”
Sherlock actually snorted with laughter, an action one wouldn't normally expect from someone getting dangerously close to a stroke of the cane.”
“I don't bloody know – Gerry.”
“You're wrong, Sherlock, I'm afraid. I have an offer for you, though – we'll waive the rest of the questions and that cane stroke if you take twelve with the hairbrush, instead.”
“Hairbrush, definitely.” Sherlock replied, not thinking. Mycroft smiled.
It only took two whacks of the hairbrush for Sherlock to start wiggling around violently, his bottom rocking from side to side. Over the top of the fresh cane marks, it was unbearable.
“Stop, Mycroft!” Sherlock bellowed, attempting to writhe free for all he was worth. Mycroft felt something which he usually didn't: pity. Certainly, Sherlock had been idiotic and dangerous doing what he did...but he'd been punished enough. Getting the following ten hairbrush strokes over with quickly, he barely even put sting into them, instead letting it act as a symbolic punishment.
Several hours later, as a still-teary Sherlock handed his lines over, Mycroft doubted whether he appreciated the sentiment.