The Nutcracker

"I think you look lovely, Sherlock. Very pretty."
"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Don't tease your little brother like that, Mycroft. He's gone through enough of that," their mother said, fussing over her youngest son's hair.
"Well, he hardly helps himself on that front does he, mummy? He has more enemies at that school than I have allies. He uses his intelligence for all the wrong reasons," Mycroft muttered.

He looked up from his page, grinning at his little brother's appearance over his book. His mother shot him a disapproving look, returning to her youngest.
"I think he looks very handsome, and you know as well as I do that he's just misunderstood. Isn't that right, Sherlock?"
"Yes, mummy," he grumbled. She continued to fuss over him, and he continued to fidget. It was when she licked her handkerchief that he pulled away, "Stop it, I'm perfectly clean-"
"I wish you wouldn't keep rolling around in the mud, Sherlock dear," she said, ignoring her son's protests.
"I wasn't rolling around in the mud, mummy. I was dissecting a frog. I would certainly prefer to be doing that now, instead of this."

His mother fixed him with a stern look, the sort hat always made her children sit still and pay attention,
"Maybe you shouldn't have gotten into all that trouble last week then, dear."
"Maybe you shouldn't have sent me to a therapist!"
"Sherlock," she snapped. "You went to a crime scene! You tampered with evidence. After the upset you caused that poor boy Carl's family, the police said that you had to go to the therapist or you could end up in juvenile prison! Prison, dear! My sweet little boy in prison. It doesn't bear thinking about."

"He was murdered, mummy! His shoes-"

"Enough, Sherlock," interjected Mycroft. Personally, I think it was a wonderful idea on the therapist's part. A hobby other than problem solving is just the distraction you need. You have to do something constructive and dancing could be just the ticket. Ballet breeds excellent discipline."
"Piss off, Mycroft."
"Sherlock! Apologise to your brother." He rolled his eyes, glaring at his laughing brother,
"Sorry," he muttered, sounding very unconvincing.

The girls in the class were beginning to pour in, giggling as they saw the new boy, and he glared back at them, loathing his parents for putting him through this. He leant into his brother as he passed, mummy Holmes pushing him towards the gaggle, "if you think it's so bloody wonderful then you can prance around for an hour in a leotard."
"I can't, Sherlock. As you so often remind me, I don't have the figure for it. Your legs look fantastic in those tights by the way." Sherlock was only stopped from asphyxiating his brother by his mother grabbing his ear and leading him towards the girls.

It wasn't long after that he was abandoned by his mother and brother in the ballet studio. At first, he remained sullenly in the corner, watching the girls preening and deducing which ones would grow into teens sigh eating disorders. Eventually, however, the strict teacher was pushing him to his feet with her cane, which she had been using to pound of the ground when the girls got out of step. It was moments before they all - to Sherlock's great surprise - realised that Sherlock was quite the natural.

His mother returned from him an hour later with Mycroft in tow,
"How was it, darling?" She asked, tucking a sweaty lock of hair behind his ear and out of his eyes. Sherlock noticed his brother's smug expression from behind her back. How could he admit that he had loved it? That it had given him a thrill almost on a level to discovering what had irked him about Carl Power's murder scene. He frowned up at her, feigning annoyance,
"Hideous."
"Oh dear, that's a shame. I'm sure you'll get better And enjoy it more. Your father and I have already paid for this term, so he won't want you to quit now. Stick at it, love." He groaned, pretending to find it a great burden, but secretly he was glad for the excuse to carry on.

As they were climbing into he car, Mycroft leant in and whispered,
"You enjoyed yourself, didn't you Sherlock?"
"Change the subject. Now."

His brother had smiled knowingly, but to Sherlock's knowledge he had never breathed a word of his secret passion to anyone. He did, however, keep a few Polaroids of his brother's time in the Royal Ballet's performance of the Nutcracker as blackmail material. If his little brother ever got too out of line, they would certainly be finding their way to a certain army doctor's desk.

He did look so fetching in those white tights.