Good, cheesy titles are good. Right?

The sadness of finishing my last story was short-lived. I wanted to get this done. Like, I had a lot of little plot bunnies, and almost none of them were any good. So we have… Whatever this turns out to be. Points if you figure it out before I do!

Sherlock was terribly un-amused. Well, bored was probably a better word for what he was feeling. But un-amused was a close second. You see, he had a bit of a change of scenery today. A couple had come into the orphanage a week before looking for a child of a relatively young age and somebody that their son could get along with well. The problem was that Sherlock couldn't have snuck out during their decision because he had lessons with some of the other children. He didn't need them, but he felt the need to attend in case the professor made some sort of a mistake. She tended to do that, and when she did, he would give her a few minutes to wrap her head around his explanation before pushing her to continue before they all died of old age. Because, really, 'a monkey with much less sense could understand this better than you could, woman'. As one could imagine, he wasn't the professor's favorite pupil. She wished he would just stay in his room, if he felt such need to correct all of her minute mistakes. He seemed to have no shame and was never heard softening a chastisement. Needless to say he was never granted such a courtesy either. It was only fair, he actually commended them for it. Anyway, during the lesson this particularly troubling couple happened to waltz in and observe. They caught him in the middle of an explanation, a long and drawn-out one at that, he made it as simple as he could and in as few words as well. Not that that helped her one bit, he later mused over dinner. Anyway, once he was done telling her why the proper equation would have been seven multiplied by ten over two instead of whatever idiocy she had spouted onto the blackboard the two of them clapped obscenely loudly. This not only disrupted the class but finally alerted Sherlock to their presence in the room, as well as a few of the other students, who'd chosen to daydream while looking out the window for something—anything—they could do besides this lesson. Sherlock brushed it off though, he always did. He didn't want any pitiful praise from anybody or anything passing through or otherwise, he was perfectly content fluffing his own feathers. He had enough ego in him to last the world another few decades of tyrants, not that he was necessarily a tyrant. At least, he wasn't trying.

To shorten a very long and boring story, they had been so taken aback by his knowledge that they had begun the work for his adoption then and there, much to his own displeasure. He would only be a few more years in that orphanage, and then he could go on his merry way. Or his dreary, dark-cloud way. Whichever he chose to describe it with.

And thus, today on this most terrible of days, Sherlock was being driven 'home' with the Holmes family. Apparently their own son, Mycroft, couldn't have been bothered to come and pick up his new 'little brother', for which Sherlock was grateful. Maybe this Mycroft would leave him in relative peace in his new home, since he was sure the Holmes parents wouldn't do. They pestered him the whole ride. Asking meaningless questions—to him, anyway—about his favorite sport team or about his friends. Sherlock wasn't known for his bright, sparkling personality. No, Sherlock didn't have any friends. He merely had acquaintances, and the occasional lackey. He watched the suburbs they passed—they'd left the city scene a while back—fly by out the window with only a minimal interest, and even that was questionable.

Soon the Holmes family vehicle pulled to a stop in a short driveway at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was a very average house in a very average neighborhood, but that was expected. His 'mother' and 'father' hurried Sherlock into the house as quickly as they possibly could, barely giving him time to collect his few belongings on the way there. They showed him around the house just as quickly, but he would memorize the place soon enough.

"Mycroft!" Mrs. Holmes shouted up the stairs, cheerful smile plastered onto her face. Mr. Holmes stood at her side, an arm around her shoulder. The woman had placed her hands on Sherlock's shoulders, his distaste for the contact was evident on his face, if they had bothered to look. He would try to get that under control, and he probably could. It wasn't often he was angry. "Mycroft, come down from that room of yours, and meet Sherlock!"

The sound of a chair scraping against a hard wood floor rebounded off the walls and down the stairs to meet their ears. A shuffling as something was moved out of the way, the creak of a door opening. At this point, in the suspense of this moment, Sherlock was very curious to see who his new brother would be. Would he be tall, or short? Muscled or lean? He could guess from the footfalls upstairs, but other than that he hadn't a clue, which lit his eyes just slightly. Watching the stairs intently, feeling what Mrs. Holmes must have thought was a reassuring squeeze on his shoulders, Sherlock restrained himself from leaning on the rail with tip-toes to see him sooner.

He wasn't as disappointed as he thought he might be when his brother came down the stairs. While a bit stocky, Mycroft had an air about him. One that demanded respect, and one that smelled of many sugary sweets. He had raised eyebrows and a bit of a pout on his face, though that seemed to be there naturally. He seemed equally curious as to who this new brother was. Sherlock had no doubt in his mind he would push all of Mycroft's buttons and try to break that snobby attitude he had, but there was also no doubt that they could have really been related. They shared the intelligent eyes, and the observant glances up and down each other. Though Sherlock wasn't pleased to be in this family, at least not yet, he thought that they might eventually grow on him. After all, wasn't a family something all of the other orphans had strode and wished for? Oh, if only he could see their faces. They would be outraged. Sherlock, of all people, chosen for a family before them. He doubted, now looking at Mycroft eye-to-eye, that they would have enjoyed this as much as he was bound to. Anybody else would crack under the pressure of this stare. But Sherlock was up for the challenge. Roughly the same height as they were, they could probably have kept up this prying staring contest for hours, possibly even days, Sherlock didn't need sleep, however their mother snapped her fingers.

"Now, Mycroft, this is Sherlock. I don't want you starting any fights with him, now. Why don't you show him to his room? You did set it up like we asked, right?" Mrs. Holmes smiled down at her sons, sure they would get along swimmingly, and pulled Mr. Holmes into the next room.

Mycroft nodded in Sherlock's general direction before heading back up the stairs. Sherlock followed after, keeping a steady pace, three stairs behind his brother. Nothing was said in the trip from the foyer to the bedroom. Once in the room, Mycroft gave him a condescending smile and left, closing the door behind him. Sherlock heaved a sigh when he noticed the decorating. There was nothing he despised more than what he saw on that wall. There were childish drapes over the windows in flamboyant colors, as well as the bedding being sprinkled with sporting equipment. At least, he decided, there was a desk in the corner. He could work with a desk. That was, really, all he needed. He stole a glance out the window, and saw the sun setting over the roves of other houses, almost identical to the one he was in. There were some shadows playing about in the street below and further off, but he didn't pay them any attention, getting right to laying out his things. He pulled from his bag a skull, a human skull he'd received from his science teacher once she'd gotten sick of him. It was a sort of going-away present. His going away, specifically. He'd also gotten a rock or two from the other students in his classes, but he didn't really take those along. He already knew exactly which types of rocks they were, it was obvious from the composition and the texture, so there wasn't a point. He had a striped scarf (at least two feet too long for him at this point) and a notebook he enjoyed carrying around. Everything else had been left behind as a reminder to his fellow orphans that he had indeed been there, and he wasn't some sort of sick joke on their account.

A knock on his door barely startled him from his thoughts, and he turned around to find Mrs. Holmes at the door. "Sherlock, it's almost time for dinner. I just thought I would give you a warning ahead of time. How are you settling in?" She asked.

"Just fine, thank you." He put the skull on the desk, the scarf next to it, and tossed the notebook across the room and onto the bed.

"About twenty minutes then." She nodded and smiled before she left. Sherlock thought that he could learn to like her and her husband, eventually. They didn't seem half as dumb as his peers or his teachers back at the orphanage. And his new brother was, once again, interesting. Yes, he might come to like this place.

Woop woop.