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Raising Holmes (and Holmes)

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It was already dark when Mycroft finally made his way home, dragging his feet to the house where his family lived. The boy had a knot in his stomach, being well aware that his mother wasn't pleased with him, and that he would have to face the consequences of his behaviour.

The afternoon had started quietly, with Mycroft reading in the garden and his little brother following him around. However, Sherlock's presence soon became annoying, and when the boy refused to leave like his big brother told him to do, Mycroft snapped and threw a rock at him. He hadn't meant to hit him; but unfortunately, it went straight to Sherlock's forehead and knocked him down for a few seconds, before the young boy burst into tears and ran home, saying he was going to tell Mummy.

Mycroft knew he should have gone home straight away, but instead he decided to run to the village and hide with his book, until it was finally too late to stay out. Swallowing thickly once he stood in front of the door, Mycroft eventually knocked meekly, ready to face his mother and her anger. Mrs. Holmes had been pacing in the foyer, and flung the door open the instant she heard the tentative knock.

"Mycroft!" she breathed, her relief palpable.

Mycroft felt terrible as soon as he saw his Mummy, who seemed to have been terribly worried for him. She knelt and grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and pulled him into a crushing hug. He gasped, having expected to be reprimanded straight away instead of hugged.

"Thank goodness," she murmured, almost to herself.

Sherlock stood several paces behind looking pitiful. The sight of his little brother, head bandaged and eyes puffy, tugged even more at Mycroft's heartstrings. Now he really felt guilty.

Mrs. Holmes released her hold on Mycroft and stood up, giving him a stern look. "Where have you been? Do you have any idea what time it is? It's past dinner already!"

"Sorry, Mummy," he mumbled when his mother pulled away, looking down and blushing brightly. "I just... lost track of time." He didn't really know what else to say.

"Well, you are already in a lot of trouble, young man," she said, wagging her finger in front of his face. "Sherlock told me what happened. I can't believe you would do something so dangerous as to throw a rock your little brother. You are far too old for such a childish tantrum, Mycroft! You're lucky he wasn't hurt even worse than he was. You also should have come straight home, and you know it! Do you have anything to say for yourself?" She crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows.

The lecture in itself was enough of a punishment, in Mycroft's opinion. He thought himself very clever and far more mature than other children of his age, and yet he was being treated like a naughty boy. That wasn't fair.

"But I didn't mean to hit Sherlock, Mummy," Mycroft groaned, not daring to look up at Mrs. Holmes. "And he kept following me around when I told him to go away."

That wasn't a clever move, and Mycroft knew it, but Sherlock could be quite annoying when he wanted to, always asking questions and wanting to play his silly baby games.

"Sherlock follows you around, because he looks up to you," Mrs. Homles replied, exasperated by her eldest son's stubbornness. He was typically so mature and well-behaved, and only reverted to such childishness when it came to his baby brother. She desperately wanted them to get along, but thus far, Mycroft had refused. "Regardless of the reason, throwing rocks is a stupid and dangerous thing to do! Not to mention running off to hide instead of coming home to make sure your poor little brother wasn't hurt."

Deep down, Mycroft loved his baby brother to bits. Even if Sherlock was an idiot, it was still nice to have some kind of company, especially when their house was so isolated and in the middle of the country. However, Mycroft was also slightly jealous of his little brother. He was fairly sure his parents were much more lenient with Sherlock who barely landed in trouble - and when he did, he gave Mummy that stupid puppy dog eyes look and got away with a few love pats on the backside. And Sherlock always got what he wanted. No, that wasn't fair, and Mycroft wasn't going to be nice with his annoying little brother - look after him and teach him things, maybe - but not be nice.

Mrs. Holmes made a resigned sigh before grabbing Mycroft by wrist and dragging him towards the kitchen. "Come along, now. I really thought you had outgrown the need for a good smacking, but you've proved me wrong with your appalling behaviour."

Mycroft's defiant look was replaced by a panicked one when his mother took his wrist and announced that he was going to get a smacking as punishment.

"Mummy, no!" Mycroft protested, trying to pull away and ignore the fact that Sherlock was still watching, the little brat. "I am too big, and it's not my fault if Sherlock got hurt by a tiny rock!"

Mrs. Homles kept an iron grip around her son's arm as he tried to twist and squirm away, easily dragging him closer to his (or rather, his backside's) impending doom.

"The size of the rock is irrelevant, Mycroft. If you aren't too big to control your temper, then you most certainly aren't too big to be spanked. Throwing rocks is naughty behavior that will not be tolerated in this household, young man." She momentarily turned her attention to her youngest who was staring with a look of wide-eyed shock. "Go play in your room, Sherlock. Mycroft and I are going to have a discussion about why little boys shouldn't throw rocks at their brothers."

Mycroft's cheeks burned in humiliation as his mother called him a 'little boy,’ and he suddenly felt much more like one and much less like a mature and impressive eleven-year-old. And it wasn't fair that Sherlock knew he was about to be spanked: it would show that him that Mycroft could still be submitted to that treatment, that even his superior and clever big brother could be taken over their mother's knee for a good long spanking. He would certainly look much less smug after that, at least for awhile.

Sherlock scampered up the stairs, and Mrs. Holmes pulled Mycroft into the kitchen, depositing him next to the refrigerator with his nose to the corner.

"You stand there and think about what you did. I'll be back in five minutes to deal with you."

She walked slowly out of the kitchen and took several deep breaths, willing herself to calm down. Everything was going to be ok. Her sons were both home safe. Sherlock's head would heal. Mycroft, it seemed, was merely getting just a bit too big for his britches. Well, taking them down for a session across her knee would be just what the doctor ordered.

She popped briefly into the family room to update her husband on the current family drama.

"Do you need me to ..." he furrowed his brow. It was no secret Mr. Holmes preferred not to physically discipline his children, leaving it to his wife instead, but he always fully supported her decisions and would step in if need be.

"Won't be necessary, dear. I have it under control for the moment." She smiled grimly.

He nodded, frowning. "Right. Just ... let me know."

Mycroft heard his parents talking, grimacing a little at that. Mummy had always been the disciplinarian, and he had only ever received a few swats there and then from his father, who was much better when it came to comforting or spoiling his children a little. Mummy meant business, and she clearly wasn't someone you could mess with. Mycroft had learned it time and time again through the years: swearing, lying, fighting and generally misbehaving always meant ending the day with a sore and red bottom.

Standing with his nose in the corner, Mycroft started to shuffle nervously, giving small frustrated kicks against the wall after awhile. No, it wasn't fair, and he certainly wasn't about to get spanked like a little baby. He wouldn't let Mummy do that: he was going to convince her he was far too big for a smacking, and everything would be alright. However, Mycroft's cheekiness soon got the better of him, and he found himself mumbling to the wall.

''It's not even a discussion,'' Mycroft said lowly, his small hands curled into fists. He knew all the important dates of the Victorian era, understood Maths better than any fifteen years-old: he wasn't about to drop it without a fight, no matter if that made Mummy angry. ''There's not even any talking involved. And I am too old for it.''

Mrs. Homles returned to the kitchen to find Mycroft muttering and kicking at the wall. Renewed annoyance at his bratty behavior surged through her, and she quickly strode up to give him a sharp swat on the bottom.

"Behave yourself!" she chided. "You're already being punished!"

She pulled a chair well away from the table and then opened a drawer to retrieve the wooden spoon. It had been ages since she'd needed to use it, but clearly Mycroft very much needed to be reminded of its sting.

The boy jumped a little at the sharp swat, shrieking and giving his backside a quick rub. Talking whilst in the corner was never a good idea, but it seemed like today just especially wasn't Mycroft's day. In fact, Mummy opening the drawer to retrieve the terrible, horribly stingy wooden spoon only confirmed it, and all of his defiant attitude suddenly left him as he remembered how much it hurt.

Mrs. Holmes sat down on the chair with the spoon resting on her lap and beckoned her son. "Come here."

Mycroft turned around and looked meekly at her, not really daring to step up more at the sight of the dreadful implement she was holding.

''Mummy... Do you have to use that?'' He asked gingerly, his hands going behind him to shield his bottom when he thought of just how badly the spoon could hurt. ''I am sorry, really...''

"Good," she answered with the air of no-nonsense firmness. "I'm glad you're sorry, but if you think that's enough to save you from a good spanking with this spoon, then you are sorely mistaken, young man. You do not throw rocks at people and you do not run off alone and come home late. If you're going to behave like a naughty little boy, then you will be spanked like one. Now come here."

Mycroft opened his mouth to argue even more, but the look on his mother's face told him that he ought to stay quiet if he valued his bottom's well-being. Spankings from his mother always hurt, even when Mycroft tried to pretend they didn't: they left his bottom stinging and blazing, and he always cried, especially when Mummy decided that he deserved to get the spoon.

Resigned to his fate, Mycroft stepped closer and closer, trying to give his mother the puppy-dog eyes look Sherlock did so well, but apparently, nothing was going to change her mind.

Once by her side, the boy tried to think of what to do, his cheeks turning red again when he remembered that spankings had always been done on a bare bottom. It was humiliating enough to be spanked like a baby, let alone on his bare backside.

''Mummy... Can I keep my trousers on?'' Mycroft asked, biting at his lower lip. ''I am too old, really...''

The pitiful expression on Mycroft's face made Mrs. Homles torn between wanting to roll her eyes and wanting to toss the spoon away to give her son hugs and comfort. She steeled herself and forced memories of how angry she had been with him earlier that day; when Sherlock had come home bleeding and sobbing; and the worry when darkness fell and Mycroft still wasn't home.

With those thoughts in mind, she certainly had no intention of leaving her son's slacks and pants on for his spanking. Not to mention that for practicality, she needed to monitor bare skin to assure she wasn't giving too hard or too lenient a punishment.

"No, Mycroft. You've earned a good spanking, and that means on your bare behind. You're not that old, and I'm still your mother. There's nothing there I haven't seen before."

Having laid down the sentence with finality, she wasted no time in unfastening his slacks. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his pants and tugged everything swiftly down to his knees.

Mycroft felt mortified, tugging a little at his button up and not feeling mature and grown-up at all. In fact, he rather felt like a naughty little boy that still needed to be taken over his Mummy's knee, and unfortunately it happened to be not so far from the truth. Mycroft had often thought, in the past, that he was simply too clever to be punished. Being a genius certainly meant having privileges, and doing better than everyone else. He had soon discovered that even he wasn't immune to mistakes, but that even when he did something stupid, his mother always forgave him soon enough.

He decided to stop protesting and let his mother guide him over her lap, his bare bottom in the air and his head down facing the floor. Mycroft chewed at his lower lip, realising he had stared at that very particular ground many times before. The position was weird and uncomfortable, but the boy knew from experience that soon it would be the least of his worries.

Mrs. Holmes was pleased by Mycroft's cooperation. When he had begun to grouse about being too old for a spanking, she had worried she would need to threaten him with a switching to get him over her knee. Her own father had sometimes stung the backs of her thighs with a whippy switch, so she knew very well how persuasive it could be.

Fortunately, that hadn't been necessary. She appraised her son's small, bare backside and readied herself to deliver the paddling he was due.

"Mycroft, I never want to hear of you doing anything so foolish and dangerous as throwing a rock at anyone ever again!"

Mycroft tensed in apprehension as he felt his mother raising her arm. He remembered very well how the wooden spoon left a very intense sting and blotches of deep red, and although the little boy mentally promised himself not to cry, he knew soon enough he wasn't going to stay nearly as stoic as he wanted to.

Mrs. Holmes brought the spoon down with two loud SMACKS on each of Mycroft’s rounded cheeks, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen. These first smacks caught Mycroft by surprise, making him jump and squeak, kicking his legs a little as to try to get rid the sting. He remembered that the spoon hurt, but this was worse than anything: it packed a truly wicked sting, quickly lighting his bottom on fire and making him yelp every time it descended.

"And if I do, you will be spanked again - just like this - over my knee with this spoon on your bare bottom."

She emphasized her words with sharp spanks before settling into a slow, steady pace, popping Mycroft's backside with stinging swats from the wooden implement.

''Ow, ow, Mummy! I am s-sorry!'' He whined, wriggling over her lap and trying to avoid the spoon - but unfortunately, it always found its way to his backside, leaving a deep and nasty sting. ''I won't do it again, ever! Please!'' Mycroft pleaded, kicking a little harder and soon trying to reach back with his hand, shielding his bottom desperately and just wanting his punishment to be over.

"I should hope not, young man," she caught his hand and pulled it into the small of his back in one fluid motion without missing a beat and continued her rhythm of steady, sharp spanks, ignoring his protests. She focused on making sure the back of the spoon always found the wriggling little target over her lap, covering the white skin with round, pink blotches.

She paused to lecture further. "No more throwing rocks." The spoon smacked hard just below his right cheek. "You will be nice to your brother." Another hard smack against the delicate skin below his left. "You will always be home before dark."

Mycroft began to sniffle a little, yelping each time the spoon descended on his already well-punished skin. The message truly sank in and left him kicking and howling at every spank, especially when his mother landed two additional good whacks at the top of his thighs.

The worst part about the spankings Mummy Holmes gave was that they always left Mycroft completely unable to predict where the implement was going to land next. Sometimes she focused on one very specific part of his backside, quickly bringing it to fire, and sometimes she peppered his small bottom everywhere.

Mycroft’s usually pale bottom was beginning to sport a flushed, ruddy glow, and, knowing she was nearing the end, Mrs. Holmes lit into him to drive her message home, paddling his backside with fast, stinging swats. When the spanking resumed even faster and harder, Mycroft couldn't take it anymore and started to wail, feeling very sorry for himself and thoroughly punished, wondering when he was going to sit down again. He lay over his mother's knee and cried, having completely forgotten about his dignity as he almost kicked his trousers and underwear off.

Soon after she felt Mycroft's body slacken across her knees, Mrs. Holmes stopped spanking, and just when Mycroft started to think his spanking was never going to end, he suddenly didn't feel the spoon going up and down on his backside anymore. He realised his mother had stopped, even though his little bottom was burning and stinging now more than ever.

The skin of Mycroft’s bum was now a deep shade of pink (almost red, really) but would not bruise. Mrs. Holmes had given him a sufficient punishment without being too harsh, although if his reactions were any indication, Mycroft was certainly feeling like his poor little bottom had been scalded by the evil wooden spoon.

"I hope you've learned your lesson, because I most certainly can and wil spank you even longer and harder than this if you can't behave yourself, Mycroft."

The threat of being spanked even longer and harder made Mycroft whine and sniffle in protest. He wasn't going to sit down for weeks after that one, and surely it couldn't be worse.

She patted his back and Mycroft didn't complain when she guided him to a sitting position on her lap, settling his punished bottom between her thighs, where it wouldn't suffer too much pressure. He immediately wrapped one arm around her neck and hugged her tightly, one hand going to rub at his scalded bottom. She gave him a tight hug and kissed the top of his head.

"You are my clever, genius son," she murmured into his hair. "And I love you, and I know you can be a good boy from now on, right?"

''I will, Mummy, promise,'' he mumbled softly. ''Sorry I was naughty, too. I won't ever hurt Sherlock again, ever.''

"Shhh," she soothed, running her fingers through his damp hair. "I know, I know."

She gave him a few minutes of snuggling to let him calm down, rocking him in her arms.

"All right. I bet you're starved after missing dinner. Go ahead and get dressed. I'll fix you something good to eat. After you finish, you can go upstairs and apologize to your brother."