You sat atop a tree, holding a pencil. In your lap rested a sketchbook with a caricature drawing of your oldest brother; Mycroft, who was planning on sending you to a boarding school.

Mother wouldn't have approved of this, you thought bitterly—but with her unexpected disappearance on your birthday, there was no one to help you protest against the decision. In an act of anger, you rip the piece of paper, watching as the wind took your drawing along with the breeze.

That was until a hand caught the paper. It turned out to be Sherlock, your older sibling, sitting and leaning against the base of the tree. "I also like to sketch. Helps me think, process my thoughts." He was staring down at the paper, avoiding your gaze. "A caricature? Perhaps It's best if Mycroft doesn't see this."