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The two children were looking intently at the space on the bed where Sherlock's blanket should have been. It was most certainly missing, and large tears were rolling down Sherlock's chubby face.
Mycroft held a miraculously clean handkerchief out to his younger brother, who ignored it completely. "Sherlock, don't cry. We will find your blanket."
Sherlock sniffed in response and clung tightly to Mycroft's hand. "It was stolen!" he wailed. "It was that new boot boy, he told me he would steal it."
Mycroft suppressed a laugh. He was a tall serious boy at 10 and he knew it was cruel to laugh at his little brother. "Sherlock, I will teach you how to find it."
Sherlock blinked huge grey eyes up at his brother and Mycroft smiled at him encouragingly.
"You will?" Sherlock asked in a very small voice.
"First, my boy, you need to remember the last place you had it before your bed."
Sherlock's little brow furrowed in thought for a moment, then cleared. "In the garden. I was experimenting."
"On the dog, no doubt." Mycroft said under his breath. "Come along then Sherlock, we will look in the garden."
They both trooped down the winding staircase and out into the garden. Sherlock put his thumb in his mouth and Mycroft explained very seriously about footmarks and why conducting experiments on the dog was "not gentlemanly".
"Now Sherlock," Mycroft said, kneeling down on another handkerchief he had laid on the ground to save the knees of his breeches. "What can you tell me about these footmarks?"
Sherlock took his thumb out of his mouth with a loud pop. "These ones are mine." He pointed a chubby finger at the footmarks made by a small bare foot.
"Very good. And the others?"
"Those are the doggie's."
"Yes. And those others?" He pointed to a set of marks made by a woman's shoe.
"Mary's."
"And how do you know?"
Sherlock was silent for a moment and had put his thumb back in his mouth. It popped again when he took it out to answer. "There is flour from the kitchen in the dirt."
"That's right my boy. Now let's go and ask Mary if she has seen your blanket."
Sherlock put his thumb back in his mouth and gripped Mycroft's hand as they went back into the house, through the pantry and into the kitchen.
"Well boys." Mary, the cook, said pleasantly when they entered. "Come looking for a bite then?"
"My blanket is missing." Sherlock said very seriously around his thumb.
"Is it now?" She winked at Mycroft. "Where has it got to then, Master Sherlock?"
"It was stolen. By the boot boy." Sherlock said, tilting his little chin up haughtily.
"Good gracious." Mary said in mock horror. "I can't imagine Ralph doing such a callous thing as that. Are you sure you didn't leave it in the garden? You had it there earlier when I was picking herbs. You were playing with the puppy and he was doing all sorts of queer things, so you never saw me."
"You see Sherlock?" Mycroft said. "Observation is the key."
Sherlock nodded.
"You might ask Sarah about it, she was seeing to the washing. Now off with you two, I have to get supper ready." Mary said, handing Mycroft several biscuit tied up into a napkin and shooing them out of the kitchen.
"Now," Mycroft said after taking a bite of biscuit and chewing it thoroughly. "Sherlock, we go and talk to Sarah."
They wandered off toward the wash-house, munching biscuit all the way, and met the housemaid coming in.
"Hello young masters." Sarah said, peering at them over a large mound of folded laundry.
"Hello Sarah. My blanket has been stolen." Sherlock said with his mouth full of biscuit.
"Stolen? Good heavens Master Sherlock, no it hasn't."
Mycroft suppressed a grin. It was washing day and none of the maids would let a wash day go by without giving Sherlock's blanket a thorough cleaning. Sherlock never remembered when wash day was, but it was never too early to start him learning how to investigate on his own.
"Of course it has. The new boot boy stole it." He looked at her very seriously. "He told me he would."
"No no, it's here." She put the basket of laundry down with a thump and sorted through the pile of linens she'd just brought inside from the line. After a moment she pulled out a battered quilt that was rather tattered along the edges. "You're lucky it's such a hot day young Sherlock, or it wouldn't be dry yet."
He snatched it out of her hands and hugged it gladly to his chest.
"You see, Sherlock?" Mycroft said, grinning at him. "It wasn't stolen after all."