Sherlock lie restless in his bed, his mind everywhere else but it should have been.
He saw his brother running down a steep hill, looking behind him every so often, and speeding up whenever he did. At times he would swat his umbrella at the dark figure that followed him. Mycroft's tie flapped behind his as he ran, his eyes set on getting it down the hill, but the dark figure behind Mycroft grabbed his tie, and dragged him back, choking him as he did. As the dark figure grabbed at Mycoft, it was revealed to be the Holmes boys' father, Richard Holmes. He held Mycroft up, and in his thunderous voice yelled, "You shouldn't have told him! You worthless scum!"
Mycroft clawed at his throat, trying to rip free, and dropping his umbrella. "You-You were hurting Sherlock! Some-something had to be done!"
"That littl' bastard deserves everything that's coming to him!" Richard said, shaking Mycroft, "You support me on this! You always taunt him!"
"Out-of-brother-ly-love!' Mycroft choked, his voice fading, and his eyes closing.
"You piece of shit!" Richard said, and squeezed, decapitating Mycorft's head from his body.
Sherlock woke up screaming, curling up into a ball, and scooting to the far corner of his bed. Mycroft couldn't end up like that. He wouldn't end up like that if Sherlock could help it.
"What is it, Sherry?" His father came in, his eyes red, and his face as red as a beat. "You realize it's 4 o'clock in the bloody morning, and there is such thing as sleep."
"Yes, sir." Sherlock said quietly, huddling underneath his cover, "I'm going to sleep now sir."
"Good boy. Now keep it that way." Richard said, and walked out, without saying good night.