Of course he's happy, it's just unlike him to admit it.

His little brother has almost died twice in the space of a week; he honestly has no idea what he would do with himself if he hadn't to keep a weather eye on Sherlock all the time.

He's visited him once at the hospital, timing his arrival so that he wouldn't have to meet either John or any of his brother's friends. Sherlock looked terrible indeed, and he felt an unfamiliar lump settle in his chest.

Just how many times he'll have to save his little brother's life, holding his breath until everything goes spectacularly wrong again?

That always reminds him of the tree incident, the one he's never had the heart to tell their mother.

Sherlock was seven when he decided it would be a good idea to climb the oak tree that stood near their house; he was clinging to one of the higher branches when Mycroft eventually spotted him, and it was painfully obvious that he was stuck up there.

He didn't know anything about tree climbing, but he knew his brother. Sherlock would surely fall if he started to panic, and he was as close to panicking as he'd ever seen him.

So he did the only sensible thing he could do – and that was irritate his little brother into climbing down.

"You really are stupid, aren't you?" he called at him, careful not to let his own panic seep into his voice. "You shouldn't climb a tree if you're not capable of getting down."

"I'll show you if I'm not capable," Sherlock hissed back, and he waited with bated breath until the boy was finally standing in front of him on solid ground.

Then, and only then, he let out a sigh of relief.

He knows his brother is about to climb a metaphoric tree now, one that is far more dangerous than any old oak could ever be. And he's not sure he can save him this time around.

He drinks the punch all the same, and waits.