It's a Family Affair

Chapter 1

John knew something was horribly wrong when he returned back to Baker Street to find that Mycroft and Sherlock weren't at each other's throats. In fact, they two men sat in complete silence staring at the space between their feet.

John cleared his throat, uncertain of whether he should even be in the room.

"Um…hello, Mycroft. What-is-um…" John shifted uncomfortably for a few seconds. Completely unsure of what he should say or do. And, he didn't like the feeling one bit. Mycroft was the first person to notice John standing there. Mycroft's eyes lazily looked John up and down.

"Troublesome patient, then?"

It was then that Sherlock noticed John was in the room. His eyebrows knitted as he looked John up and down himself.

"Father with a child?"

"Tsk. Sherlock, come now." He chided gently. "It's the mother…obliviously."

"Mm."

The brother's upper-class drawl leaked into the conversation but it definitely wasn't as enthusiastic as it was before. In fact, it was very subdued which just confirmed his suspicion that something was wrong.

"Um…yes. The mother said there was a rash on the baby's chest. As soon as I tried to look she pretty much leapt as me." John rubbed the back of his neck, wincing slightly at the pain and sighing as he realised there was going to be a bruise.

"Is-um…is everything alright?"

There was uncomfortable silence (mainly on John's behalf) and he began to wonder if the brother's had actually heard him. Sherlock sighed before placing his hands in a prayer position underneath his chin.

"Our mother is dead."

"Yes. Mummy died last night." Mycroft chipped in but even in Mycroft's normally calm voice, there was no denying the sadness.

"Oh…I'm sorry…I'm really, very…sorry." John groaned internally. He hardly knew when to handle the Holmes brothers when on a normal day but he had absolutely no idea especially since they were going through bereavement.

Mycroft smiled sympathetically.

'Ever the politician' John thought to himself. 'Always the people pleaser…'

"Thank you, John. It is appreciated but there is no need, really."

John nodded. "Would either of you like a cup of tea?"

Mycroft shook his head and twirled the head of his umbrella absently. Sherlock didn't move or say anything.

"Um…I'll be upstairs if you need me."

Mycroft tilted his head slightly, which John took to mean a 'thank you' before disappearing up the stairs.

The brother's were once again plummeted in a bleak silence. Each brother wanting to speak but having no idea what to say. So, they relied on what they dealt with best; facts.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "When did mummy die? What time?"

"At around ten, I believe."

"What was the cause?"

"Leukaemia. She had hidden it for sometime."

"But-why didn't she…tell us?"

Mycroft's eyes and lowered to the floor. He sighed heavily; he'd been asking himself that very question since he'd found out.

"I…I don't know, Sherlock. I believe…she did not want us to worry. You know what Mummy was like. I don't think she wanted us to see her die."

"Why? She was always terribly sentimental…why didn't she want us to say goodbye?"

Sherlock looked searchingly into his elder brother's face. Pressing him for an answer, begging him to explain, just like when they were children. But this time Mycroft just didn't have an answer.

"I…don't know mon frère. She may not have wanted us to see her die…I think…she wanted our memories of her to be…good and not of her last moments in life."

"But…it doesn't make any sense."

Mycroft did something he'd never have even dared doing before. He leant over and clasped his little brother's hand, squeezing it gently.

"I think this is supposed to."

Sherlock didn't betray any emotion that he appreciated Mycroft's show of support. Mycroft sighed again as he brought his hand back to his side. He rubbed his brow slowly.

Sherlock had been making so much progress regarding his emotions in Mycroft's eyes and this blow came at a very inconvenient time. It would take days for Sherlock to even slightly come out of the lockdown he had imposed on his mind.

He had locked away his emotion to keep himself from hurting and he had done it for so long that even it became very clear that in situations where his emotions simply could not be suppressed any more, he had no idea how to respond to it.

A clear indication that Sherlock was going through an internal battle was the fact that he rose from his seat and sat himself, shoulder to shoulder, next to his brother. He stared at mahogany handle of Mycroft's umbrella.

"Will father be there?" Sherlock whispered.

"Yes…yes, I believe he will."

"Oh…" It was quiet and low. There was no emotion as Mycroft expected but there was still an edge.

Mycroft felt the desperate urge to pull his brother into a hug but there were simply too many ways in which Sherlock could react badly to it. Instead, he just stayed perfectly still.

"The funeral is the day after tomorrow."

"At home?"

"St. Teilo's church, yes. The wake is back at the house."

"What time?"

"Eleven. She's being buried in the graveyard there."

"Mm."

"I can have a car sent to Baker Street on the day."

"When are you going?"

"Tomorrow. I have to be there to greet our relatives…it's going to be tedious but someone must do it and I hardly think that father's up to the job."

"I'll go tomorrow, then."

"Do you think it's wise?"

"I said I'll go. I didn't say I was going to socialise with anyone. That's your area of expertise."

Mycroft let a slight smile appear on the side of his mouth. "Do you want me to send a car?"

"No. I'll catch the train."

Sherlock stared down at his hands. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, unsure of how to word what he wanted to say.

"Can-can I bring John?"

Mycroft nodded. "I think it would be wise."

Sherlock seemed to relax a lot more once he'd got the question off his chest. Mycroft rested his hand on Sherlock's leg and squeezed it gently.

"I'm afraid I must take my leave now."

Sherlock simply stared down at his brother's hand. His long, thin, fingers slowly lowered over his brother's hand. Mycroft almost shivered at how cold Sherlock's hand was.

But he didn't say anything. He didn't want to scare Sherlock. And that's exactly what he knew Sherlock was feeling; fear.

"I'm here, Sherlock." He whispered so that only Sherlock could hear. "You may not believe it, but I'm always here."