Eight-year-old Sherlock pulled a ratty pillow over his head and clung tightly to his toy bear. Curled up on his bed, he did the best he could to block out the sounds of screaming coming from the floor below, but no matter what, they reached his ears.
His mother was yelling now. Her voice, usually so sweet and gentle, was filled with rage and pain as she lashed out at the man she had trusted for so long. Sherlock thought of her vanilla scent, her beautiful hazel eyes, and wanted to run downstairs to help her.
He was too scared. Cradling his scarred and shaking hands, he dared not get up.
His mother's yells were soon cut off by her sharp cry. Then the man, who Sherlock refused to call a father, began to shout. Sherlock whimpered as he thought of only the night before, when that rage had been directed at him, and then winced as pain ran up his spine from the cuts and bruises that bandages now hid behind a cloak of white linen. The man was even angrier than he had been the night before, and Sherlock was terrified to think of his mother, alone and undefended downstairs.
He heard the door creak as it opened and he curled tightly into a ball, trying to make himself less of a target.
But he looked up and saw only Mycroft looking down at him. He gazed at his older brother as Mycroft sat down on the bed next to him and gave Sherlock a soft hug.
The boy stiffened, so unused to anyone but his mother caring for him. Mycroft usually pretended he wasn't there, that he didn't exist, in order to stay out of trouble with the man.
Slowly, Sherlock relaxed and let his brother comfort him.
"It will be all right," Mycroft whispered to the young boy.
And Sherlock believed him.