Glowing arrows and dotted lines danced against the darkness of void. Some of these various patterns were millions of miles away and others so much further. Cerulean eyes would stare out into endless oblivion every night, mind scrolling through thousands of possibilities of what could be out there and how much space it could all occupy. It was a terrifying concept- the insignificance of one's existence in the overall scheme of the universe. A thought that sent the young, wild-haired child cowering under his covers until the paralysis of terror had worn off and he was able to trudge bravely to his brother's room.
A nervous tap to the sleeping figure's shoulder elicited a slight fidget and groan; all the consent the younger needed to enter the bed. It was suddenly as if everything that could ever cause harm had melted away under the warmth of the covers. The fear of nothingness had withered away with the presence of his brother. Nuzzling his face into the larger child's back, the suddenly calmed boy drifted himself to sleep as if he hadn't just scared himself senseless thinking about things he didn't know.
Sunlight flooded the room, momentarily blinding the child until a taller figure blocked the brightness. His eyebrows knitted together and arms crossed clearly out of annoyance. "Sherlock, are you still sleeping in my bed?" Staring in admiration at the figure, all he could do was nod; a slight pang of guilt in his chest. He'd been asked numerous times to stop but every time he tried, he gravitated towards his big brother anyway to the point where he found his exhausted form dragging him to his safe haven. "How many times have I told you this? You're getting too big to keep sharing my bed. You need to start sleeping in your own."
"I'm sorry, Mycroft," Sherlock replied, nervous under the intimidating look the eldest was giving him.
"It was fine when you were younger but you're five now. You have to start going to school which means you have to grow up and sleep by yourself too!" With a huff, Mycroft had left Sherlock to mull over the idea. Lip quivering slightly, the wild-haired boy slid out of bed with a thud.
Mycroft seemed annoyed but concerned that his little brother couldn't sleep without him. Ideas reeled through his head about how he could help young Sherlock. It was almost noon at this point and he hadn't seen the boy since this morning. It was worrying in case he had accidentally upset the little one; Sherlock had always been emotionally fragile, crying over small things. He didn't think Sherlock would ever grow out of it.
As the day progressed, the younger had gained confidence in trying to talk to his confident older brother. "Do you want to play Deductions?" It was Sherlock's favourite game. Whenever Mycroft accepted the offer, those icy eyes brightened so many shades and a crooked smile stretched across pale skin. The eldest knew he was the smartest but sometimes the happiness of his brother depended on him misjudging something deliberately. He didn't want to admit it but he liked seeing Sherlock's smile whenever he made a clever observation.
Night rolled around again and all the small boy could do was stare out into the darkness. Despite the twisted and warping snarls and contorting figures, he promised himself he wouldn't bother Mycroft. He silenced his thoughts, letting the soft snores from the other side of the room calm him down. He was starting to control the fear by now although he still only took shallow breaths to minimise the visible rise and fall of his chest. Small tufts of hair poked out of the top of his duvet before he couldn't bear it anymore. Trembling severely, he cautiously removed the covers, sliding his feet to the floor. He trudged to Mycroft's bed before clambering in, disregarding the usual ritual of poking his older brother. Once again he was enveloped by his brother's warmth, eliminating the crippling terror of the unknown that had previously consumed him.
Another morning arrived followed with more disapproval from Mycroft. He seemed to get really annoyed at Sherlock for invading his bed. "You can't keep doing this! I want to sleep in my own bed now! I'm too grown up to be sharing a bed with my little brother!" All the younger could do was stare up with eyes glazing over. Sniffling slightly, he ran out of the room, tugging Mycroft's robot-patterned duvet which stretched behind him. The older knew he'd upset his little brother but he was tired of waking up on the floor to find the pale face drooling all over his pillow.
After some time, Mycroft decided to shuffle towards the library; the one place he was sure Sherlock would be since he spent all his time there. Beyond towering oak door, he noticed a swaddled lump of duvet in the corner. As he approached, he noticed bright blue eyes staring into that same damaged copy of Treasure Island the little brother read frequently. That little brain drank in every word on the page eagerly. The front cover was starting to peel off and the spine was crinkled to the point that it could rip at any moment. "What's the matter, Sherlock?" The child stared darkly, chocolate hair spilling over his eyes. It was a wonder that the boy could see. "What's wrong?" His features softened this time, attempting to coax his younger brother into responding. No response. "Sherlock, answer me! You can't even sleep in a bed on your own! What's wrong with you?" His sudden aggravation scared even himself. It may have looked like he wanted a bed to himself but deep down he really cared about Sherlock's welfare. "Fine, fine. So you won't talk. I should've expected as much. You're sleeping on your own tonight and that's that!"
He turned away, glad that he'd tried to sort the problem out. "Okay. Mycroft, you win. I'll talk," a small voice replied causing Mycroft to approach the five year old once again, kneeling to meet the younger's height. "It's just that every night when the lights are off and everyone's asleep, I look into the darkness and thinking about really scary things. My mind invents things too and it's terrifying and I can't stop it," he opened up, worn out by mentally replaying memories of the terrors he experienced for years. His eyes reached for the window, immersed in the wide scenery that stretched out beyond the glass.
Feeling benevolent, Mycroft reached for a towering shelf to the point that he was stumbling on his tippy toes. Something slid out from between Mycroft's books, falling on his head eliciting a giggle from Sherlock. Embarrassed, Mycroft picked up the item and pushed it towards Sherlock more aggressively that perhaps intended. A record. Bach's violin concertos.
"Try listening to this when you go to sleep. It will scare away the nightmares," he attempted to persuade the younger. Sherlock appreciated the sentiment but there was no way he was falling for such an unrealistic thought. He took it, smiling appreciatively at his big brother before returning to his cocoon and resuming where he'd left off in his book. "It shan't happen again," the eldest added, slipping back through the door.
As night arrived, Mycroft could hear the faint music drifting through the room, soon accompanied by soft snoring. A small smile stretched across his face at the thought.
John rolled around in bed, bags stretching under his eyes at the lack of sleep. He flopped out of bed lazily, rubbing his eyes and stretching. As he shuffled towards the source of the excessively loud violin music, he flicked the light on. The action illuminated the room far brighter than he'd expected, causing him to feel the need to shield his eyes.
"Sherlock, it's ass-o'clock in the morning! Can I have just one night of sleep without being woken up by your violin? One night is all I'm asking," he complained, approaching the taller figure whose back continued to face him. Sherlock turned only his neck to get a view of his flatmate, cerulean eyes meeting droopy teal.
"It helps me think." He neglected to add its real purpose.
Well there we go! That was my first one-shot and by extension, my first complete fic which isn't really something to be proud of. This was probably too cute for Sherlock and Mycroft but I just have this headcannon that they were close when they were younger. I'd like to thank my friend (Queen of Assbutts) Amy for letting me take her fic idea, *points charismatically into audience* thanks, dude! If you enjoyed this, pressure me to write more through various methods including, but not limited to: Reviews, Personal Messages, Favourites, Special Summoning Circles, Ritualistic Sacrifice, Time Travel, Alchemy, Pointing and shouting in terror at the sky and how infinite it is and last but not least, Singing Bohemian Rhapsody backwards in Russian while wearing a cartoonish approximation of a Native American feather headdress.