If you recognise it, it's not mine.
Mycroft has a brother. Seven years younger than him, though he looks much smaller. In Mycroft's eyes, he's perfect. He's incredibly intelligent, maybe more so than Mycroft was at that age. When he's happy, there's this glow which lights up his whole face with a secretive smile. At night they sit together for hours, whispering to each other. He's quiet and doesn't rush around the house shrieking. He plays games with him where they sit on the big windowsill and guess things about the people walking by below. When they go out, people turn and stare at the angelic little boy as he passes. When he's at school, he's always surrounded by a group of children laughing and chattering. Mycroft knows that nine times out of ten, he'll come home from school to see his little brother curled on the sofa or windowsill, nose in a book. He only told his classmates about Sherlock recently. They had to do a presentation in French on their families. When he mentioned his brother, the class blinked in surprise before falling back into a glazed stupor. Afterwards, a group of the others came to him, asked him.
"What's he like? Your brother?" He wanted to tell them everything. That he's incredibly intelligent, maybe more so than Mycroft was at that age, because he sometimes has to spend hours and hours with nothing but an encyclopaedia for company. When he's happy, there's this glow which lights up his whole face with a secretive smile, so different to his usual pained frown. At night they sit together for hours, whispering to each other, when Sherlock can't sleep because he's scared of what will happen to him in the morning. He's quiet and doesn't rush around the house shrieking, because he sometimes can barely speak, let alone get out of bed. He plays games with him where they sit on the big window seat and guess things about the people walking by below, Sherlock wrapped in a dozen layers and still shivering pitifully. When they go out, people turn and stare at the little boy as he passes, slumped in the wheelchair, pushed by his brother or father. When -if- he's at school, he's always surrounded by a group of children laughing and chattering, poking and prodding at the oxygen supplier taped just under his nostrils. Mycroft knows that nine times out of ten, he'll come home from school to see his little brother curled on the sofa, nose in a book, arm attached to yet another drip, providing him with nutrients or something else his body isn't doing right. He doesn't say all that though. He just smiles sadly and shrugs. They already know who Sherlock is, but they'd never made the connection between the small sick boy and Mycroft before. After that, some of the meaner kids take to following him, calling things after him.
"Hey, how's your brother?"
"He dead yet?"
"How's the cripple?" Sometimes they shove him around. Mycroft doesn't reply, much as he wants to, but he can't ignore them completely. He doesn't tell anyone, and contents himself with imagining various ways to do away with them. Then one day he gets home and Sherlock's huddled on the sofa, tears staining his face, too exhausted to sob. Mycroft carries him upstairs to his room, piling blankets round him. Sherlock seems to fall asleep, pressed into his side, then one eye slides open.
"What was Mark Platter doing to you?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your shoulder smells faintly of Day of Roses perfume. Mark's brother Daniel's in my class, and he gets picked up by his mother every day, and she uses that perfume. Therefore, Mark and Daniel end up smelling faintly of the perfume themselves if she hugs them. Daniel's six, same as me, but he has a big brother, so it must have been Mark who shoved you."
"Shoved me?" Sherlock opens his other eye, looking at Mycroft slightly incredulously.
"Well, nobody goes around hugging you, do they?" The sarcasm sounds strange coming from his tired, lisping voice. Mycroft nods silently, inwardly proud of his little brother for making the connections. Sherlock wriggles closer, skinny elbows digging into Mycroft's ribs.
"They want to do another experimental surgery in a few months," he mutters miserably. Mycroft raises an outraged eyebrow. The last surgery Sherlock had nearly killed him. The little boy looks up at him. "I don't want them to do it, Mycroft. It hurts," he whispers. "Please don't make me go to the hospital again." Then he's crying again, breathing wheezing as tears struggle down his thin, angular face. Eventually he falls asleep, curled up against Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft doesn't move him. He stays there all night, thinking and thinking about how to stop this, stop everything, how it's not fair.
Sherlock has made a friend. Hard as it is to believe, in the last few days before the summer holidays, he comes home from school with that glowing look he only gets when he's with Mycroft, and on the first day of the holidays, John Watson knocks on the door for the first time. Mycroft isn't sure what he thinks of him. He looks about the same age as Sherlock, maybe a couple of years older, but Sherlock looks so small and young anyway it's hard to compare him with other children. But within half an hour, Mycroft is convinced that John Watson is the best thing to happen to Sherlock in a long time. He's walking along the corridor to the sitting room when he hears something he hasn't heard in years. Sherlock giggling, high and clear. He pokes his head round the door to see the pair laughing their heads off amidst a huge pile of books. John's half of the mountain is piled into several precarious stacks, while Sherlock's is immaculately ordered to at least three different systems, Mycroft can tell at a glance.
"Hello, Mycroft! This is my friend, John. John, this is my brother Mycroft."
"I know, he answered the door," John replies, adding another book to his latest stack. Mycroft watches until the pile is threatening to tip over, and then intervenes. He spends the rest of the morning helping the two boys construct an elaborate structure big enough for Sherlock to sit on top of. Then John has to go home, promising to come back soon. Sherlock waves from the windowsill until John's father has driven away. Then he yawns hugely, misjudging where the wall is and flopping back against empty space. Mycroft catches his bony shoulders just in time, carrying him to the couch and wrapping him in a thick blanket. Sherlock falls asleep almost instantly, a small smile lingering on his face. This continues for almost a month. John arrives early in the morning, and stays later and later in the afternoons, until he's practically staying the whole day. Mycroft asks him jokingly one day if he hasn't got a home to go to.
"Mum and Dad are fighting a lot with Harry just now. They don't like Lucy."
"And who's that? His girlfriend?" John had shaken his head, giggling slightly at him.
"No, she's her's!" Mycroft can tell that the long days are taking a toll on Sherlock, though. He's paler and thinner than ever, emphasising the dark circles under his eyes and the way his bones look carved under his skin. Mother is adamant about the surgery, no matter what Mycroft says. One morning, Mycroft wakes up to the sound of Sherlock screaming. He stumbles downstairs to see his brother being half carried, half dragged out of the door, screaming blue murder. Mycroft runs down the stairs, joining the mess of noise and chaos.
"What the hell are you doing!"
"No! No! No!"
"Mycroft, go to your room."
"Sherlock!"
His father pushes him back as his mother whisks Sherlock away from his reaching hands. The door slams shut behind them. Mycroft hears a car starting up and driving away. He sits on the stairs, head in hands, until a bright knock on the door brings him out of it. He opens it and his heart plummets to the cellars. John. Sweet, happy John is standing fidgeting on the doorstep, asking to see his little brother. Mycroft invites him in, takes him to the sitting room and gestures to the sofa. John looks around as if Sherlock might be hiding behind the door or something. Mycroft knows his brother won't have told him much. He wouldn't do that to John.
"Where's Sherlock? Is he really sick again?" John's question surprised him. Mycroft steepled his fingers.
"What do you mean, 'really sick'?" he asked tentatively. John dropped his gaze.
"Sherlock's usually sick, he told me, but he said that he sometimes gets very sick and that he can't play then. Is he very sick?" John's trusting eyes glanced round the room, eventually meeting Mycroft's.
"Yes, John. I'm afraid Sherlock's very, very sick. He's gone to the hospital." John's bottom lip quivered ever so slightly, and Mycroft cursed himself. He'd never been good with children, aside from Sherlock. John hunched in on himself, and Mycroft wondered just how much Sherlock had told him. "John, listen to me. How much do you know about Sherlock?" John shrugged, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. "Do you want me to tell you everything about what's happening?" A nod. So Mycroft explained everything, from when Sherlock was just a baby and he first got sick, right up to now. John doesn't cry. He stares at a blank patch of wall just beside Mycroft's head and doesn't cry. When Mycroft's done, he thanks him and stands up to leave. He turns back at the door.
"Is Sherlock going to be alright, Mycroft?" Mycroft closes his eyes briefly. Counts to three. Opens them.
"I don't know, John." The child nods, and then turns and runs away. Mycroft can hear his footsteps pattering down the stairs, the door shutting. Then he's alone again. Sherlock's having surgery right now, another last-ditch attempt to find out anything they can to try and help him. Last time they tried something like it, Sherlock was nearly five. It almost killed him, except a new medication became available literally just in time. A miracle. Mycroft has never been religious, but today he prays for one more miracle. For his brother to be okay. He isn't. Mycroft can tell from just one look at his parent's faces when they summon him to the hospital. It's confirmed when the doctor claps a gentle hand on his shoulder before he goes into Sherlock's room.
"Young man, there were some...complications during your brother's surgery. He may not be quite as you expect him to be..." Mycroft pushes him aside, opening the door as quietly as he can. In the bed, Sherlock's asleep, machines hooked up to him. His skin is as pale as the crisp white sheets beneath him, dark curls flopping over his forehead like splashes of ink. Mycroft heads over to the medical chart at the foot of the bed. Flipping through it, he translates the medical terms with ease. And stops. Frantically scrabbles the pages back. Behind him, the doctor and his parents slip into the room. Mycroft spins to face them. "What the hell is this?" he whispers angrily, voice ragged with fury. His mother nods towards the bed, reminding him to keep quiet for Sherlock anyway. The doctor smiles nervously at him.
"Would you like me to explain it to you?" Mycroft waves the papers in his face.
"I know what it means! Do you? Did you know? You must've!" His voice is rising, despite his mother's not-so-subtle gestures. His father clears his throat, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Mycroft-" Mycroft turns on him, eyes flashing.
"Don't! It's your fault! I told you, it's dangerous, he told you, and you took him anyway!"
"Mycroft, what are you talking about?" The fire dies from his eyes as he looks round the room, at his bewildered parents, the doctor deliberately avoiding his gaze, and finally his little brother. Eyes still fixed on Sherlock, he holds the forms towards his mother.
"Read it. Properly." She takes it, but doesn't look at it. The doctor is flustered. Mycroft's glad. He should be ashamed.
"Young man-" That's the breaking point. The patronising voice of the doctor who hasn't even bothered to learn his name. Mycroft glares straight into his eyes, shaking with barely contained anger.
"Do you realise what you've done?"
"Young man, this is an intensive care facility, there are patients which need rest-" "
You've killed him!" he screams. "You've killed my brother!" The doctor has pushed a small button on the wall, and a couple of security guards enter a minute later. They escort Mycroft out, still shrieking words he shouldn't even be saying around Sherlock at the doctor. His parents exchange looks, then stare at the doctor wordlessly. He nods, and leaves. The room is silent except for the repeated beeps of machines. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Telling John is the hardest thing Mycroft has ever had to do. Imagine finding a puppy which has been viciously abused. You look after it, and it trusts you but it's still scared of you because it knows what could happen. And one day, you kick it. Hard. That's what it's like to tell John that his best friend's dying. The little boy stood completely still for several minutes, face turning paler and paler, until Mycroft gently pushed him towards a sofa. Then his face crumpled and silent tears rolled down his face, small shoulders heaving uncontrollably. Mycroft didn't cry. He hadn't shown any emotion since that day at the hospital. Eventually, John looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes.
how..." he stammers, rubbing his eyes hard. Mycroft shrugs. A month, maybe six weeks at most. can I see him?" And so Mycroft takes the little boy to the hospital, three weeks after Sherlock's surgery. John hesitates at the door, but pushes it open bravely. Mycroft can tell that he's shocked, even with the warnings. Then he's stumbling forward, hands outstretched limply. Mycroft hovers by the door. He knows not to intrude, but he can see the glow reaching Sherlock's face, hears faint whispers about how this nurse is 'very good friends' with that doctor, who hasn't been sleeping because his newborn baby is keeping him awake. John looks completely baffled for the first five minutes, but then his face clears and he's giggling with his friend, just like old times. Eventually, Sherlock's eyelids are drooping, and John looks close to tears again. He shuffles to the door, turning at the end. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, clamping his lips together tightly.
"Goodbye, John." Sherlock raises a weak hand in farewell. John nods, lingering at the door until Mycroft gently closes it, leaving his brother alone to sleep. John makes it to the taxi before bursting into tears. Mycroft wraps an awkward arm round him until they reach the friendly-looking little house John calls home. His sister, a tall teenager with dyed purple hair, sends Mycroft a dirty look as she slams the door shut. He doesn't care. Sherlock deteriorates so quickly Mycroft can count the number of hours in less than three digits. Then he gets home from school, and everyone's crying, and he knows. His brother, quiet and clever and enigmatic, is gone. At the funeral, hardly anyone's there. Even John isn't invited. Nobody hangs about for long. There's a quick speech, then he's buried. Gone. Forever. Mycroft still doesn't cry. And he never has since. Even more than twenty years later, he still hasn't shown any emotion whatsoever. His parents tried pyschologists. At least three of them needed therapy themselves afterwards, and they all decided that he would cry when he needed to. As for his parents, they act incredibly stereotypically and carry on, talking with tear-tinged smiles to vague relations for the next two months. Then it's back to normal. Mycroft doesn't see John Watson for years and years. As he rises through the government, he manages to keep tabs on him, to an extent. Then, one day, they meet again, in a park of all places. The first thing Mycroft notices is the cane.
"I got shot," John says in a monotone. Mycroft nods. Several minutes pass in silence. Then John turns to face him, face battle worn, but still the kind, brave boy Mycroft knew years ago.
"Why didn't you invite me? To the funeral?"
"Because my parents were- still are, actually- idiots. They didn't look further than their address books," Mycroft replies bitterly. John glares at the ground for a full minute.
"Can you show me? The grave, I mean." So Mycroft does. It's nothing elaborate, a small black stone with gold engraving, but John stares at it as though it's so much more. William S. S. Holmes. Taken in youth.
"I became a doctor because of him, you know," John says quietly. "I guess I thought that I could bring him back if I found out how when I was a kid, and then I was angry at you, him, everyone, so I-"
"Went and tried to help invade Afghanistan."
"Yeah. Bit of a mistake." They must look odd, standing laughing at a gravestone. John shares the sentiment.
"We can't laugh in a graveyard."
"Not really." John casts a last glance at the stone. "He was always Sherlock to me," he says, gesturing to the stone. Mycroft nods. "Me too." Then they walk away in different directions. They don't see each other again. There's nothing to connect them anymore. Mycroft still doesn't cry. But there's something which is different. Leaning against the dark stone, looking both out of place and yet meant to be there, is a slim, hospital-issue cane.