"My? Are you awake, My?"
No, he was most certainly not awake. He was asleep. And he'd rather have remained that way for several hours to come. Saturday was his only day to have a full night's sleep, without having to stay up late finishing his abundant supply of homework or wake up early to catch the train to school.
But something in that pitiful little voice calling from just beyond his door warned him that he could not ignore his little brother tonight.
"I'm here; what is it Sherlock?"
A small silhouetted figure slipped through his door noiselessly, the tender pattering of his footsteps muffled by the thick shag carpet. In a moment the tiny boy scurried up onto Mycroft's bed and set to work parting the sheets from the bed to bury himself under.
Mycroft sighed and lifted his arm under the sheets, hugging his brother as he snuggled down into the downy warmth. His body was like a thin brick of ice clinging to his pajama front, seeking human contact and heat.
"You're as cold as a corpse," Mycroft whispered, allowing Sherlock to wrap his arms around him like an oversized teddy bear. Sherlock shivered.
Mycroft waited to see if his brother would explain his presence in his room after midnight. When the child remained mute for almost a full minute, Mycroft's curiosity got the better of him.
"Sherlock…what are you doing out of bed?"
The response was a quiet, sarcastic quip: "I'm in bed. Your bed."
What in the daytime could have been written off as a glib attempt to make himself sound smarter by being insufferably sarcastic sounded, that night, like a quiet pleading. Please let me stay here. Don't send me back.
"Nightmare?" Mycroft offered. There was no shame in revealing the source of his fears if he guessed.
Sherlock shook his head against Mycroft's chest, burying himself in the familiar scent of family.
"That Thing is back," he hissed quietly.
Mycroft sighed and pulled the covers off himself.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock cried, suddenly in a panic.
Mycroft wrenched the little boy's hands away from his top and crawled around his body, kicking the sheets back into place as he maneuvered himself out of the bed.
"Mycroft? Where are you going?"
Mycroft grabbed his flashlight and said, "You know where I'm going Sherlock. You can't let this thing push you around. If you run whenever it comes, then its just going to keep coming because it knows you won't stop it."
He grabbed the door and, almost as an afterthought, turned and pointed at his brother, clutching to the sheets now, as though some malevolent entity was going to come and try to tear him out of the bed.
"Stay here!"
"Please don't leave!" Sherlock countered, but Mycroft was already across the hall.
Sherlock's bedroom floor was a minefield of book pillars and school papers. Luckily the light of the half-moon filtering through the grainy windowpane was more than sufficient to navigate the treacherous grounds.
It was also perfect to frame the pitch black silhouette slumped on the window frame.
Mycroft turned on his flashlight and shot the yellow beam right at the intruder.
"Get lost you mangy stray," he growled flicking the light on and off in the face of the midnight black cat that harassed his brother at least once a month.
The cat was possessed by a demon, and it spat and hissed at Mycroft as he continued to shine a light at its unholy presence. The thing's ears were pressed against its skull as it turned over and over on the narrow ledge of the window sill, shooting sulfurous yellow glares at him. It screamed and yowled, and once even made a sound not totally unlike that of a baby wailing before it hopped off the ledge and fell two stories into the garden below.
He now understood Sherlock's justified fear of the beast, and was happy that it was gone for the time being. The manic little thing would have probably survived the fall, and would be back before too long to haunt his brother's dreams again. And presumably he would be there again with his flashlight to save the day.
"Did you do it?" A small voice asked from the hallway, too fearful to even peek into his own room.
"It is done," Mycroft smiled.
Sherlock shuffles in the doorway, making no move to reclaim his bed.
"Can I ask you a favor?"
"Yes, Sherlock, you can still sleep with me tonight."
Even in the darkness Mycroft could sense a beaming smile lighting up the little boy's face.