Mycroft walked. He didn't think he'd ever been so cold in all his life. His feet seemed to be made of lead and his blood pounded noisily in his ears. His lungs burned with each breath. The darkness had eaten away at the corners of his vision and he prayed he wouldn't fall and break a limb. The boy was heavy in his arms, and Mycroft found himself thinking back to carting his girlfriend playfully across her yard. Stupid, he thought. That was a summer afternoon. She hadn't run off in the middle of the night, into the woods.
And unlike Sherlock, she hadn't been a dead weight.
"Stupid," he repeated out loud. If Sherlock were awake, he could hook his arms around Mycroft's neck and ease the pain in his stiff limbs. He hadn't noticed it at first, but after stumbling across the footbridge and nearly snapping his ankle, he moved more warily. The aforementioned bridge was a favorite of Sherlock's. Only a few years ago he used to stand at the edge try to catch fish with a thread of dental floss.
"You stupid little fucker," Mycroft said to the air. He started when his younger brother moaned weakly into his coat. "Sherlock."
"Mycrof'." The boy's voice was cracked and clumsy. "You..."
"Noticed the m-missing bottle," he provided, struggling for breath in between words.
Sherlock shuddered violently and pressed his small cold face into Mycroft's coat. He was becoming heavier with each step. Mycroft swore once, and once again for good measure. His fingers fumbled with his brother's coat. He hefted him up; wrapped him more tightly in his arms. "You little bastard."
They were almost in their own yard. Just a few more minutes and they would be out of the grove, he guessed. Then all that remained was the garden. He bent his head and immediately the scent of his mother's preferred sweet wine met his nose. He quickened his pace and became increasingly aware of Sherlock's slowing, trembling breaths.
The minute Mycroft had arrived, he knew what he was going to do. Sherlock had resisted weakly, trying to stumble off in the other direction, but Mycroft had thrown him to the ground. He had grabbed his brother's damp hair in one hand and pried open his small jaw with the other. Sticking a finger down his throat was relatively easy, despite Sherlock's halfhearted clawing at his arm. The smell had been worse.
"You'll just forget, won't you?" he practically spat. But he could still hear the desperation in his own voice. When he'd noticed the amount of liquor that had disappeared from the bottle in his brother's hand, he'd practically been ill himself.
Mycroft gasped. His feet had finally hit the wet soft grass of the lawn. The house loomed up in the black, dark save for a few windows. The door was unlocked, as he'd left it, and the sudden warmth and sweet odor of the main hallway made him dizzy. He practically dropped his brother onto the floor, taking care to prop him against the wall. Sherlock was out cold. His skin was so white that Mycroft lost his train of thought for a moment. Then he thrust himself into the next room, grabbed the telephone with numb fingers, and dialed.
While speaking with the responder, he flew back into the hallway to make sure his brother hadn't decided to choke on his own vomit. He hadn't. "He was awake till a few minutes ago," he told the lady on the other end of the line. "He...knew who I was."
She assured him that an ambulance would be there soon, and told him to calm down. Only then did Mycroft notice that his hands were shaking. He hung up and let the receiver clatter to the hardwood floor.
He then decided to support Sherlock's small, twelve-year old head against his knee. It seemed like a good thing to do. The silence pressed down on his ears, which still ached from the cold. Was it his fault? The note had read: Dear Mycroft. Out in the woods, across the bridge. Come join. S.
He'd forgotten to add, 'Trying to drink myself to death'. Mycroft didn't know whether to be angry or to cry. He didn't know whether it was all an elaborate test or a halfhearted suicide attempt. He wouldn't put either one past Sherlock, and it could very well have been both. He grabbed his brother's hair and tugged; hard but not too hard. His head merely lolled to the edge of Mycroft's knee.
The elder Holmes brother, at that moment, was convinced that he was at fault. Sherlock was his responsibility and his alone. He'd gone wrong. Somewhere.
When the paramedics banged on the door, Mycroft started so violently that he nearly let Sherlock's body slip from his grasp. But he didn't have the luxury of being careful. Mycroft let go. He heard the gentle thump of his brother hitting the ground but didn't bother looking back. He flew to the door and wrenched it open, nearly collapsing as his muscles balked at the task.
The woman's face was ruddy, and Mycroft stared at her, his mind numb. "Where is he?" she asked firmly. She and her partner, a small man, obviously inexperienced, stepped around him. The woman's face was impassive and almost unconcerned as she looked down at the boy.
They set to work, and Mycroft could only linger in the background, shivering and watching. "I'm his guardian," he offered lamely, his voice tiny. So they took him with them.
The gentle beeping and buzz of machinery had nearly put Mycroft to sleep. He was sore, exhausted, and sick to his stomach, but the room was dark and warm. So he curled himself up against the chair and tried to keep his eyes closed. Sherlock's breathing was even. He'd woken up earlier, Mycroft had been told, and he'd been all right. At least that's what he gathered from their words. Sherlock had been looked after, and he would be all right.
When he finally mustered the courage to go to his brother's room, Sherlock had been fast asleep.
Before settling into his chair, which looked quite ancient and worn, Mycroft had leaned against the hospital bed and looked into Sherlock's small, sharp face. He almost began to cry, but couldn't bring himself to allow it. Instead, he touched his lips briefly to his brother's forehead. The skin felt cool and dry against his lips, and Mycroft quickly pulled away. Cool, yes, but not cold. Not nearly as cold as he had been in the woods.
"Why November?" he asked the air. It was so damn cold.