Wow, long time, no see. Have some happy yet angsty Holmes Brothers, ehe. Not betaread, and I don't own anything except the writing here.
There was a time when everything was easy. Well, not exactly easy, but easier, then. A time when his little brother didn't go against him in the manner he had taken to like in the later years. Quite regrettably, indeed, Sherlock's recent manner, though it was clear even to Mycroft that John had had a positive influence.
There was a time when they would actually get along. Not, of course, like other brothers or siblings, but in a way that didn't have them at each others' throats every other minute. A time for them to be together in a nice way, without the rivalry or having to prove themselves to the other.
There was a time, long since gone, when they would bundle up in a nest of sheets and pillows and blankets. Outside in the fields, in the stables, in the tall grass where they weren't actually allowed to be, or far, far away from everyone else. Maybe they would bring some paper, and they would make ridiculously perfect paper airplanes and send them off into the wild.
Curled up into cocoons and barely able to breathe for the heat, they would talk. Talk, talk, talk, for hours and hours on ends until Sherlock didn't answer anymore, eyes closed, and Mycroft would smile at him for a while before carefully unwrapping himself and taking Sherlock into his arms to carry him home.
Of course, he knew that Sherlock wasn't sleeping. And Sherlock knew that Mycroft knew. But they liked this little game of pretend. It was the closest thing to normal they would be able to look back on.
There was a time when he and Sherlock would enjoy a cup of tea in the reading room together, reading to one another. Sherlock was clumsy with the words in the beginning, and he was late in speaking them correctly – a thing which always managed to get on Mycroft's nerve. He would never voice his displeasure, though, for that wouldn't be fair to his younger brother who was trying his very best.
Sometimes, when Sherlock had been really young, and Mycroft had been particularly bored, he would even drag out a book filled with pictures of animals, and he would have Sherlock name them. Often, Sherlock was not able to, and he instead said like they did, much to Mycroft's amusement. Seeing his big brother laugh made Sherlock laugh as well, and the warmth in Mycroft's stomach by that was one which could never be replaced.
There was a time when their only worries would be who got to walk Redbeard, who had to help in the kitchen, and who got the biggest slice of cake on the weekends. A time where they, after dinner, would run out into the garden with wooden swords attached to their belts, and they would draw them and fight like pirates, hats on their heads and Sherlock with a patch over his left eye.
Occasionally, they got scratches from their playing, like all kids do. Mycroft often felt a burning sense of guilt and was therefore the one to insist on patching him up. To endure a pouting and sobbing Sherlock was hard and a thing he was not comfortable with but on the other hand, he didn't want Sherlock to be sad. That left him with but one thing to do.
There had even been one time where Mycroft had felt so bad – probably when he was very young as well – that he picked Sherlock up and put him on his shoulders, asking him to hold on tight. When he could feel Sherlock grab his hair, he took a firm but gentle hold of his tiny legs and began running around, announcing that here came the mightiest of pirates, wounded terribly in battle but never once giving up and never once letting anything get to him!
Those times had long passed. And now, the only memory Mycroft had of his beloved little brother was the picture on the mantelpiece and an old deerstalker hanging on an elegant peg in his bedroom. It was not enough but Sherlock hadn't left much behind.
Not physical, at least.