When the darkness came

"Daddy! Mycroft hit me!" Sherlock yelled as he ruptured through the library doors. His forehead was sporting a red bruise and a tiny little cut.

Mr. Holmes lifted his eyes from the newspaper and looked at his younger child with a curious look. "Well, come near, then. Let me see the damage."

Sherlock curled his little hand in a fist wiped the traces of tears from his cheek. Then, reluctantly, he strolled through the red and blue Persian carpet and brushed his curly fringe off his forehead so his father could take a look at the cut. "It hurts," he whined.

Mr. Holmes chuckled and retrieved a little white kit from one of the drawers of his heavy wooden desk. "How did this happen?"

Sherlock's big blue eyes widened even when the cotton touched the tiny bloody line. But he didn't whine, he was a brave little boy. "We were playing and he was cheating. And when I said I was going to tell Mother, he hit me!"

"Why don't we go and talk to him, so he can apologize?" Mr. Holmes said while covering the bruise with a band-aid.

Sherlock nodded and curled his fingers around his father's hand, pulling him towards Mycroft's room, where they were playing before. The elder boy was sitting in a chair looking distractedly at the sheets of music in front of him as he plucked the thick strings of his cello. Sherlock stepped inside and quickly removed his violin from the floor before someone stepped on it.

"It was not my fault," Mycroft said solemnly. "Sherlock was ruining the piece! He's so clumsy!"

"No I wasn't!" Sherlock said, tightening the grip on his bow. "You were rushing the tempo! It was supposed to be an Adagio! You were playing it in Allegro! You were cheating!"

"Boys, come on, calm down," said the ever patient Mr. Holmes. "Mycroft, you know your brother is little. You have to be patient with him. You are playing for almost nine years now, Sherlock began last year. Do you see?"

Mycroft bowed down his head and plucked the strings again. "This is childish," he murmured.

"Well, if you at least tried to behave like a grownup, I would treat you like one. But since you prefer to hit you brother with the bow, then I shall treat you like the child you're being. Now get up and apologize to Sherlock before I get very angry!" Mr. Holmes said severely narrowing his eyes at Mycroft.

The young boy got up and reached one hand to Sherlock's head, ruffling his untamed dark curls. "Sorry kiddo," he said bitterly pulling the strands slightly.

In reply, Sherlock showed him his tongue in a mocking way, and grinned victoriously.

"Oh, you little…" Mycroft started as Sherlock took off running down the stairs to escape his raging older brother.

"Sherlock! Mycroft! Don't run inside the house!"

"Sorry Mummy!" Mycroft yelled back but not slowing down. "When I get my hands on you, Sherlock, I will hang you upside down and hit you with a stick like a piñata!"

"You'll have to catch me first!" the little boy said entering the kitchen and hiding behind Miss Elliott, the housekeeper.

"Come back here, you!" Mycroft was panting by now. His love for cakes and sweets always slowed him down when chasing after his active little brother.

Sherlock started to run again, looking back to make sure he was ahead, when suddenly Mycroft's yell filled the kitchen. "Sherlock! Look out!"

Too late.

He ran straight against the cook, who was carrying a big tray with the family's porcelain service. Each and every soup-filled bowl fell to the ground breaking into a thousand different pieces.

"Oh, no," Mycroft breathed. "We are in big trouble," he said as he got closer to Sherlock and grasped him by the arm, dragging him to out of the kitchen. "Mummy's going to be so furious. And it's your fault!"

"Let me go, Mycroft, you're hurting me!" Sherlock yelled twisting his arm to try to get rid of Mycroft's grip.

The cook was swearing in French, the housekeeper was yelling at them and the boys' worst nightmare just appeared in front of them. Hand's resting on her hips and a stern look on her face, Mrs. Holmes didn't even need to talk to let the boys know they had to follow her.

"This is your fault," Mycroft whispered to Sherlock, who bowed down his head.

"You started it," Sherlock said. "I want Daddy."

"Mummy's furious! Not even Father can save you now!"

They entered the large living room and waited for her to sit down and give them orders to do the same. Still the order never came, and that was a very bad sign.

"I hoped more from you, Mycroft," She said, in a very cold fashion.

"Sorry, Mummy," he said looking down at his feet.

"I told you not to run inside the manor, didn't I?"

"But Sherlock—"

She held one long, pale hand up, silencing him immediately. "I was counting on you to help me with Sherlock," she said severely. "I'm very disappointed. That service was at least one hundred years old. It has been in our family for generations."

"Sorry, Mummy," Mycroft repeated.

"Go to your room. No dinner and no desert."

Mycroft's eyes widened in shock. "That's not—"

"Both of you," she added looking at the little boy for the first time.

They slowly walked out from the living room and silently climbed the stairs. Mycroft's gaze was shooting daggers at Sherlock. The thought of going to bed without having a bite of his favourite strawberry cake was the worst punishment one could give him. And Sherlock didn't care about food, he didn't even eat properly on a regular basis, so Mycroft was being unfairly penalized, in comparison to Sherlock.

Sherlock saw his brother disappear through the door and followed him. "Mycroft, let me in," he asked as he knocked. "Let me fetch my violin."

The door opened and in a second the instrument was being tossed at him, followed by the wooden bow. "Go die far away from me! Piss off Sherlock!" he yelled shutting the door violently.

The boy hugged his violin and picked up the bow before going to his own room. He shut the door quietly and held up the instrument to his shoulder, running the bow softly through the strings. He loved the sound the wooden box made, so warm and full. He was never alone as long as he had that sound filling up the room around him.

Sherlock stopped. He put the instrument back in its case, carefully as if he was handling a small kitten. Then he sat down in his bed and folded his arms in the windowsill and rested his head in his forearms, looking dully at the pouring rain.

He didn't like when Mother got upset with them. He didn't do it on purpose. He didn't even saw the cook until it was too late. Sherlock knew the porcelain set was valuable, Mother made sure to remind them of that constantly. And now Mycroft was angry at him.

Well, not that Sherlock cared about it, of course, but Mycroft was the only one who would play with him. He loved to hear the cello playing along with his violin. They were friends, they fit well together, and now he didn't know if they were going to play again anytime soon.

He ventured a look through his shoulder to the blue case holding his precious treasure. "Do you still love me? I didn't do it on purpose, I swear," he murmured.

No answer. The silence of the room was only broken with the heavy drops on his window. He returned his eyes to the grey landscape, his soft, warm breath fogging up the glass, as he saw a little ladybug wandering around the window frame.

"Daddy would understand. He always understands me," he said to the bug. "Mother is very harsh when I do something stupid. She's not like that with Mycroft, you know? One time, when I was four, Mycroft spoiled his best scarf on the mud and said I did it. And I was punished for an entire day without being able to play."

The ladybug kept on its journey through the cool glass. Sherlock led one little finger and stroked her gently.

"Daddy would've wanted to hear me before penalizing me. Why isn't he here with me, now? He could teach me how to read. He could even talk to Mother about all this stupidness… Is that a word? 'Stupidness'?"

The flash of a lightning illuminated his darkening room, hurting his clear blue eyes. He rubbed his hands on them before falling behind when the thunder came.

"Daddy!" Sherlock called, his voice catching in his throat.

He crawled on his bed until he found the hem of the bedding set. He quickly dived inside the soft cotton sheets and pulled the covers all the way to his head, covering himself up completely. He didn't like thunderstorms. It was like the gods were at war, like that story Mycroft used to tell to frighten him.

Sherlock closed his eyes and started to rock his little frame back and forth, until he finally fell asleep.

Far, far away he could still spot the roaring thunders and the violent banging of the raindrops on his window, but now he was with his daddy. He was teaching Sherlock how to play on the second position in his violin. Sherlock was always a fast learner. At the age of five he knew how to write his name as well as Mycroft's and everyone else who was part of his life, like Miss Elliott, Mother, Daddy, even Monsieur Pierre, the cook. He knew how to tie his laces, how to play the violin and even a little of cello. He was great at maths, and his attention to detail was remarkable. His daddy was very proud of him, and Sherlock tried very hard not to disappoint him. Daddy was his best friend… well, his best human friend.

The door opened with a slight creek and a beam of light illuminated the quiet room. Slowly, a very hesitant Mycroft pulled the covers back, just enough to see Sherlock's face, behind his wild dark curls.

"Sherlock," he called softly, brushing a hand through his little brother's head.

The boy stirred slightly, but didn't wake.

"Sherlock, I need to talk to you, come on, wake up."

"Myco?" came the soft voice.

"Yes, brother, it's me."

"Are you still mad?"

"No, Sherlock. I'm not mad anymore," Mycroft assured, climbing onto bed and holding the little one in his lap.

"So we can play again tomorrow?"

"Yes. We can," Mycroft tried to hold back a snivel.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked. "Why are you so sad?"

"Look, Sherlock. I need you do put on your robe and come and see Father," he said slowly. "He's calling for us."

Sherlock's eyes were shining with glee. Daddy didn't abandon him after all. He jolted of the bed and put on his blue fuzzy robe before grasping his brother's hand. "Come on, Myco! Don't want to keep Daddy waiting, do you?" he asked cheerfully.

The room was dim and cold. Sherlock could spot his Mother, Miss Elliott, and some strange people leaning against a pale figure on the bed. The man was white as chalk, and he had dark violet circles around his eyes. It took Sherlock a moment for him to realize that it was his Daddy lying there.

"We're here, Father," Mycroft announced.

The man gestured so they would come closer and smiled weakly. "My boys," he said faintly.

"Daddy! I was dreaming that you were teaching me how to play in the second position! Will you teach me Daddy? I'm ready now! I know I can do it!" Sherlock said enthusiastically, grabbing the sleeve of his Daddy's pyjamas.

"Sherlock, listen to me," Mr Holmes said seriously. "I will not be able to teach you anymore, so Mummy will hire a proper music tutor for you two."

"But Daddy, you always taught us everything!" Sherlock whined. He didn't want to learn from anyone else. "Don't you love us anymore?" his little eyes were filling with tears now. "I promise I will practise more, Daddy! I promise!"

Mycroft tucked Sherlock's shoulder lightly as a sign for him to calm down. "Sherlock, listen to Father," he whispered.

Sherlock nodded.

"I'm leaving, Sherlock. That's why I can't teach you. But don't say I don't love you. You are my boys, there's nothing I love more in this Earth."

"So why are you leaving?" Sherlock didn't understand. He was his best friend! If he loved them, if he loved him, why was he leaving?

"Promise me you're going to be good boys," Mr Holmes said, ignoring Sherlock's protest. "Promise me you won't get in trouble."

"Okay, Daddy," Sherlock said lowering his eyes to the floor. His hand let go of the flannel fabric of the dark pyjamas and fell limp besides his body.

"And Mycroft, promise me you will take good care of your brother. No matter what, don't let him get hurt," Mr Holmes pleaded with his big blue eyes locking with his son's.

"I promise, Father," Mycroft was able to whisper, resting both his hands on Sherlock's shoulder's and pulling the smaller boy to him.

Mrs. Holmes gestured to Mycroft, and he led Sherlock out of the room. The younger Holmes was broken. His Daddy didn't want them anymore. Now he was never going to learn how to play in the second position. Sherlock wanted to be great, he wanted to be as good as his Father was. But now he was leaving them. He felt the tears sliding down his cheeks again and bowed his head further so Mycroft wouldn't see.

"Myco?" he called as they were descending the steps to the hall.

"What?"

"Will you leave me too?" Sherlock asked tugging at Mycroft's red robe.

"No, I won't," he said.

The door to their parents' room opened and they saw the strange people carrying a stretcher with a white sheet covering a big lump of something. Sherlock heard his brother snivel and looked up to confirm the impossible. Mycroft was crying. The elder Holmes boy hugged his younger sibling and Sherlock tugged against his torso, leading one finger to his mouth distractively.

Together, they watched as the strangers carried their lifeless father away.

"I'll take care of you, little brother," Mycroft said, turning his eyes away from the paramedics.

Sherlock kept on chewing the tip of his finger. He didn't care what people said. He loved his Daddy and he left them. It wasn't fair! He left him in the dark! And in that moment Sherlock promised to himself that he wasn't going to make the mistake of loving someone again in his life.

A/N: Hey Guys! It's Bloo again, bringing a One-Shot of Young!Sherlock and Young!Mycroft. This was inspired by the beautiful art of MadEyeMaddi on deviantART. The link is on my profile, for those who are interested.

Nothing much to say. Enjoy and Review please!

*Bloo*