Note: In my version of events, Sherlock lives, but Mycroft is not a part of any events leading to Sherlock's escape from death. In other words, Sherlock is alive, but Mycroft doesn't know at this moment in time.
A thirty year old Mycroft made his way through his brother's dark cluttered room. He was trying to reach the sobbing figure on the other side of the room without making any noise. About halfway across he stepped on a tack with his bare feet and fell to the ground while letting loose a few involuntary curse words.
The sobbing stopped as the fourteen year old Sherlock turned toward the noise. When Mycroft looked up from his bleeding foot, he could see the tears streaming down his brother's young face. A single crimson streak was slashed across his wrist and he had made no effort to bandage it.
"What did you come up here for?"
"I heard something and I wanted to make sure you were ok."
At this Sherlock sniffed and turned back toward the wall. Mycroft limped the rest of the way towards his brother and sat down beside him. The house was silent for a few minutes.
"What happened?" Mycroft asked.
"Nothing happened."
"Well, I don't have a degree in child psychology or anything, but I think that something has to happen for there to be this kind of response."
Sherlock offered no response to this and Mycroft got up and turned on the light. There were posters ripped down, which was the reason for the tack on the floor, and several experiments were toppled to the ground and staining the carpet. Sitting on the floor next to Sherlock was a scalpel.
Mycroft looked at his brother. Over the past two years, the happy child that Sherlock used to be had disappeared and a sad, angry young man had taken his place. He was still inquisitive, but most of his experiments were of a somewhat morbid nature lately.
Mycroft was not good at comfort. The closest he got was an awkward hug. So, for the next hour he did the only thing that he could come up with to do for Sherlock.
He picked the posters up off of the floor, careful to get every tack up as well. He threw away all the ruined experiments and vacuumed up the floor. And when it was all done, he grabbed a first aid kit from the bathroom and treated and bandaged Sherlock's wound. Then he picked up the scalpel and hid it away in his own room where Sherlock wouldn't find it again.
Then he came and sat next to Sherlock again. For a good thirty minutes they just sat there in silence. Then Sherlock said something unexpected.
"Thank you."
Mycroft smiled and patted his brother on the back.
"Come on. Let's go get something to eat. What do you want?"
"I'm fine with anything."
"What was that for, Sherlock?"
His brother looked up at him with his clear blue eyes.
"It was for an experiment, Mycroft. They told me that the pain would make it bearable. I wanted to see if they were right."
"Were they?"
"No. It only made it worse. I don't think I shall try that again."
"That's a good idea Sherlock."
Fifteen years later:
Mycroft picked through his things. He was looking for some kind of memory. Anything to make him feel again.
He never thought that he would outlive his younger brother. His brother to whom he had become a surrogate father for at the young age of eighteen had finally done what Mycroft had most feared that he would do.
He reached his hand into a crowded drawer and felt a wince of pain. He pulled his hand out to see a drop of blood forming on his finger. He reached in with the other hand, more carefully this time, and pulled out the culprit.
It was a simple little thing. A scalpel with a silvery blade and a white handle. A medical instrument used to fix the human body and remove undesirable objects.
He thought back to where he had first found it, many, many years ago, on the floor next to a crying, bleeding boy. He remembered Sherlock's words:
"It was for an experiment, Mycroft. They told me that the pain would make it bearable. I wanted to see if they were right."
"Were they?"
"No. It only made it worse."
Mycroft looked at the blade, and then looked at his pricked finger. He felt right now that he might deserve a little worse. It had been his fault. All his fault. He had given a madman everything that he had needed to bring his brother to his knees. And that had lead to his brother… no.
He pulled up his sleeve. He looked at his pale wrist and took the scalpel and dragged the sharp edge against his soft flesh. He watched as the blood oozed from the shallow cut left behind. He sighed as the pain ran along his wrist.
His brother had been right, as always. It only made it worse, and not in a good way. Despite how much he had acted the opposite in life, Sherlock had cared about him, just like Mycroft had cared about Sherlock. And what would his brother think if he knew that he was hurting himself?
He bandaged his wound, just as he had Sherlock's all those years ago, and settled down with a good bottle.
And all was silent for a few minutes.
Only this time the minutes dragged on because no one else was there to break the quiet.