This prompt, courtesy of anidawehi on lj, is the song 'No Light, No Light' by Florence + the Machine. If you haven't listened to it, I suggest doing so at your earliest convenience.
Title: No Light, No Light (in your bright blue eyes)
Rated: PG-13
Characters: Mycroft, Sherlock, John
Author's note: please point to errors and they will be corrected. Also, I do not own the characters contained within this fic. Sad, isn't it?
No light in those bright blue eyes, no light. Mycroft looked down at his little brother and felt his heart twist, writhe in pain.
There were countless things he thought and never said, I love you, Sherlock heading the list. All the words he spilled so freely and effortlessly for his work, for running the government smoothly, stopped up when it came to the brightness of his brother.
He should be finding him like this at night, hidden in shadow, not in broad daylight, lying in a sunsoaked alley between houseyards. He knelt down beside Sherlock, not caring his trousers would be ruined. He touched him, feeling him, feeling the cold through his expensive leather gloves, blank eyes meeting his, dull, lifeless.
No light, he thought again, and shivered, pulling off his coat and tucking it 'round his brother, phoning for an ambulance.
It broke his heart when the doctors told him, gently, that Sherlock had to be sectioned, for his own good. The overdose looked deliberate. Sherlock had admitted as much.
No light, no light in those bright blue eyes. Sherlock had been so alive, so vibrant, filling the entirety of the Holmes estate with his experiments, his brilliant prattle, his running feet. Always shining the light into dark corners and assuring that nothing was ever, ever overlooked.
Then he had gone out into the world, excited and happy, and the world...
Mycroft's face remained politically impassive and calm as he allowed himself to mourn innocence lost. The world had taken the brightness of his brother and quashed it, trying to force him into a dull, bland, grey existence, like Mycroft. It was wrong, wrong in every way. Mycroft longed to manipulate the world, recreate an existence for Sherlock where he could flourish and be himself, where his hatred didn't have to turn inward, for, after all, the world informed him, he was the freak, he was the aberration, not they. Sherlock needed to be remade to match the crowd and blend with the thousand other faces.
He was sectioned.
Sherlock endured.
He returned to the world more bitter and jagged than he'd left it, but he knew better than to turn to the needle, now. That, too, was forbidden, not normal. Mycroft watched and dreaded the day the light fled forever from his eyes, when even the best crime couldn't coax a spark from Sherlock.
He hated the dreadful little army doctor, as grey and shapeless as Mycroft himself, with just as much damage. He attempted to drive him away; the rain cloud refused to be blown about. he would drown Sherlock in his sorrows.
And then, he saw it, the roaring fire in Sherlock leaping out, bright and blazing as the sun, engulfing John, making him into a prism of brilliance for Sherlock's light, a dazzle of color licking at London.