The young genius sat up in his room, playing away on his violin; the haunting melody gliding through the house and into Mycroft's office. The older Holmes sighed softly, resting his head in his hands as he let the melody wash over him.
The young boy had been in this melancholy state for three weeks now. But then again, who knew how long grief took hold of you before you could move on with your life?
Their mother had been ill for some time and had past three weeks ago, her funeral being on the Thursday of that third week but Sherlock had taken the death hard; much like any normal young boy.
Since his mother's death, Sherlock had been locked up in his room, playing the saddest and most haunting melodies that he could create on his beloved violin. He wouldn't eat, sleep or even leave his room.
Mycroft had taken to leaving his meals on the opposite side of the closed door and when he returned hours later, they would still be there.
He was only six years old but he wouldn't speak to anyone about his feelings. Instead, he let his music speak for him; pouring out all the sadness and pain he was feeling.
That was until tonight. All of a sudden the music ceased and a few moments later there was a knock on the office door.
"Come in, dear brother." Mycroft called sadly, his voice just above a whisper.
"Mycroft." Sherlock simply said, walking into the room and standing in front of the desk.
"Come on." Mycroft replied, standing up from his seat and walking it to grab his little brother's hand.
He pulled him over to the couch in front of the fireplace, sitting down and pulling Sherlock into his lap.
Sherlock curled up into his brother's arms, burying his head in his chest and sobbing quietly.
"You should have spoken to me sooner, little brother. Your friend John is worried about you. He's been around here every day for three weeks and each time I've had to turn him away. I understood that you wouldn't want to speak to me but I thought you would have spoken to your friend." Mycroft whispered softly, stroking his little brother's curls.
"I don't have friends." Sherlock choked out, his little voice bitter and sharp.
"Then what would you call John. A pet?" The older Holmes tried to joke.
"No!" Sherlock snapped, his head snapping up to glare at his older brother.
"Well then, he must be your friend. I don't know anyone else who would go around checking on people they don't like. That can't even be classed as sentiment."
"How did you know he was worried?" Sherlock asked softly.
"Oh, little brother, I observe people and their body language, a trait you are still learning. But when you know it better, you'll understand."
"Oh." Sherlock replied simply, putting his head back down on Mycroft's chest.
"Why didn't you speak to me?"
"Music is my only help, Mycroft."
"I understand, Sherlock."
"Will John be round tomorrow?" Sherlock whispered, trying not to sound hopeful.
"John! Come in here, please." Mycroft called, looking over his shoulder.
A seven year old boy entered the room cautiously, stopping a few feet away from the couch and his eyes looking up at Mycroft.
"Would you like to sleep over, John?" Mycroft asked gently, giving the young boy a soft smile.
"If that's alright, sir." John replied sheepishly, blushing a little.
"Call me Mycroft, please."
"If that's alright, Mycroft."
"Of course. I'll get the cook to make us something nice. Sherlock, why don't you go and get some spare sleeping things for John and then I'll ring his mother." Mycroft replied, looking back at his little brother.
Sherlock nodded slowly, climbing off Mycroft's lap and walking over to John. He tentatively grabbed John's hand, pulling him towards the door and up the stairs.
"I was worried." John said suddenly, sitting down on Sherlock's bed and swinging his legs.
"Mycroft told me. Why?" Sherlock asked in a confused tone.
"Because you're my friend. You're my best friend really." John whispered, looking at the floor.
"Really? I'm your best friend?" Sherlock asked, looking over at John.
"Yeah." John replied, looking up and smiling at Sherlock.
Sherlock smiled back and handed the spare blanket and pillows to John.
x..x
After tea, John and Sherlock made their way back up to Sherlock's room. John set out his make-shift bed and curled up on the floor next to Sherlock's bed. They talked for a while before exhaustion took over and they both succumbed to sleep.
Around two am, John awoke to Sherlock's soft sobs and sat up, waiting for his friend to calm down. After around ten minutes and when Sherlock still wasn't any calmer, John stood up and looked over his young friend; assessing what to do about his upset.
Eventually he made a decision and carefully pulled the blanket back, climbing into bed next to his friend and wrapping his arms tightly around him.
Sherlock murmured a sob so John held him tighter, whispering softly in his ear, "It's okay, Sherlock, I'm here."
The younger boy calmed and turned in John's arms, burying his head in his chest and sighing softly.
John stroked Sherlock's back softly, murmuring reassurances in his hear while he slept. Sherlock's breathing became shallower and less frantic, signally that he was finally deeply in sleep.
John relaxed and fell back into sleep once more, still gripping onto Sherlock tightly.
Mycroft came in an hour later and smiled at the sight of the two boys.
"Music isn't your only saviour, my dear brother." The older Holmes murmured, carefully closing the door and heading back to his office.