Merry Christmas, Little Brother
It is nearly midnight when the screaming starts; fierce, angry cries that travel from the manor across the wet evening grass and into the outhouse on the edge of the grounds. Mycroft Holmes, alone in the small building, knows there is something he should be doing to stop them, but his mind is too clouded by wine to think and his stomach too full of rich food to move. Instead he leans further back into the soft folds of the sofa and gazes through the open window above him at the scattered stars in the coal black sky. They wink at him, and he drunkenly winks back, chuckling softly to himself as he imagines how easy life would be if all he had to do was shine.
At some point in the night he seems to have fallen into a slumber; as he awakens the cold hits him like a scorned lover. The warm alcohol induced fuzziness has faded and Mycroft shivers in his thin silk shirt, groping through the darkness for a blanket, a coat, anything to restore the heat.
Eventually he locates a rug and wraps it haphazardly around his shoulders, the rough woollen fabric scratching his delicate skin. He yawns widely and drifts back into the arms of Morpheus.
It is nearly dawn when the screaming stops, and shortly after he wakes for the second time. A robin twitters pleasantly and Mycroft rolls onto his side, staring across the lawn through the glass doors of the outhouse. A figure is walking towards him; long black coat gathered around his slender frame while unruly curls fall across his face, obscuring his eyes. Like the cat that got the cream, Mycroft stretches languidly and waits for his sibling to arrive.
When Sherlock reaches the entrance he pauses, looking at the plump body draped lazily across an old settee. Mycroft grins indulgently and flicks his gaze up towards the younger man.
"Pleasant night, little brother?"
A wisp of a smile touches Sherlock's full lips. "For me. Aunt Muriel wouldn't agree. She seemed rather perturbed when I informed her that Uncle Peter had been shagging the milkman for the last four years."
"So I heard. She's gone?"
"Mmmm. Stormed out thirteen minutes ago after seven hours of shouting. I'm surprised her lungs didn't collapse. She'll be no use to the Church choir on New Year's now".
"Pity", says Mycroft, and shifts his weight back to make room on the sofa. "Join me?"
"Always", Sherlock replies, his smile spreading into a smirk. He sheds the coat and lies down, arms curling around the gentle swell of his brother's belly, face buried in the crook of his neck.
Mycroft hums happily and snuggles closer for warmth.
"Merry Christmas, little brother. Merry Christmas".