It was half past one in the morning and Sherlock Holmes lay wide awake staring at the pockmarked ceiling of his living room. Now, this wasn't a terribly unusual state for him to be in – he often spent nights like this alone when John went out with friends – but what was odd was the reason. Sherlock had often acknowledged that he tended sociopathic, but it didn't stop his mind from remembering things that he would much rather have buried deep in the dungeons of his mind palace.
It was nights like this, he observed, when his old demons loved to come out and play and after a particularly bad row with his older brother, they had come back in full force.
Luckily enough, he was smart enough to separate dream from reality and he managed to drag himself out of it. On the other hand, he had already observed too much and knowing emotions as poorly as he did, he had no idea what to make of any of the events.
He was seven years old, snuggled under the bedcovers of his too large bed in his too large room. As it was every night, Sherlock was lonely. But that loneliness was amplified tonight by the thunderstorm raging outside his window.
Sherlock had always hated thunderstorms, the thunder booming reminded him all too well of his father crashing around the house during one of his drunken rages. And this time, he didn't have his teddy, the Professor with him to hold on too. His father had walked in on him a few weeks ago holding the Professor while he was reading and had promptly locked him away in the attic. So now, Sherlock had nothing and no one to comfort him and he was scared.
Sherlock jumped when the thunderclap was even louder than the last one and a small gasp escaped his lips. A knock came at his door less than a minute later and as an automatic reflex, he quickly dove under his duvet.
"Sherlock?"
He didn't answer.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, it's me, Mycroft." His sixteen year old brother called from behind the door.
Slowly, Sherlock pushed out from under the covers and squeaked out, "Mycroft?"
His older brother entered the room after hearing his younger brother's scared voice and he strode across the room with purpose. As he kicked off his dress shoes and promptly deposited his suit jacket on the chair beside the bed, Sherlock slid over to make room for his elder brother. The moment Mycroft hit the bed, Sherlock lunged for him and buried his small face into his brother's shoulder.
Instantaneously, Mycroft's hand came up to pet Sherlock's hair, "Ssh. Ssh. I'm right here, Sherlock. I'm right here."
No more words were spoken between the two of them that night as none were needed. Mycroft simply kept a silent vigil as he held his little brother closer to him while Sherlock slept peacefully.
It had been many years since Mycroft had done anything of the sort for him, but seeing as Sherlock was indeed human – despite the many mutterings of Anderson – he remembered such occasions as those whenever it stormed at night.
A knock came at the door only a few minutes after he woke and when Sherlock pulled open the door, he was (pleasantly?) surprised to see Mycroft himself there holding some sort of parcel.
Without so much as a word, Mycroft handed Sherlock the box, climbed back into his black town car and drove away, leaving Sherlock standing at the door.
Ah well, Sherlock shrugged. It was a common enough thing for Mycroft to do something like this, so he didn't think much of it. He did however, go back up to his living room and open the box Mycroft had given him. And if Sherlock Holmes ever needed any proof that his brother still cared for him, he need only look at the well-worn and well-loved teddy that had taken up a permanent residence on his mantelpiece in a place of honour next to his skull.