A/N: This is my first Sherlock fic, after discovering the show on Christmas. I would like to apologize to everyone who had to wait a year-and-a-half for Season Two, because I cheated. Anyway, this takes place sometime after Reichenbach.
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock. If I did, you wouldn't have to wait as long, but there also wouldn't be anything worth waiting for.
Picture
Mycroft sighed. He closed his eyes tiredly. He was fairly reminiscent of the days before Sherlock had started consulting, the days before John.
These were the days after John then. Like the Dark Ages after the fall of the Roman Empire. Sherlock, post-John, after the "fall."
As always, it was Mycroft's responsibility to take care of his brother, and as much as a bother it was, he didn't hate it. He didn't hate having Sherlock around. He didn't hate having to make sure Sherlock didn't go and reveal himself to the public while he was "dead." He didn't hate taking care of Sherlock.
He enjoyed having his brother around, most of the time. It was almost like when they were younger. A lot younger. It was almost like when they were children. Of course now, Sherlock was under constant supervision, because Mycroft had thought for just a second that Sherlock had actually died for John, and couldn't actually bear to think that he might have killed his baby brother. Mycroft couldn't possibly entertain the possibility that Moriarty still had snipers out there, waiting for Sherlock to show his face.
Mycroft knew it was more than likely. And until they could figure out a way to stop all of them, Sherlock was not going to leave his sight.
That is exactly what Mycroft had told Sherlock before he had disappeared. Again. Sherlock disappeared about three times a week.
Mycroft scanned his room absently and a photograph caught his eye.
It was the only photograph in his room. It was of him and Sherlock. Sherlock was maybe seven in the picture and he was laughing. Mycroft was laughing too. They were…
"That's us?" asked Sherlock from behind Mycroft. Mycroft turned. He wanted to scold Sherlock for running off, but refrained from doing so, his eyes drawn back to the picture of him and his brother. He hadn't even picked up the picture.
"Yes," Mycroft answered. Sherlock took the picture from Mycroft. Mycroft took it back and placed it back on the table. "From a long time ago."
"We look…happy," said Sherlock slowly, watching Mycroft. Mycroft smiled sadly. "Were we?" he asked abruptly.
"Happy?" asked Mycroft taken aback. He paused. It seemed strange that the two of them were happy as brothers. But he could recall something and it was different than the way they were now. "Yes," Mycroft answered at last. "Very happy."
Sherlock touched the picture frame gingerly. "What happened?" he asked "Why aren't we anymore?"
Mycroft sighed. "We grew older," he decided. "Far apart. My work, your…hobbies. All of it."
Sherlock shook his head. He was, decidedly, disturbed. "I don't remember it Mycroft," he said. "I've deleted it."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but it didn't really surprise him. Sherlock had a knack of doing that. "What did you delete, the initial argument, or being happy."
"Both," admitted Sherlock. He was silent for a while. "I started to remember."
That did surprise Mycroft. "John?" he realized. Sherlock nodded. Mycroft sighed again.