Mycroft's eyelids grow heavy, as the scent of lilac and the soft chirping of sparrows float on the breeze. He turns the page of his worn book, leans back in the rocking chair on the verandah, and doesn't get too far down the page before his eyes start to close, and the book finds itself on his lap. He hears the sounds of four-year-old Sherlock in the garden, digging and searching, playing and exploring. Mycroft feels himself drifting into a light dream of shades of lavender and pale green, and the world around him slowly fades away. Chaos: 0; Peace and quiet: 1....
Sherlock's scream echoes across the yard. Mycroft's eyes snap open, and he nearly tips his chair over backwards. His heart jolts painfully in his chest. So much for quiet... He knows this scream, though. He doesn't hear it often, but on the rare occasion that he does, it makes his blood run cold. It's not the "Aha!" kind of shout the little boy usually makes when he's out adventuring in the garden. His little brother isn't having fun. Mycroft knows this scream: Sherlock is hurt. He nearly tips the chair over again, forwards this time, and he sends the book falling to the ground as he jumps down from the verandah and rushes over to the garden.
Sherlock is sitting in one of the flower beds, his face slimy with tears. The straps on his denim overalls have fallen off his shoulders, and the sleeve of his dirty green cardigan is rolled up to the elbow, exposing reddening welts that dot his forearm and hand. Sherlock is crying harder than Mycroft has ever heard his little brother cry before, and he lets out another scream that almost splits the air.
"What happened?" Mycroft asks, kneeling down beside his brother. Sherlock buries his face into Mycroft's lap, and keeps crying. He sniffles, and wipes his nose on the leg of Mycroft's trousers. Mycroft wrinkles his nose in disgust, but ruffles Sherlock's matted black hair. "Sherlock?"
"Owie!" Sherlock sobs. "Mye, it hurts!" Mycroft can feel Sherlock's tears soaking in through his trousers, but he decides to ignore it.
"Let me see," Mycroft says as gently as he can. Sherlock shakes his head, and tucks his arm in close to his body. "Sherlock..." the little boy shakes his head again. Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Sherlock Holmes, show me what happened to your arm. It won't get better unless you show me now." Slowly, Sherlock sits up, tears still running down his face, and stretches out his left arm. Bee stings, Mycroft notes. This could get dangerous. Sherlock sniffles once more, and looks up at his brother. The pain in the little boy's pale blue eyes stirs emotion inside Mycroft's chest, and Mycroft sighs.
"It hurts," Sherlock says again, a little more quietly. He isn't crying so loud any more, but tears are still streaming down his pale cheeks.
"What happened?"
"That." Sherlock points at the remains of a crumpled up beehive laying in the dirt.
"Why were you playing with a beehive?" Mycroft inspects the welts on Sherlock's arm and hand for any stingers, and he plucks out the three that remain in his brother's skin. Sherlock winces, and wipes at his face.
"I like bees," he says simply. "They're fuzzy. And they like to play in the garden, like me." He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and hangs his head. "I just wanted to make friends." Mycroft's heart drops into his stomach.
"Sherlock, you can't play with bees," he says. "Bees play with other bees, and children play with other children..." he stops himself at this point. What other children are there for Sherlock to play with? He stands up, and helps Sherlock to his feet. He scoops his brother up, and carries him on his hip toward the house. Sherlock rests his head against Mycroft's shoulder.
Mycroft plunks his brother down on top of the kitchen table, and stirs up a solution of water and baking soda.
"What's that?" Sherlock asks.
"It's, um... it's a magical potion that will make your bee stings stop hurting and go away."
"Nothing's magical, Mye." Mycroft furrows his brows at Sherlock's words, and ignores him.
"Hold still, and whatever you do, don't move a muscle." Sherlock sits perfectly still, and it's after Mycroft smears the white paste over a couple of bee stings that he realizes that Sherlock is even holding his breath. "For God's sake, Sherlock! You can breathe! You don't have to sit that still!" Sherlock exhales, and sucks in a couple deep breaths.
"Ow, Mye! That stings!" Mycroft quickly finishes covering the welts, and dumps the baking soda and water mixture down the sink. He takes a tea towel out of the drawer, and wets it down. He sits down in front of Sherlock, and starts wiping at his face.
"That stuff on your arm is about to get all hard and it will feel funny for a while, but you can't pick at it, or else you're not going to get better. Do you understand?" Sherlock nods quickly.
"Thank you, Mye," he says quietly. Mycroft almost feels his heart grow a few sizes larger.
"You're welcome, Sherlock."