Children always know when something is truly wrong. They have a sixth sense for it. Sherlock's sixth sense, like the rest of his senses, was ten times stronger than any other child's.

He woke early that morning very alert, a heavy feeling of unease weighing on him. His mind ran through all of the possibilities buzzing with the effort, but the feeling was new. He didn't know what to call it, and he couldn't find a reason for it. Finally he reached the conclusion that Mycroft would know what it was. He would know what to do about it.

Stepping into the hallway he was disoriented by the unfamiliar darkness. The sun shone through the window in his room, but now that he thought about it, it was the new light of the day, and the sun hadn't reached the window at the end of the hallway yet.

Leaving his door open to let in the small amount of light it would allow he padded down the hall, the carpet muffling his steps, to Mycroft's room. As he neared the door he saw that it was slightly ajar, and he could hear a noise that he couldn't place. He gently pushed the door open a little more waiting for his older brother to give him permission. When the noise continued, and there was no permission he pushed the door open further until there was enough room to peak around it into the room.

The sight that greeted him was startling. Mycroft sat on his bed with his head in his hands. His body was shaking, and Sherlock now registered the noise as muffled sobs. Mycroft's phone lay on the floor in pieces where Sherlock assumed it had been dropped. He opened the door the rest of the way, and walked to his brother. Only when he placed his hand on Mycroft's back did Mycroft lift his head.

His face was red and blotchy; he had been crying for some time. He looked surprised to see Sherlock standing there, but the surprise was exchanged with a look of pain quickly. He wrapped his arms around his younger brother pulling him onto his lap. "Oh Sherlock, something terrible has happened." Sherlock slipped his arms around his older brother, and buried his face into his chest. "What's happened Mycroft? Why are you so sad?"

"It's Aaric. He's died Sherlock." Aaric Chilcott, Mycroft's best friend. He was Sherlock's friend too; one of the few people that was actually nice to him, and didn't patronize him. He remembered the first time Mycroft brought him home. The three of them did puzzles on Sherlock's floor for hours laughing and joking the entire time. They took Sherlock out to the park all the time.

He looked up at his brother, and saw his face scrunched up in pain. He knew Mycroft and Aaric were more than friends. They always sat closer than friends would while they did puzzles, and they always held hands when they went to the park. Sherlock knew that Mycroft loved Aaric. That Mycroft loves Aaric.

"Why Mycroft? Why did he die?" At this Mycroft unwrapped Sherlock's arms from him, and held his younger brother so he could look at him. Sherlock looked up at his older brother, but his face was blurry behind the tears that were welling in his eyes. "I don't know Sherlock. He left a note, saying, he said he didn't want to live anymore Sherlock. I don't know." He began crying again, and pulled Sherlock back to his body, holding him tightly. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him again as well.

The two brothers sat together sharing the pain. Hours past, and they sat together. They ran out of tears, and they sat together. It wasn't until late that morning that they finally let go of each other. Mycroft looked down at Sherlock again. He ran his hands through the dark curly hair. "I love you Sherlock. Always know that."

"I love you too Mycroft. Always."

John woke to find the pillow next to him devoid of the tousle of black hair that usually occupied it. He glanced at the clock, it was far too early for Sherlock to have gone anywhere, and he knew that he came to bed the night before, so he wasn't still out.

He closed his eyes and concentrated. Yes, he could hear Sherlock's muffled voice downstairs. Who the hell could he be talking to this early in the morning? Groaning he flung the covers off of him, and jumped out of bed painfully aware of the stern talking to he would receive from a certain Detective Inspector if that was indeed the person Sherlock had dared to call. He descended the stairs taking them two at a time. He stopped across the room watching his lover in shocked concern. "I love you too Mycroft. Always."

John watched as Sherlock ended the call, and look up to see him standing there. If it were anyone but John the look of pain on Sherlock's face would have gone unnoticed. But it was John, and John saw that look. John crossed the room to the couch where the hurt little boy sat, his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms resting lifeless in his lap. He sat down next to him, and took him into his arms without a single word. "John. Don't die, please."

"I won't Sherlock. I'm here."