Mycroft had had a bad day. None of the other kids liked him. Mummy and Daddy were ignoring him for reasons even he couldn't fathom. No one wanted to share books with him. Most of them couldn't read at his level. He'd fallen in the snow, as well, and he was shivering and cold, sitting by the fire, while his parents were in the kitchen arguing about something.
He felt a tug at his trouser leg. It was his brother, Sherlock.
"My, snuggles," he said. The boy was three and so Mycroft had to pull him up onto the sofa. He didn't really feel like paying attention to Sherlock right now as he had other things on his mind. He felt like no one loved him at that point in time. Everyone was ignoring him and nothing was going his way.
A muffled mumble came from beside him as Sherlock had managed to pull the throw blanket which had been draped across the back of the sofa onto himself. Mycroft sighed, a bit weary of having to look after his silly brother, and took the blanket off of him. He realized he'd wanted it, and so draped it over himself.
Sherlock came over and cuddled in the crook of his arm. His curly hair was sticking out at strange directions because of the blanket, and he was very tired. Mycroft realized how tired he was, too.
"I love you, My," Sherlock sleepily muttered as his eyes closed.
"I love you too," Mycroft said as he, too, drifted off, the warmth of his brother, both literal and metaphorically, reassuring, and the fire light flickered in the cold winter evening.