"So, what really happened between you and Mycroft?" John asked nonchalantly while still chewing on his steak.

Sherlock choked on his coffee but quickly recovered. "What the hell do you ask me that for?"

"I don't know. We are waiting for the suspect to move, and according to your calculation, it won't be any time soon."

No reply. So Sherlock had decided to just ignore John then. It was a good five minutes of silence until Sherlock started talking again.

"I saw Mycroft cry once."

John gaped.

"Close your mouth, John. I'm not paying for the food literally on the table." Sherlock dramatically rolled his eyes.

"Oh. Sorry. Just that I never thought Mycroft was capable of doing such a…ohm… human-like thing." John made a poor attempt at a joke.

"I didn't think he could either." Sherlock went with it anyway. "I was 11 at the time. We were not in…uh, what do you call it, a difficult relationship as we are now."

"You mean you were close."

"No, John. Not being in a difficult relationship doesn't mean we were close. Your assumptions are as ludicrous as ever. Have you learned nothing from me, John?"

John knew immediately it was unwise of him to say it out loud so he quickly took it back. "My mistake, please do continue."

Sherlock ignored the noticeable insincerity. "I needed to ask him a few questions so I went to look for him. And I found him sitting in the oak tree behind our house... I should've realized the sign and stayed away then."

"Sign?"

"Mycroft! Up on a tree!" And Sherlock gave John the usual isn't-it-obvious look. "I do wonder sometimes what goes on in your head."

"Normal things, Sherlock. I think about normal things. And I found nothing unusual for a kid to be sitting in a tree."

"Mycroft is too lazy to climb the stairs let alone a tree! And he was 18. He wasn't 'a kid'." Sherlock deliberately did a poor impression of John. "Not that he ever was." He added, in a much lower voice. A strange expression flashed through Sherlock's face but it was hidden away too quickly for John to make out what it was.

"As I found him, I noticed there was trace of tears on his left cheek. That's it."

The story ended abruptly and barely answered John's question. But John knew that it was as much as he could get out of Sherlock, the man obviously did not want to extend any longer on the topic. So John decided to let it go and focused on his steak instead.

Sherlock kept staring outside the window and for this one time, he let himself be sentimental. Despite of his effort, some information stubbornly refused to be deleted. The image of Mycroft that day was one of those. It was such a gloomy afternoon, Sherlock contemplated. Windy too, a storm seemed to be coming. Mycroft was staring distantly to the field far beyond their eyesight. All he could hear in that moment was the wind rustling through the tree and the hollowness blowing in forms of gray clusters of cloud. When Mycroft turned and smiled at him, Sherlock felt something stirred in his chest. He was still too young to understand what that feeling was or what it meant. But he did realize what a sad smile Mycroft had. A sorrowfully broken smile. Mycroft left for college the next day and since then, for all Sherlock knew, Mycroft stopped being there for him. For months and years. For when Sherlock needed and wanted his brother to be there. Until Sherlock started to be a consulting detective, Mycroft came rushing back in his life just as suddenly as he disappeared from before. And their relationship was never the same.

Sherlock closed his eyes, he could almost hear Mycroft's monotonous voice,

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."