Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock, I don't make money from this yada yada, let's continue ^^
If you couldn't tell, I like writing about characters' past connections with each other :D
Also, note that the time setting changes back-and-forth. Keep an eye out, and let me know if you need any clarifications. If you spot any blaring grammar, spelling, or punctuation errors, kindly let me know, thank you.
Normally, Mycroft would be swinging his beloved umbrella around as he walked, but today he held it still in his hand as he crunched over the wet gravel. It remained un-opened despite the heavy rain.
Few would believe it, but when they were both young, Mycroft and his seven-years-younger brother had been very close.
As a child, Sherlock had looked up to Mycroft. He admired him, was filled in awe by him. He tried to be like him.
Mycroft had eventually warmed up to his role as big brother. He looked after his brother, giving him brotherly comfort when it was necessary. He tried to teach Sherlock everything he knew.
"Mycroft!" Mrs. Holmes called to her son.
He didn't look up from his book. It was a book that most kids his age wouldn't even be attempting to read, but Mycroft was miles ahead of them.
"Mycroft," his mother repeated, opening the door of his room, "I'm going to the grocery store, I need you to look after your brother until I get back."
He expertly hid his annoyance. The only thing he saw Sherlock as was a nuisance, and this instance served to prove his point.
"Are you sure you want to go right now, mummy?" Mycroft put on sweetly, "It is pouring rain out there."
She narrowed her eyes slightly at her eldest son, "A little rain won't hurt me," and she left.
Mycroft bit back a long, exasperated groan. Book in hand, he trudged to the nuisance's room.
He strode in without so much as a glance toward his little brother, who had just previously been staring at a shaped block with wide, sparkling blue eyes as he tried to fully understand it. He was a curious child who wanted to know anything and everything about the world. Mycroft had been the same when he was Sherlock's age.
He didn't care in the slightest about any of these things, though, as he sat himself down in the corner farthest from Sherlock, who dropped the block and yelled "My'coff!" in a delighted, high-pitched voice that 'My'coff' cringed at.
To his displeasure, the now-elated toddler was crawling over to the older boy.
"Oh no, you stay over there," Mycroft protested futilely.
Big blue eyes just stared at him like he was the most incredible thing in the world. Mycroft squirmed under the gaze, feeling very self-conscious.
Eventually, Sherlock's attention diverted to the book Mycroft had propped on his lap. He reached a tiny hand out to it.
Mycroft held the book closer to himself, and away from Sherlock, "I don't think so- go away and play with your toys or something!"
The little boy's face fell. Mycroft knew he had to do something fast- the last thing he wanted was to have to listen to Sherlock crying.
"Come here," he sighed as he picked up the down-hearted little boy and set him right beside himself. He positioned the book so Sherlock could see, not that he at all expected the little boy to understand the writing.
"This is a book, see. It contains stories. People read it so they can learn the stories," he explained, feeling very stupid as he tried to dumb-down the concept so a toddler might understand it.
"This book is about a murder- erm- someone having killed someone else-" should he really be explaining this to such a little kid? "-and the main character- person in the story is trying to figure out what happened. Admittedly, he's not doing a very good job of it," Mycroft mused to himself as he turned the page to the next chapter.
Suddenly, Sherlock squealed and Mycroft hastily shut the book. A picture, and a fairly bloody one at that. Mycroft was mentally berating himself. Stupid, stupid- he knew that there were pictures on the first pages of the new chapter. He knew that this book wasn't suitable for young children. Now he'd scared his baby brother. What kind of a big brother was he? A terrible one, that's what. Why couldn't he have just-
He froze as Sherlock feebly reached for the book. Slowly, Mycroft helped his brother open the book back up to that last page. The gruesome picture of the murder scene blared off the page.
Sherlock tilted his head in confusion, evidently not understanding.
"I'll explain when you're older," Mycroft promised softly.
The little boy giggled up at his older sibling.
Mycroft sat reading his book, and Sherlock watched him intently, curled up beside him. There was a soft, contented silence in the room that was broken only by the pattering of the rain from outside, steadily getting heavier.
The elder brother heard the distant screech of a car from outside, and genuine worry began to drip into his conscious. In this sort of weather, accidents were bound to happen. He hoped that their mother would get home safely.
Sherlock seemed to be getting agitated, too, but Mycroft didn't understand why. Lightening flashed- Sherlock startled violently.
"Sherlock?"
Thunder crashed, but Mycroft heard his baby brother's terrified cry as he buried himself in his big brother's chest. Sure enough, Sherlock began to cry quick, child-like sobs right into Mycroft's favorite shirt.
He wasn't annoyed. Actually, if anything, Mycroft was a bit amused.
"You're a funny one, kid," Mycroft chuckled, "You're alright with violence and gore- but you get terrified at a little bad weather?"
Sherlock sniffled, looking up to Mycroft for a moment before he resumed his crying.
Mycroft tried to pull the toddler away from him, but Sherlock clutched his shirt in his tiny fist. Shaking his head, the elder brother pulled Sherlock back in, and wrapped his arms around him in a protective hug.
"It's okay, the big-bad thunder and lightening won't get you. I'm here. I won't let anything get to you, ever, I promise," Mycroft whispered fondly at his baby brother.
Mycroft found Sherlock standing motionless in front of the new grave. The younger man flinched slightly at the crack of thunder, having been reminded of the crack of the gun.
The brothers stood in the relentless rain.
Growing up, Mycroft had been Sherlock's only friend.
As an older brother would, Mycroft encouraged his sibling to feed his curiosity- continue his pursuit of knowledge. Soon enough, Sherlock- as Mycroft had- became much more advanced than other students his age.
But this separated him from his peers. They became rather fearful of Sherlock and vented it in the only way they knew how- bullying. He wasn't as bothered by it, though, as he probably should have been. He did have his big brother, didn't he?
Mycroft couldn't always be there, as Sherlock found out.
It was the day he was to leave for a private boarding school and Mycroft walked back into the house to say goodbye to his little brother.
Sherlock sat curled up on the floor, his back to Mycroft.
"You promised," the blue-eyed boy mumbled.
Mycroft was perhaps a little harsher than he should have been, "I can't baby-sit you forever. See you at the end of term."
Things went down-hill from there. Without Mycroft there for support, the bullying really got to Sherlock until he snapped and began living up to the 'high-functioning sociopath' he eventually became. He 'deleted' everything from his memory he deemed as irrelevant- including those of him and his brother.
Sherlock pushed Mycroft away as he steadily built up the cold wall around him.
Mycroft didn't let Sherlock out of his sight again.
Guilt. That's what Mycroft felt. Penetrating, bitter, guilt.
Guilt because he had been so preoccupied with watching Sherlock, he didn't give it much thought when he'd lost track of John.
Sherlock finally turned his icy blue eyes onto his elder brother. A flash of anger and blame. The damned guilt increased.
But soon, Sherlock's face fell as other emotions overtook the negative feelings toward Mycroft. He quickly hid behind his blank mask and turned back away from his brother.
The older man sighed sadly. He grabbed Sherlock by the arm and led the drenched man out of the cemetery.
"What're you doing?" Sherlock demanded.
"Taking you home- you've been here long enough," Mycroft answered.
"Why should I?"
"Because otherwise you'll get sick with something," said the elder brother as though he was talking to a small child.
"Rain isn't going to kill me!" the younger man now shouted.
Mycroft froze, but didn't loosen his hold on his younger brother. Sherlock shrank under his brother's suddenly piercing gaze.
"That's what mummy told me a long time ago- not that you would remember!" He growled.
That night, years ago, Mycroft's worrying had been justified. Their mother did get into an accident, and had since then been confined to a wheelchair.
Sherlock was caught off-guard and, thankfully, stopped struggling against Mycroft.
The two brothers eventually stepped into 221B, both cold and dripping-wet. Sherlock's shoulders involuntary shuddered a split second. Mycroft ignored it as he opened the door into his younger brother's flat.
"Stay there, I'm going to go get you some dry clothes," and Mycroft tried to walk off, but something stopped him.
He looked back to Sherlock, who held onto Mycroft's rain-soaked shirt.
Mycroft knew what was going to happen an instant before it did. Sherlock- like he did so many years ago- buried his face into his elder brother's shirt.
Well, alright then, Mycroft thought to himself and wrapped his arms around the younger man.
Sherlock shuddered again, and a few semi-controlled sobs escaped his lips. He didn't want to break down even more in front of his brother.
"It's okay, just let it out," Mycroft whispered.
Lightening flashed, followed by a crash of rolling thunder.
For the first time in decades, Sherlock cried- and finally, for the first time in decades, Mycroft felt as though he had his little brother back.
He only wished that it were under better circumstances…