There was noise in the big mansion, but not many voices. The creaking of floorboards, the shuffling of paper, the scratching of pens. In fact, the only voice that could be heard was in a room on the top floor, meticulously cleaned with test tubes and beakers on shelves along with various books. A small boy sat in the middle of the bed, clutching a brown stuffed animal bear like it was his life preserver in a sea that was keen on swallowing him up. His pale skin contrasted greatly with his pitch black curly locks of hair. His sparkling blue eyes were closed at the moment. His mouth was mouthing restlessly, although the words that came out were so fast and quiet that you would have to get closer to hear what was being said.

"…Mummy said she didn't feel well, she probably had a headache, I didn't mean to give her one, I swear I didn't, Mycroft wanted a cigarette, I could tell by the way his eyes were moving and his fingers were twitching. Why won't anyone tell me the truth…"

Padded footsteps were heard on the carpet outside the room and he stopped mid-sentence, looking at the door, his mouth still open.

"Sherlock? Can I come in?"

Sherlock Holmes hesitated a moment, casting a look around his room. No doubt Mycroft would ask why it was so clean. It was unusual for it to be so clean. Sherlock placed his stuffed bear down on the bedspread and stood up. He smoothed down his clothes and cleared his throat, then announced.

"Yes."

The door opened and Mycroft stood there. He was seventeen now, going off to University soon. His brown-auburn hair was carefully parted and flat in a way that Sherlock's own curly black hair would never do. Mycroft was seeing the end of his teenager years, where he could eat anything he wanted (and rest assured, he did) and not gain weight. His stomach has a little bulge to it, but it was obvious Mycroft was ignoring it, assuring himself that it would go away soon. He had a somber look in his eyes, but Sherlock saw his fingers still twitching occasionally, wanting to take a drag of one of his cigarettes. Sherlock blinked and looked up at his older brother curiously.

He could deduce many things just from him standing there. He had gotten in late the night before; the bags around his eyes and the way he was slightly favoring his right leg. He had had some sort of pastry earlier, either a piece of cake or an eclair; Sherlock could see the crumbs on his tailored suit jacket, despite his efforts to dust them off. He had been smoking for three months now, and even thought they both knew how bad it was for their health, wasn't planning on quitting anytime soon; Sherlock could see that in his twitching fingers and the very obvious packet of cigarettes in his pocket.

Mycroft looked around the room in awe, just as Sherlock has predicted.

"Your room is clean."

He said, stating the obvious. Sherlock rolled his eyes and scuffed the floor with his polished shoe.

"Father made me."

He said, wincing a bit as the bruise on his arm throbbed from the memory. Mycroft finally snapped out of his state of awe and looked at his younger brother.

"Sherlock, Mummy is sick. The doctors are with her now, but Father has requested that I take you out of the house. Where would you like to go?"

Mycroft said and Sherlock stared at the ground. Mummy was sick…and if Father wanted him out of the house that meant that she was really sick. Was she going to die? Sherlock looked up from the floor and stared at his brother, voicing his concern.

"Is she going to die?"

He said, his voice devoid of any emotion. If Mycroft was started by the question, he didn't show it. He just cleared his throat and straightened his tie, then gestured to the door behind him. Sherlock sighed and walked through it.

"The playground."

He said as he walked by his brother and headed downstairs, where Mycroft's car was parked.