Mycroft Holmes felt something crawl into his bed. Undoubtedly it was his five-year-old brother. The movement had woken him up, and, irritated, he tried to push Sherlock back off the bed.
"No, My, let me up." Sherlock was obviously distressed about something. Mycroft rolled his eyes and moved to the side.
"What is it now?" Mycroft had been having a rather nice dream when Sherlock had woken him and he was rather cross for having it disturbed. He already thought he knew what was causing Sherlock agitation, probably a nightmare caused by their parents letting him watch Friday the 13th with them and Mycroft. Sherlock snuggled as close to Mycroft as he could, for protection, and Mycroft felt a small warm splash on his arm.
"I had a bad dream. I dreamed there were bugs in me and they were eating me." Sherlock's voice was altered with emotion, the normally steady tones of a child now those of a child in fear. "I could feel them crawling in me and it hurt."
In spite of the annoyance, Mycroft's heart softened. His brother was one of his weak points—he felt a very strong need to protect him, and this was no different. Softly, he started humming the lullaby their grandmother had taught them years ago. Sherlock's sniffles quieted and he fell back to a peaceful sleep.