"Mycroft?" Sherlock whispered, hovering in the doorway of his brother's bedroom, "Where's Eurus?"
Sherlock had been much quieter since Victor - since Eurus - than he used to be, Mycroft noted, before smoothing his expression into a mask of calmness. "She's gone away, Sherlock."
Sherlock just nodded. Very uncharacteristic of him. Usually Mycroft couldn't get him to stop chattering on about this and that, deducing everything and always asking questions. Well, death was supposed to have an effect on people. Perhaps this was an example? A permanent change, from curious chatterbox to this solemn, quiet child? As ideal as it may be, Mycroft rather hoped not.
Sherlock crept closer into the room, hovering at Mycroft's shoulder. "Where's Mummy?" he asked, tone just as scared and uncertain as before, though in a slightly different way. Scared for her, Mycroft deduced, not scared of.
He abruptly realised this could be a problem. "Just upstairs, I should suspect." He got up and walked over to his bed, pulling Sherlock down beside him. "Listen to the floor. Can you hear it creaking above us?"
Sherlock tilted his head, then nodded, relaxing further onto the bed.
"That's Mummy, in her study."
"And Daddy?" Sherlock spoke quietly, head falling to land on Mycroft's shoulder.
Mycroft, ignoring the emotions the action inspired (soft, he was never soft, and caring, caring more about his brother in this moment than anyone in the world, he would burn the world if it would keep his baby brother safe) replied, voice also low, "He's weeding the flowers. Listen, Sherlock, just listen, and you can hear him whistling. He only ever whistles when he weeds the flowers, though I can't imagine why he enjoys it, so much work, and so messy as well..." He trailed off.
Against his shoulder, Sherlock was sleeping, small breaths puffing in and out, the air of tension that had been hanging over him like a cloud finally dissipating with the warm comfort of sleep.
"There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the less and a cleaner, better stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared." - Arthur Conan Doyle