First thing I've ever written for Sherlock, so fingers crossed! This is just a little something for everybody who wondered about the third brother... I never actually mention the brother or anything... but I might continue if I get asked to! :D

I love BBC Sherlock, so I hope you like this tiny little fic... Please review!

It was so very dark outside. The two brothers sat inside the warmth of their house, shielded from the biting air and the swirling snow.

Sitting in a chair designed for adults with rod-straight backs, Sherlock cupped what was left of the cake in his hands, watching the candle that had been stuck inside melt with a strange fascination. He loved candles. He loved fire. It was pretty. Deadly, but pretty.

"Make a wish, Sherlock."

It was said almost mockingly, as if children who made wishes, who even had the audacity to have wishes, were foolish and naive.

"But you want to make a wish more than I do."

Mycroft scowled. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I heard you praying in the living room."

"I wasn't praying."

"Then what were you doing?"

Mycroft's eyes glittered with anger, and his lips set in a firm line. They trembled. Sherlock's own lips were trembling, too, but he would never admit to himself how nervous he was that day, not even when he was an adult.

He never really became an adult, not really.

Sherlock closed his eyes, thought of the baby on the way, and blew out the candle.

Mycroft sat back in his chair. "Did you wish for your mother to be safe? For the child to be safe? Labor is a difficult thing to go through, you know."

"No. I wished for the baby to be a boy. Could you imagine a girl? She'd be all squeamish and annoying."

Mycroft's low chuckle echoed throughout the living room. The fire crackled in the fireplace, spitting embers onto the carpet. Oh, what both of them wouldn't give for the sound of a car driving along the gravel outside, the sound of familiar footsteps approaching, the click of the front door unlocking, and finally, finally, the sound of a wailing child.

Sherlock didn't want the baby to be quiet. His mother already lectured him about how loud he was when he was a child, and he could tell from the look in her eyes that she only just stopped herself from commenting on Mycroft's well-behavedness when he was Sherlock's age.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.

"Go on, Mycroft. Spit it out."

"Oh, nothing. I was only wondering whether or not you were scared."

"I'm not scared of you."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Not of me. Of how your situation's about to change dramatically, perhaps for the worser."

"Perhaps for the better. And anyway, I know that the baby's going to be fine and we're going to go look around in the forest together and I know that the baby's going to be a better brother than you are!"

Silence again. Not the boring kind, but the kind that makes you clench and unclench your fist and tap your fingers. The kind that becomes so tense you want to burst, but at the same time you have to hold your tongue, for to speak would be to break the spell.

So neither of them said a word.

Sherlock closed his eyes, and before he could even begin to resist his weariness he fell asleep. Mycroft smiled, such a slight and sad thing he barely noticed, and carried Sherlock to the couch before covering him with a blanket.

The fire gave the room a hazy, orange glow, the kind you only see in bittersweet memories and near-forgotten dreams.

Here's to the new year, and let us have a happy hiatus!