Mycroft remembered so clearly the first time he met Sherlock. He was seven years old, shuffled into Mummy's hospital room by Father, sleepy in the warmth of the late evening sunset. The room was a light yellow color and the bedside table was covered in vases of pale orange Gerber daisies – Mummy's favorite flower. They matched the orangey sun outside the window.
He was lifted onto the bed by Father, seeing for the first time the source of the almost kitten-like mewing noises that filled the room. The white blanket Mummy was holding cradled a red and crumpled looking little body, tiny hands and face visible in the folds of the wrappings.
He bent forward to look more closely, but caught himself and looked up at Mummy for reassurance. She nodded, looking exhausted but relaxed, as Father moved to sit beside her on the other side of the bed, none of them wanting to break the warm, near-silence of the room. Father began brushing Mummy's dark hair, smoothing the curls into a long braid.
Mycroft leaned in closer, and looked into his brother's face for the first time. The baby was tiny, eyes that would later reveal themselves to be a silver-grey screwed tightly shut. He wasn't crying, exactly, but whimpering, tiny hands trying to grasp the surface of the blanket, a soft black curl drifting out from below the white hat he wore. Mycroft reached out with a finger to lightly brush the baby's cheek, feeling a swelling sense of warmth growing in his chest as the baby turned his head, eyes still screwed shut, into his touch.
"What's his name?" Mycroft breathed, preserving the stillness of the room as much as possible.
"Sherlock," answered Mummy. She smiled at him and then at Father, who placed a kiss on her cheek, and reached out to ruffle Mycroft's hair.
Mycroft grinned – his brother would have a name like his. "Can I hold him?" he asked softly. Mummy nodded, and gently handed the baby into Mycroft's carefully positioned arms.
The baby was still whimpering. Mycroft decided that this could not be the ideal way of introducing himself to his new brother, and began gently rocking the baby to quiet him. The gentle wave-like motion calmed the baby, who stopped whimpering after several long minutes and settled into sleep.
Mycroft handed him back to Mummy who smiled again and whispered, "I can already tell the two of you will the best of friends." Mycroft grinned back, nodding.
Father stood up from the bed. "It's getting late, and you have school tomorrow. Let's leave Mummy and Sherlock to rest and I'll take you home. Okay?"
"Sure," Mycroft whispered back. He reached forward to touch the baby's cheek once again, feeling that warm sensation building again as the child turned his head into Mycroft's touch in his sleep.
"Good night, Mummy. Good night, Sherlock," he said as Father lifted him up and carried him out of the room.
"Good night, sweetheart," said Mother as he left.
The sun had almost finished setting and Mycroft's view over his father's shoulder was that of a rosy glow, a smiling Mummy, and a sleeping Sherlock. Thoughts of what he could teach Sherlock, the games they could play, the trouble they could get into filtered through his head as he drifted off to sleep. The start of a lifetime of wonder.
Mycroft woke slowly, clinging to the memory as his eyes opened. He woke to a hospital room, not too much unlike the one he had left in the dream; afternoon sun was filtering through the windows into a private room with one bed and cream-colored walls. The occupant of the bed, however, seemed lost to Mycroft's memory brushed eyes, lost and lonely without a mother who had long since slipped from the world.
Sherlock was sleeping, grey eyes lidded, one hand resting on the pillow beside his face, fingers slightly obscured by a cloud of black curls. His face held a tightness, however, even in sleep; the corners of his mouth were drawn in, brow slightly furrowed, eyes shut a little too tightly.
Memory still clinging to the edges of his waking mind, Mycroft reached out to touch Sherlock's cheek. His brother's head turned toward him in his sleep, resting skin that was far too cool in Mycroft's palm, shallow breath ghosting across his wrist. The familiar sense of warmth swelled once more in Mycroft's chest, but it was tempered with a bone-chilling cold, a breath of ice that slipped down his throat, cutting straight through the center of his chest.
His brother's presence seemed to rouse Sherlock. He stirred and opened his eyes. "Mycroft," he said quietly, voice barely audible in the silence of the room, but the weakness of it shattering the calm to pieces. "I didn't think you'd come."
"I think the department can do without me. Besides, my little brother called," said Mycroft, trying for a teasing tone and utterly failing, voice cracking slightly on 'brother'.
"Little is right. How is the diet going?" asked Sherlock, matching his brother's attempted tone.
"Fine, thank you," smiled Mycroft. "I've lost 6 pounds this month."
Sherlock attempted a snort. "Liar." Mycroft's laugh crept up on him and burst forth without permission, echoing through the room. Sherlock chuckled as well, but Mycroft's relief quickly faded to concern as Sherlock seemed to sag, the light banter apparently having worn him out.
"And how are you, Sherlock?" asked his brother, anticipating a rude rebuttal of his concern or to be flat out ignored. Sherlock sighed and twisted his hand in his sheet, apparently giving the question serious thought.
"I- I don't know. I can't breathe properly, which is discomforting," he said, stopping for a quick breath. "All I can think about is the moment when that won't matter, when I won't be breathing any longer."
He turned his head away from his brother, staring resolutely at the door, seeming annoyed at having revealed such a thought in public.
"Sherlock, I-" Mycroft started. He realized he had no idea how to comfort his brother, to tell him that everything would be alright; nothing he could say could make that happen, Sherlock knew that as well as he did. He had nearly resolved to say nothing, to merely sit there until the end. Save them both the awkwardness of an adult life spent apart being forced into hollow words of comfort.
Memory nudged again at his mind, a tiny, red faced baby turning to his hand for comfort, the warm weight of the baby falling asleep in his arms.
"Sherlock," he started again, and the soft tone of voice dragged Sherlock's eyes from the door. "Sherlock. I was there when you were born. I'll be with you when- " he broke off. I'll be with you when you die. It was a sentence heavy with dread, with unvoiced, unbidden terror, with last minute comfort to a sibling he should have protected from this.
"You can't stop this, Mycroft," came Sherlock's voice, seeming to read his mind. "And I don't mind, not really. I'm just a little put out. I had counted on out-living you and your abysmal dietary habits."
Both men chuckled slightly, the sound settling rather flatly in the silence that had slipped in once more.
Sherlock's face relaxed slightly. "Mycroft," he half-whispered. "I just- If I have to leave, I don't want to do it alone." He stared almost earnestly at his brother, all thoughts of dignity and adulthood forgotten, five years old again and looking for comfort from a nightmare.
"You won't," promised Mycroft. You won't.
Neither spoke again, but watched the sun set, casting lengthening shadows around the room. Sherlock fell asleep again and Mycroft watched him, taking a small comfort in every breath his brother drew.
Sherlock began muttering and twisting in his bed. Mycroft leaned forward and brushed his face with his left hand, smoothing the lines of worry and pain, feeling the coolness of Sherlock's fingers with his right. His circulation must be failing, said a voice in the back of his mind. Sherlock's hand moved to grasp his and he stilled, relaxing once again. Mycroft remained there, holding his brother's rapidly cooling hand, offering his companionship to his little brother, trying with the grasp of one hand to resolve this final, silent crisis.
The dying glow of the sun was taunting him, giving a tint of color that meant safety, hope, and life to a room overshadowed by the laxness of Sherlock's face. Mycroft barely stirred as staff entered the room to remove the body, clear away the bedding and the monitors and the IV. No one spoke to Mycroft as they worked, as they wheeled the gurney with his brother's body out of the room. He didn't try to stop them, didn't move, let his mind fall blank. Just sat, staring at the empty, lonely bed as darkness fell into the room, chasing out the last warmth of the sun.
Mycroft remembered the last day he saw Sherlock. The end of a lifetime of wonder, a closing door echoing down the hallways of his mind, slamming closed on a world made of sunsets and new names, a world with a rosy glow.