"Alright, boys. Time for bed," Mrs Holmes said firmly. "Enough jumping around, now."
The boys frowned and looked at each other.
"I'll tell you a story."
Sherlock and Mycroft ran up the stairs like a shot, tripping over their pyjama bottoms as they scrambled up to their room. Their mother came in and closed the door behind her, then sat on the plush armchair between the boys' beds. She pulled one boy onto each lap and cuddled them close. "What do you want a story about?" she asked.
Sherlock wrapped his arms around his mother's warm neck. "Pirates!" he exclaimed.
"Not again! We always have a story about pirates. They're so boring," Mycroft complained. "I want a story about brave knights who go on adventures and live in castles and eat lots of cake."
"Knights don't eat cake, stupid," Sherlock retorted.
"Oh yes they do! They love cake. Any brave knight would be happy to return to his castle only to find that Cook has made him a yummy cake."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Am not!"
"You are. You always have been. You're an idiot."
"If I'm an idiot, so are you!"
"Boys!" Mrs Holmes sighed, exasperated. "No one is ridiculous, and no one is an idiot. Now get into your beds and I don't want a single mean word between you. Nothing good ever came out of people being mean to each other. The world has so many nasty people in it. Stay away from them and don't get involved. Now, for every horrible man or woman there is somebody who is good and kind. Fill your life up with these people and never let them go, and never lose faith in this world, no matter how much darkness there is around you. Remember that and nothing will be difficult for you, my brilliant little boys. My clever boys, who love pirates and knights and cake. Sleep tight."
She kissed each of her sons on the cheek and left the room, switching off the lights. Mycroft waited a few seconds, and then turned on his side to face his brother.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock frowned at Mycroft. "What?" he hissed.
"Where's Dad?"
"He said he was going out. Why?"
Mycroft grimaced in the darkness. "He's gone to the pub, then."
"And?"
"You don't get it, do you?"
"What?"
Mycroft was about to reply, but he was cut off by the sound of a door slamming. They could hear a raised voice slurring something indistinguishable.
"Mycroft, what's wrong with Daddy?" Sherlock's voice wobbled.
"Shut up," he hissed.
The voice outside growled with blind rage, and their mother's soothing only made it angrier. There was a silence, and then a thud. Sherlock started to wail in his bed.
"Shut. Up." Mycroft repeated himself through gritted teeth.
"I'm scared," Sherlock sobbed.
Mycroft sighed audibly and shuffled out of his bed into Sherlock's. He pulled the covers around them and held his younger brother close. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly.
There was screaming and shouting downstairs. Then the sound of glass breaking. Then a long, tortured howl. Then a last, heavy thud.
Mycroft tensed in the blackness of their room. He curled inwards around Sherlock and his body jerked with violent sobs. Sherlock was bewildered, confused tears running down his face, soaking the pillow.
"Mycroft?"
His brother didn't answer, only held Sherlock tighter.
"Mycroft?"
Still no answer.
"Mycroft, what's happening?"
Silence. They stayed like that for a long time, Mycroft sobbing raggedly with his face buried in Sherlock's hair and Sherlock curled up next to him, crying softly, not fully aware. They cried until they could cry no more, and with raw red eyes and aching lungs, they finally fell asleep.
Dawn crept through the windows, and a bird called to its mate amongst the trees. Sherlock opened his eyes and stumbled out of bed in a stupor. Crossing to the windows, he stretched on his tiptoes to open the curtains wide. He peered out onto the street. His eyes widened. He jumped onto his bed and shook Mycroft awake. Wordlessly, Sherlock pulled him by the sleeve over to the window to look out of it at the scene below. Three police cars converged around their door, and one car door opened. A tall man in a police uniform stepped out. He had gray hair and somehow reminded Sherlock of an old working horse, professional and sturdy.
Sherlock started when he realised that the policeman was making his way to their door. He wondered if he should let him in. It was probably not a good idea to keep a man like that waiting. He must have lots of important things to do, Sherlock thought. He made for the bedroom door when Mycroft pulled him back.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm letting the police in."
"No."
"Why not?"
"You shouldn't go downstairs."
"Why not? We'll have to one day."
"Not now."
There was a loud crash as the policemen kicked the door in. There were some small noises like people walking around, then the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.
"Is there anybody up here?" a deep male voice called.