"Mycroft?"

Sherlock stood in the doorway of his brother's bedroom, watching the elder sitting motionless on his four poster bed. He waited for Mycroft to turn to him and usher him into his room, ruffling his hair and wrapping him in a blanket and asking him about his school day. Today, though, Mycroft did not move. He did not take Sherlock's rucksack and take out his algebra book to help him with his homework. He did not offer to take Sherlock downstairs and make hot chocolate. Instead, he sat still on the bed, and let Sherlock stand in his doorway, his nose and fingers still cold from the walk home from school.

Most days, Mycroft came to school and walked Sherlock home himself. Especially on days when it was raining. Mycroft knew Sherlock didn't like the rain. Mycroft was always sure to bring an umbrella with him on those days, and only occasionally forgot. Even when he did forget, though, Sherlock was happy. As long as he had someone to walk with, Sherlock was happy.

Sherlock stepped through the doorway and dropped his bag onto the floor. It hit with a small thud. Mycroft still hadn't looked at Sherlock, or at anything, for that matter, and as Sherlock neared he noticed the blank expression that adorned Mycroft's face. His brow furrowed and he frowned in concern for his brother.

"Bubby, is everything alright?"

Finally, Mycroft looked up at Sherlock. Or rather, at Sherlock's coat collar. Sherlock looked down at it and realized it was folded the wrong way, but he decided it could wait. He looked up again and continued to scrutinize Mycroft's dull and empty-looking face.

"Bubby?"

Mycroft met Sherlock's eyes, and immediately his own filled with tears. His face crumpled and he sniffled, actually sniffled, and lifted his hand to wipe away the single tear that dared trail down his cheek. Sherlock's concern increased and he lifted a hand. It hovered in the air for a moment as he tried to figure out where to place it, but eventually he decided Mycroft's shoulder was a good place to put it. It seemed comforting. Sherlock waited until Mycroft felt like he was able to speak, which was really stupid, because Mycroft was able to speak the whole time. He just didn't want Sherlock to hear what he was going to say. Or more appropriately, he didn't want to say it.

"Sherlock," Mycroft began. He turned, sitting his feet on the floor and leaning down to Sherlock. "You remember how Dad was gone for awhile?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "He was in the hospital." Sherlock didn't know why Mycroft didn't just say hospital instead of gone, but he didn't question it. He could tell by the way Mycroft's eyes squeezed closed when he said "hospital" that Mycroft was really just trying to avoid saying it.

"Mhm, he was. Well, he was... he was getting very, very sick, and he was in a lot of pain. So Mum had to... Mum had to decide whether we wanted him to stay here and hurt, or whether we wanted him to leave so he could feel better. And Mum chose to let him leave." His voice didn't waver, and it didn't crack.

"So Daddy isn't going to come back?"

"No, Daddy's not coming back."

Sherlock stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Mycroft's neck. He let Mycroft pull him onto his lap and hug him. The two of them had always been close, but never so close that they threw out hugs willy-nilly. Sherlock didn't like hugs. They made him uncomfortable. He still let Mycroft hug him though, because he was Mycroft's brother and he guessed that it would be a bit mean to tell him to stop. Mycroft didn't cry anymore, but when he finally let Sherlock go, Sherlock could still see the pain in his eyes. He picked up his backpack and left, deciding he could do his own algebra that night.

Mycroft wasn't at dinner. Neither was Mum. She was sick. She'd been sick for a long time, and Sherlock knew she was in a lot of pain, so he excused her. Or at least, he'd been told she was in a lot of pain. Her doctor told Sherlock that she didn't want to talk to either of the kids. For their health, of course, for their health. Sherlock understood. He knew Mum needed her rest. When he came downstairs, dinner was on the table. He'd already finished his algebra and literature, and he was saving his chemistry assignment for after dinner since he enjoyed it the most. Unfortunately, all he had to do tonight was finish a lab report that he hadn't had time to do in class. Maybe then he would have time to read later.

He ate alone. The long dining table could easily fit twelve, but usually it was only Sherlock and Mycroft that ate here. Dad always had work to do, so he would bring his meals up to his office, and on the rare occasions that Mum did eat, it was always alone. She didn't like people to see her eat. Once, when he was six, Sherlock had walked in on his mother, eating alone in her room. It was pasta, but he didn't know what kind. She stood up immediately and practically screeched at him until he left. He didn't venture into her room again for quite awhile after that.

Tonight, it was steak, potatoes, and peas. Sherlock didn't particularly like any of this, to be honest, and if it weren't for the fact that he knew Mycroft would be upset when he came down to clear Sherlock's plate, he wouldn't have eaten any of it. That is, if Mycroft ever came down to clear his plate. Sherlock hadn't seen him since the slightly awkward hug, but he knew not to press him. Mycroft didn't like people to know this, but he was very sensitive. He tried to make Sherlock more sensitive, but considering Sherlock didn't have anyone to be sensitive to besides Mycroft, it didn't really work very well. And he was only nice to Mycroft because that's what brothers are for. If he wasn't a nice brother, Sherlock honestly didn't know what else he could call himself. Aside from exceptionally smart and a fantastic scholar, of course.

Sherlock looked down at the few peas left on his plate and made a face. Sighing, he picked up his plate and went to the kitchen. He scraped what was left of his dinner into the trash and shuffled over to the sink, reaching up and putting his arms over the edge and hoisting himself onto his tiptoes to try and see what he was doing. After a few minutes of some very painful and frustrating stretching, he reached the knob for the cold water and turned it on holding the plate under the water until all the specs of food were gone. Being ten years old, he should have been tall enough to rinse off his plate without difficulty. Unfortunately, though, Sherlock was the shortest child in his class. Mycroft told him that he would be tall when he grew up, because Mum and Dad were both tall, and so was Mycroft himself, but he just hadn't hit his growth spurt yet. Whatever that was.

With a clunk, the plate hit the bottom of the sink and the fork clattered on top of it. Some more stretching and the water was off. Sherlock went to the bathroom, washing his hands and looking in the mirror for a moment. He took a long look at his hair. It was dark and unruly, and even though he brushed through the curls at least twice a day, they refused to do anything but sit on his head like a dead cat and get so ruffled that he had to come in again and drag a brush through it. Mum had told Mycroft repeatedly to go and get it cut before she got sick, and Mycroft always said he would do it, but he never did. When Sherlock asked him why, he just told him that he loved his hair so much he couldn't go get it cut off. Sherlock thought that was pretty silly, to be honest, but he didn't complain. And now that Mother was sick and didn't want to see the boys, they didn't have to worry about her seeing Sherlock's hair. Sherlock picked up his toothbrush and prepared to brush his teeth.

When he finished, he smiled and looked in the mirror again. He had a bit of a gap in between his front teeth, but Mycroft told him it was gradually going away. His bottom teeth were considerably smaller than his upper teeth, and his front teeth were considerably larger than any of his teeth. He didn't like to smile anymore because of it. Except when he was with Mycroft. Kids at school often made fun of him, but Mycroft always told him that he was perfect. Sherlock knew he wasn't perfect, but it was nice to be around someone who didn't either fawn over everything he did or wrinkle their nose in disgust every time he turned around.

Sherlock put his toothbrush back in the holder and went upstairs to his room. Taking out his chemistry and climbing to the top bunk of his bed, he set to work trying to remember the details of his earlier lab experiment, which wasn't all that hard. When he had finished, he climbed back down and put the worksheet back in his folder on the right side, where the finished work goes. He carefully slid the folder back into his schoolbag, zipped it up, and placed it by the door, as he always did when all his work was done. Turning back to his bedroom, he looked around appreciatively, a smile on his face that was always caused by the finishing of his assignments.

His room's walls were dark brown. The windowsills and doorframes were cream colored, as was the carpet. The wall to the left held a bookshelf and the door to his closet, the one on the right held a window and his dresser. On the back wall resided his toy box and the other window directly above it. Sherlock ran his hands over his shirt and went over to the small table beside his bookshelf, picking up a book Mycroft had brought him just the other day. He had come to pick up Sherlock from school and handed Sherlock the book. He told him he'd been helping at the library and found it, unmarked, and when he asked the librarian about it she told him he could keep it. Sherlock knew why Mycroft had gotten it for him. He'd gotten it because it was a pirate book. Sherlock loved pirates. He was already halfway through the book, actually. Once, he asked Mycroft if he could be a pirate for Halloween. Mycroft asked Mum, but she said what she always says about Halloween. No. Sherlock was slightly upset, but he guessed he should have known. Mum never allows anything on Halloween, not even handing out candy to trick-or-treaters. All lights off and pretend we're not home, she always said. Dad never disagreed with her. He was always busy. Usually, Mycroft and Sherlock settled in Mycroft's room to watch a movie on Halloween. Sherlock usually ended up sleeping in Mycroft's room. His bed is much softer.

Sherlock pulled away the blankets he'd tucked into the sides of the top bunk of his bed so they would fall over the openings on the bottom bunk and make a clubhouse. Mycroft taught him how to do that. He climbed inside and closed the blanket again, then pulled his flashlight from where it hung from the bottom of the top bunk. He flicked the switch on and sat with his back against the wall and his knees up, opening the book and starting in on it where he'd left off.

He was immediately pulled into an adventurous scene in which the main character, a boy of about fifteen years who had recently gotten himself stuck on a pirate ship and forced to become part of the crew, was helping load a cannon aimed at the enemy ship. The enemy ship was, in fact, another group of pirates who seemed dead set on conquering their ship. Sherlock didn't really understand why they would want another ship when they already have their own. What would they do with it, drag it alongside them? Sherlock supposed he would find out if they won the fight, but he didn't really want them to, considering he'd grown attached to the main character.

Within an hour the book was finished and Sherlock was left sitting on his bottom bunk in wonder at the ending. The main character hadn't turned out a hero and come back home to his mother like Sherlock had thought he would. He'd joined the pirates in their criminal life and sailed off, leaving his mother to take care of her three other children all on her own. On one hand, Sherlock was stunned, but on the other hand, he applauded the boy for being his own person.

He crawled out of the tent and placed the book next to the other finished ones on his bookshelf. He opened his closet door and looked in the mirror. Pirates didn't cut their hair, did they? No, of course not. Sherlock smiled at the similarity. Pirates didn't have pretty teeth. They didn't go to the dentist. His smile grew and he began skimming through his closet, looking for his scarf. He found it and tied it around his head, looking in the mirror appreciatively before going back to looking for a coat. A long coat. Pirates always wore long coats. He stood on tiptoes and pulled one off a hanger. It went to his calves and wasn't too thick. Dark blue. He nodded and slid it on. He crossed the room to his dresser and pulled out a pair of knee high white socks, sliding them on and rolling his pants up so they looked like the ones pirates wore. Then he climbed to his top bunk and hung himself precariously off the side, reaching to his shelf where his pirate hat sat. Mycroft had gotten it for him and he played with it often, but usually his older brother was here to help him get it. He sighed in relief when he climbed down the ladder with it clutched tightly in his hand.

He stood in front of the mirror once more and pushed the hat firmly down over the scarf. He smiled, rather liking the impromptu ensemble he'd put together. He closed the closet door and scurried over to his dresser again, reaching behind it for the large pieces of paper he'd stashed there. They were maps. Treasure maps. Mycroft helped him roll them up and tie them together with twine when he'd finished them. He carried them to the top bunk of his bed and pulled the twine away, unrolling them and laying them out so he could read them.

"Private," he said. "Load the cannons. I spy an enemy ship off the port bow!"

Yes, sir! a voice replied in his head. He ventured from the top bunk once more to get his spyglass and compass, then hurried back up to be with his crew. He went to the front of his ship and extended his spyglass, frowning. "Is that...? It is! The Kraken!" He jumped back, careful not to land on his maps.

Captain! What will we do? No ship has ever escaped the Kraken, the voice in his head squeaked. He put on a determined face and stood on his knees, putting his hands on his hips and puffing out his chest. "I'm Captain Sherlock Holmes! No creature can escape me!"

Once more he slid down the ladder and rummaged through his sock drawer until he found more long socks. He climbed back up and slid them on the ends of his ceiling fan, trying not to laugh at how silly it looked. He scurried back down and opened his toy box, pulling out his wooden sword that Mycroft had made him. Once on his ship once more, he set to work hacking off the tentacles of the hideous beast that was The Kraken.

"Take that, fowl beast!"

The door opened.

Mycroft looked at him.

"Go to bed, Sherlock."

His eyes were red.

"Okay."

Mycroft shut the door.

Sherlock dropped his sword.

"Are you okay, Mycroft?" Sherlock was walking hand in hand with his older brother through the supermarket. Mycroft had promised Sherlock last week that they would go buy strawberry ice cream because it was Sherlock's favorite. Sherlock now didn't want to make Mycroft go, but at the same time, he really wanted strawberry ice cream.

Mycroft pulled him into the freezer section and hoisted him onto his hip to get a better look at the selection. After a few moments, Sherlock pointed at the one with the cute caterpillar on it because a few weeks ago he'd studied caterpillars outside. Mycroft opened the freezer and pulled the carton out, heading up the the checkout with Sherlock still on his hip.

The cashier lady smiled at them when Mycroft put the carton down on the counter. "Is he yours?" she asked with a smile.

"No, he's my little brother," he said with a far shorter smile. The woman nodded and the price came up on the front of the register. Mycroft paid and picked up the bag, giving the woman a short wave and leaving the store. Once outside, he put Sherlock down again. They walked in silence for a while before Sherlock spoke.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"You didn't answer my question."

He sighed. "What was it?"

"Are you okay?"

"I..." Mycroft hesitated. "I'm fine. Just a bit upset."

"Why? Because Dad's gone?"

Mycroft sighed again. "Yes and no."

Sherlock nodded. "I understand."

Mycroft smiled a little. "No you don't."

Sherlock leaned his forehead on Mycroft's side. "Whatever."

Mycroft was still standing in front of the headstone. His father's old umbrella was raised above his head and his younger brother was perched awkwardly by his side. Mycroft tried to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. Not in front of Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't see him weakened. Never.

Honestly, he wasn't really affected by his father's death. Mr. Holmes had never visited with his eldest son - either of his sons, actually- if he didn't need to. Most of the time, he avoided them. When Mycroft was young, the only interaction he had with either of his parents was when they went out or when Mother scolded him for doing something he shouldn't. Otherwise, they kept to themselves. Or rather, they kept away from their children.

Mycroft knew his mother wasn't going to last long. She was stupidly stubborn and refused to change her lifestyle for the better, so she could recover. He wished she would let him talk to her. But then what would he do? She wouldn't listen. Even though he was her son, she wouldn't think of him any differently than any of the others who had come in to try to get her to come to her senses. To her, Mycroft was just any old seventeen year old boy, as was Sherlock. She had no connection with either of them.

That was why Mycroft was crying. Not because of the lack of a connection with his parents or his father's death. Those things he could deal with. Yes, they brought pain, but pain was temporary. And minimal. Pain passed. He knew that. His father was gone now, and hopefully in a better place (but Mycroft doubted that, considering the kind of man his father was), and a connection with his mother couldn't be established in the short amount of time she had left. Mycroft was okay with that. He still had a whole life to live.

That was the problem. Sherlock was the problem. Mycroft still had a whole life to live... with his brother. Who would Sherlock stay with when their parents were dead? Mycroft. He was turning eighteen soon and when he did, he would be able to become Sherlock's legal guardian. He wouldn't hesitate for a second. He loved Sherlock. He'd do anything for him. If he had to give up his life so Sherlock could have one, he would. He'd already done it. Mycroft could barely go to the bathroom without Sherlock trying to tag along. But Mycroft would do it in a heartbeat. He would take care of Sherlock for as long as Sherlock needed to be taken care of.

Mycroft felt a hand on his cheek. He looked down and saw his little brother had taken his glove off of his right hand and was wiping at the tears on Mycroft's face. He smiled, and his little brother returned the smile, a big, toothy grin that always made Mycroft happy. Mycroft took his hand and pushed it down, wiped at his tears and made sure his face was dry before looking down again. Sherlock's glove was on again and he was looking at the headstone, peering at it as if he couldn't read it. Mycroft's arm slipped over his shoulders and Sherlock's arms slipped around Mycroft's waist. They looked at each other and Mycroft did a sort of half smile-half frown and gently jerked his head toward the car that had pulled up behind them. Sherlock nodded and they turned to go.

Maybe Mycroft wouldn't have the life he'd planned for, but at least he would have Sherlock.

Mycroft's girlfriend came over for dinner.

Being completely honest, Sherlock thought she was an okay girl. She was tall, but still shorter than Mycroft, and she had dark hair that came to her shoulders and was slightly curly, and she was very nice. Mother didn't come down for dinner, even though Mycroft had never brought a girl home, so Sherlock suspected that she was still not getting better. Or she didn't want to eat dinner with them. The majority of dinner was spent listening to Mycroft and Samantha (that was her name) talk back and forth about things Sherlock didn't give two hoots about, so he made himself busy with eating his food and doing math problems in his head that he remembered from his assignment earlier.

When they finished, Mycroft and Samantha took Sherlock's plate and their own plates and went to the kitchen to do dishes together. Sherlock assumed they wanted to be alone, so he stayed in the dining room and thought some more. He was about to go get a book when Mycroft and Samantha emerged from the kitchen. She was giggling and his hand was on her waist. Sherlock smiled. He rarely saw his brother as happy as he was now.

"Sherlock, we're going up to see Mum. D'you want to come?"

Sherlock wanted to say no, but a second thought that perhaps it would be less awkward for Samantha if he came persuaded him to agree. He stood and followed them upstairs to his mother's room, listening to them idly chat about school and God knows what else. Kind of boring, really. When they reached her room, Mycroft looked at Samantha and knocked on the door, opening it slowly. Mum was lying on the middle of her four-poster bed. Ms. Linda, one of the maids that always stayed with Mum, was standing by the window. She looked from Mycroft to his mother, then back again, before settling her gaze on Mum.

"Yes?" she said hoarsely. She sat up in bed and took a long look at Samantha. "Who's this?"

"Mother, this is my girlfriend, Samantha Albright. Samantha, this is my Mum."

"Hello," Samantha said with a smile. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"I wish I could say the same, but Mycroft seems to have neglected to mention you to me."

Samantha smiled at Mycroft as he raised his eyebrows at Mum and balled his hands into fists.

"Well, that's a shame."

Sherlock tugged on Mycroft's sleeve and raised his eyebrows, jerking his head toward the door. Mycroft nodded and Sherlock turned to leave.

"Sherlock, dear, what's that you're wearing?"

Sherlock turned slowly. "What d'you mean?"

"Hanging out of your jacket, in the back." Sherlock tried to turn his torso to see his rear. His jacket was buttoned all the way up in the front, precisely so no one would see his shirt, but apparently he hadn't been careful enough. He unbuttoned his jacket to show his mother his shirt.

"What is that?"

"It's my pirate shirt, Mum."

"Well take it off. It's hideous. Don't you know pirates were dirty and disgusting rats? No one liked them. You shouldn't either. Go change, right now."

"Yes, Mum." Sherlock hung his head in shame and turned to leave again. He opened the door and spun to close it, and Mycroft caught his eye. "Sherly, why don't you just change into your pyjamas, okay?" Sherlock nodded and closed the door.

Later, Sherlock watched from his bedroom as Mycroft said goodbye to Samantha in the front yard. From what Sherlock could see, it appeared that Mycroft wanted to walk her home, but she said goodbye and walked home alone. Sherlock wondered why she didn't want Mycroft to walk her home, but he had a headache and didn't think too long about it. He crawled in between the blankets on his bottom bunk and waited for Mycroft to come tuck him in.

Samantha didn't come over again after that. Mycroft didn't talk about her anymore. Sherlock asked about it and Mycroft said they didn't talk anymore. Sherlock didn't bring it up again.

Occasionally, Mycroft would get very angry at Sherlock. And sometimes he would yell at him. Other times, Sherlock would find him crying alone in his room. This didn't happen before Dad died. Sherlock wondered if he was doing something wrong. He tried talking to Mycroft about it, but Mycroft told him he was too young to understand. Sherlock was sure that if Mycroft would just talk about it, Sherlock would understand. And maybe talking would make Mycroft feel better. Sherlock eventually gave up and didn't get angry when Mycroft yelled at him, and when he found his brother crying, he hugged him. If they had cake, he usually got some cake for him. Mycroft loved cake. At least, Sherlock thought he did. If he didn't, he still ate it every time Sherlock got some for him.

Sherlock looked up from his paper and glanced at his brother. They were in Mycroft's room. Mycroft was doing homework and paying bills at the same time. He was good at multitasking. Sherlock went back to coloring his picture. He had drawn a mouse, because Mycroft told him that before Sherlock was born, Mycroft had a mouse. It was black and white and his name was Jeremy. Sherlock colored in the last spot on Jeremy's back before turning the page over and looking at the picture of Mycroft and himself he'd drawn on it. He smiled.

"I made you a picture," he said. He stood and walked over to hand it to his brother.

Mycroft looked down at the two headstones side by side, sighing a little bit. His gaze shifted to Sherlock and he watched as the boy leaned against him heavily. He wasn't sad, Mycroft knew that, but there were two other mourners that still lingered, so he stayed solemn. He probably would still be solemn even if they were gone, because he wasn't stupid and he knew it was disrespectful not to be at his parents' gravesight. Mycroft blinked hard when a raindrop hit his eye. It was raining. Why does it always rain when my parents die? he thought.

He lifted his father's umbrella and held it up over his and Sherlock's heads.

The two mourners, a young couple that Mycroft doubted actually knew their parents, slowly walked over to the two boys. They expressed their sadness that Mycroft and Sherlock had been left without parents. Mycroft agreed that it was sad. Because it was. He was stuck, for the rest of his life. Stuck with Sherlock. He sighed involuntarily and the woman gave him a sad look, then threw one Sherlock's way. Sherlock turned and buried his face in Mycroft's coat with a sniffle. The woman smiled sadly at Mycroft before saying goodbye and walking off with her apparent husband.

Sherlock linked his fingers with Mycroft's for a while before taking his hand in both of his and examining it. He was feeling the bones in it, his brow furrowed with concentration, when Mycroft said, "You have small hands, Sherly."

Without looking up, he replied. "No Bubby, you just have big hands." He continued his examination.