Mycroft crossed the road. He hurried towards his office. There was work to be done, and lunch has taken him longer than expected. As he was crossing the road, he saw a yellow cab driving towards him. He assumed it would slow down when the driver would see him. He made eye contact with the cabbie. He was wearing a cap, that casted a shadow on his face. Only his eyes were visible, and they were brown and bright over his pale skin. Something about their colour, about their look, was familiar to Mycroft. It reminded him of a person he met so long ago, a person he wished him the worst, and even after he died Mycroft's hatred to him didn't vanish. The strange déjà vu made Mycroft stop walking and stand still in the middle of the road. Only when it was too late he realized the cab isn't slowing down. In fact, it was speeding up.

Mycroft Holmes breathed in sharply and opened his eyes. The sharp movement hurt him, so he tried to calm himself down.

Great, another accident nightmare, he thought. Those dreams were keeping him from sleeping properly. He despised nightmares – they made him feel vulnerable and childish.

"Hello, brother dear." a deep voice said in the darkness.

Mycroft jumped in surprise.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, learn how to knock."

"Knocking is for the invited."

"And you certainly aren't. How did you even get in?"

"I sneaked in just before all of the nurses left."

"Great. Just what I needed." the older brother muttered. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to visit my older injured brother." Sherlock said as he walked to his bed and patted (not very carefully) on his casted leg.

Mycroft breathed in in pain, but didn't move his leg away. Mostly because he couldn't.

"It's past midnight, Sherlock. couldn't you come in the morning?"

"Hospitals are so terribly crowded during days. I like the nights much better."

"You should be sleeping now."

"And so should you."

"Leave, then."

"Not before I get the answers I want."

Mycroft sighed.

"And what are those answers that you want?"

The detective narrowed his eyes piercingly.

"Why did that car hit you?"

"I left my intangibility powers at home."

"That's not what I meant."

The older brother rolled his eyes.

"What did you mean, then?"

"If you'd see a car speeding up towards you, you'd run away. You'd avoid the hit, but you didn't move away. Why? What happened that paralyzed you?"

The oldest sibling looked away bitterly, and then made eye contact again. This isn't an interrogation – he doesn't owe him any answers.

"Goodbye, little brother."

"I didn't say I was leaving."

"Well, since I can't get out of this room, you will be the one to leave."

Sherlock looked at him in determination, but after a moment, he gave up.

"Fine. I'll come back tomorrow."

"You won't be any more invited then."

The younger sibling finally headed to the door. He tried to open it, but couldn't. He struggled against the doorknob, but the door remained closed.

"It won't open." Sherlock muttered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The door won't open. It's locked from the outside."

"So you're stuck here…" Mycroft started desperately.

"…Until the hospital opens up again tomorrow morning."

Sherlock crashed on the nearest chair. That is not how he had planned this meeting.

They were both very quiet for a while. Mycroft occasionally closed his eyes, but then forced himself to open them again. He didn't want another nightmare, and he certainly didn't want Sherlock to see that he has those. But at last his eyelids became too heavy, and he fell into the unwanted sleep.

Sherlock watched his brother lying silently on his uncomfortable bed. His white cast bright on his dark suit, as he, obviously, refused to wear the clothes the hospital provided him with. Being here was an affront to him alone – wearing the hospital's clothes was far too much.

The detective scanned the wounds on his brothers' hands, and the scratches on his face. He would make countless deductions about the accident, but unless Mycroft will tell him, he won't be able to know why it happened.

After several moments, Sherlock noticed his brother is moving restlessly in his sleep. Was he having a nightmare?

Sherlock got up from his chair and walked to Mycroft's bed. Even in his sleep he frowned. But this frown was different, as if he was in pain. The younger brother put his hand on his older sibling's shoulder, shaking him gently while whispering his name. As he didn't wake up, Sherlock shook him more violently, until his eyes were finally wide open.

Mycroft tried to calm himself down. He wanted to thank Sherlock for waking him up, but by doing so he'll admit he needed help, and he wasn't willing to show this kind of vulnerability to his brother. So instead, he did what he could do best.

"For god's sake, Sherlock. What are you doing?"

"I… I thought that…" the youngest brother mumbled.

"That what, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked irritated. He knew his brother didn't mean any harm, but he was tired and cranky and wanted to be alone.

"It looked like you're having a nightmare."

The older brother chuckled in contempt, but by the look in the detective's eyes he knew that he could see the truth. Nevertheless, he didn't say anything.

Sherlock sighed and sat back in his chair.

Mycroft closed his eyes again, hoping he won't have another nightmare.

"I have nightmares too, sometimes." the detective said after a moment of silence.

The oldest opened his eyes, partly curious. It was very rare to get Sherlock to confess his feelings. It was even more rare to get Sherlock to feel anything.

"About that day, when I faked my death." the detective continued as if he was asked to. "I dream about my actual death, John's death, your death. Moriarty was in all of those dreams."

After a long inner discussion, after considering all of the advantages and the disadvantages, Mycroft provided his little brother with the information he came here for.

"I thought I saw him. That's why I stood in the middle of the road."

"Who did you think you saw?"

"Moriarty."

Sherlock hesitated a moment before answering.

"He's dead."

"I know he's dead."

They both remained silent.

"My death appeared in your nightmares?" Mycroft asked quietly.

Is it possible that Sherlock actually loves him? Or at least cares about him?

"Even in my dreams I'm trying to get you killed." Sherlock answered with an amused smile.

Mycroft smiled humourlessly. Of course he doesn't.

"I didn't really mean it." the younger brother apologized after a moment. He never apologized, especially not to his brother. But this time he actually felt like he might have hurt his feelings.

"Don't apologize, little brother. Save your sorry to someone else."

"I just thought that perhaps you –"

"That I'm broken-hearted? That you hurt my gentle feelings?"

Sherlock looked to the floor in shame, as if he was a child being rebuked.

Mycroft sighed.

"Look, I haven't slept properly for a long time now, and you may say I'm not having the best couple of days."

"And your point is?"

He hesitated a moment.

"I'm sorry for being rude."

"It's fine. I've had a lifetime of tolerating you when you were rude."

"I wasn't rude! You were!"

"No I wasn't!"

"When you were 12, you asked out neighbor why he's cheating on his wife. When you were 14, you asked your teacher if it was the principal that got her pregnant before she even knew she was pregnant. When you were 15, you –"

"Alright, so I was a bit bad-mannered. But so were you!" his younger brother taunted him.

"When, exactly?"

"You asked Mother how she could be so stupid to get pregnant again after she had you after you've warned her you won't tolerate a younger brother."

The brothers looked at each other seriously, and then Sherlock giggled. His giggle grew into a loud laughter, and Mycroft joined him. It hurt Mycroft to laugh, as his stomach was injured too, but he ignored the pain. it felt fantastic to laugh to lightly.

"Well, you kept your promise." the youngest sibling said after they've both calmed down.

The older brother frowned.

"Did I?"

"Definitely."

Mycroft was speechless. He didn't mean to be cold to his brother. He just didn't know a different option.

"I don't hate you." he said flatly.

"I hate you just a bit." the younger Holmes answered sarcastically.

Mycroft widened his eyes, scolding Sherlock.

"Just kidding."

They were both quiet again.

"How do people do that?"

"Do what?" he asked the detective.

"Brothers. How do they keep being nice to them, telling them they 'love them' all the time." the detective said in clear dislike.

He chuckled.

"Feelings belong to the ordinary, Sherlock."

"Caring is not an advantage." his little brother quoted.

"No, it isn't. You enjoy it for a while, and then you get hurt and all you have left is a broken heart."

"Are you saying this based on personal experience?"

"I'm saying this based on global experience. Wherever you look you can see people suffering from the consequences of sentiment, hence being cold and uncaring is the clever thing to do."

"It isn't the pleasant thing to do."

"It never is."

"Does caring about your family count as a disadvantage too?" he asked shyly.

His older brother wanted to say that yes, it does, but he didn't.

Instead, he said: "It doesn't."

Mycroft's eyelids became heavy once more. But this time he allowed them to close his eyes, and he fell into a deep sleep.

He woke up to the sound of a door being unlocked.

"Finally!" Sherlock exclaimed in relief, waking his brother fully.

"When did I fall asleep?"

"Shortly after we've realized I was locked in."

Mycroft frowned. He remembered Sherlock waking him up, he remembered a long conversation between them… Is it possible that it was all a dream?

"I'll come to visit you again soon. You owe me some answers. Love you." Sherlock announced as he left the room.

Mycroft stared at the open door in disbelief and surprise. Did he just say 'love you'?

The detective leaned back inside.

"Just wanted to see your reaction." he said, than winked and officially left.

The older Holmes chuckled.

Their relationship may not be perfect, but he likes it the way it is now.