A/N: Just a little story about lovely Holmes brothers. With some Mycroft/Lestrade and a small hint of Sherlock/John.
Beta:OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles
Mycroft isn't sure he believes in the promise he makes to his little brother; a promise that is not his to keep. But he wants to…wants to believe in it so much. For both of their sakes.
Promise
"They are just ignorant." Mycroft says with a sigh, though he knows that it is not going to comfort his younger brother. It's just that he is used to talking this way, to being polite and intelligent, to never showing his real feelings unless they are actually useful to turn the situation in his favor, any situation. That's just how he was brought up, that's what it means for him to be the older son in the Holmes family. An heir to his father's career. To tell the truth, he doesn't like policy much and so he isn't even trying to be a full on politician, even though he's studying to be one. That is to please his father. Mycroft, not the one who's the best in his class and is introduced proudly to his father's business associates, but the one who plays with his little brother and reads him detective novels before bed, the real Mycroft, as he likes to think, loves mysteries. Puzzles and secrets just waiting to be discovered. But he sensibly differentiates the things he likes to do and the things he has to do, so he attempts to combine his passion with his father's expectations of him. Secret Service? Military Intelligence? Those options sound less dull.
He likes to think that Sherlock will have more free will in choosing his path. Sherlock is as intelligent as him, he shares his brother's passion for mysteries but he's less capable when it comes to social matters. Sherlock is weaker when it comes to standing up to those who don't like you. He does not get on well with the world outside his cluttered room. That brings them to the present situation.
Sherlock is merely seven, but he's more developed than anyone else his age. He's different. That's why they don't like him.
"Don't pay attention to them." He says, hoping that his tone doesn't sound as detached as he thinks it does. Frankly, Mycroft is not good at communication either, he knows how to be professional but the subtleties of personal communication elude him.
His words have no effect and he doesn't find it surprising. With a sigh Mycroft sits down on the edge of his brother's bed. Sherlock is lying across it, face down and absolutely not sobbing into his pillow. At least he continues insisting on it, shouting at his older brother to go away in a voice that sounds suspiciously nasally for a person who is not crying.
Mycroft knows the value of the words, but in this situation he understands that whatever he says is not going to make his little brother feel better. So he simply moves further to the middle of the bed, settling himself comfortably, knowing he will stay there for the rest of the evening. Slowly and tentatively he reaches for Sherlock, laying his hand on his brother's shoulder very gently, feather light touch of his fingers in order not to scare the other or not to make him angry; with Sherlock it's always near impossible to predict his reaction. When the boy startles at the touch but does nothing to move away, Mycroft presses with his palm, sliding his hand up and down Sherlock's arm in a soothing motion. He hopes that it will help. Mycroft loves his little brother dearly but he never knows how to show it.
"Don't let it bother you." It sounds more like a plea than advice and Mycroft cringes as he adds. "Please."
Sherlock lets out a small bitter laugh, showing he knows how little his brother believes in his own words. So this time Mycroft has to work harder, but it doesn't bother him. He can go to any lengths to ensure that his Sherlock will be safe and happy.
As his hand moves to the crown of dark unruly hair, fingers sliding between dark curls, he mutters. "They don't understand you. They never will." It sounds as bitter as his brother's laugh and also particularly cruel but he knows that Sherlock will understand. "They don't appreciate your talent and have no respect for it."
Sherlock stills under his hand, face still pressed to his pillow, but he is listening attentively, waiting for Mycroft's next words to make him feel better.
"Forget about them. They don't understand," Mycroft repeats. "That's why they don't matter."
He sighs and moves to sit with his back to the headboard of the bed, breaking the tactical contact and restoring it the minute he settles. "One day you will meet someone who, if not understand, then at least will appreciate your abilities." He isn't sure he believes himself in what he is saying, but he wants it so much, so his words sound strong and convincing. He needs it to be true, and not only for Sherlock but for him as well. "There will be a person who'll appreciate your talent and how much you work to be who you are. They will respect you and maybe even like you." The last part he says with a teasing lilt to his voice.
During his speech, engrossed in his own promises, he does not notice how Sherlock uncurls his limbs from his protective position and slides closer to him, head on the pillow and pressed to his brother's side in a gesture of trust. Sherlock wants to believe in it too.
"When?" The younger Holmes asks petulantly. He is not crying any more, which is good, and he's a step away from being his usual insufferable self – but that's fine, Mycroft likes him better that way anyway.
"I can't tell you that." Mycroft replies.
"You don't know." It sounds almost like an insult.
"Yes," the older brother admits. "I don't know when, but you will find that person. Or maybe that person will find you. A friend, a comrade, a…"
"A what?" Sherlock asks, glancing at his older brother.
Mycroft looks in his grey eyes, red from crying and still glistening with remaining tears. He smirks. "I'm not telling you that. You'll have to find out on your own. After all, what a detective you'll be if you get used to people telling you their secrets by themselves?"
Sherlock snorts and burrows his head back into his pillow, but this time it's because of tiredness and not sadness. Mycroft keeps silent as he watches the dull pale blue wall of his brother's bedroom, lost in his own thoughts, while Sherlock's breathing slows and evens out as the younger boy falls asleep.
/
"Mycroft? Mycroft?"
A familiar voice brings him back from the memory and Mycroft tears his gaze away from his brother and looks at the man at his side.
"Something wrong?" Gregory Lestrade asks, slightly worried and more curious than he likes to admit.
"Nothing," Mycroft shakes his head from side to side slowly, still in that nice daze that the memory brought him in. "Nothing is wrong."
He glances back at his younger brother, Sherlock a few feet away bickering with John but in a good natured way. By the small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips Mycroft can tell that Sherlock enjoys this, just as much as John does. This is a part of their routine. Despite their differences they understand each other.
"Everything is good," Mycroft rephrases and turns his attention back to Gregory, kissing him softly. "Perfect."
A/N: I love writing Sherlock and Mycroft acting like real brothers. They can be so adorable:)