One-shot, brotherly love. Mycroft and Sherlock. Slight Johnlock because OTP to the max. Enjoy.
"Whatever is the matter, brother mine?"
Sherlock was standing in the doorway of his older brother's office. Mycroft would have laughed at the detective's state- sopping clothes creating a puddle underfoot, inky curls strewn over his face and sticking to his narrow cheekbones, his gloved hands wound up tightly at his sides as if he were frustrated- but he knew better. He's older; it's his job to deal with such a complete mess. He also frowned upon the sight of his new carpeting getting soiled by Sherlock's mucky shoes. Mycroft's pale eyes slid over his sibling's countenance for a moment longer, his lips drawing back in distaste and minor surprise. He's upset. Occasional grimace; a sign of minor or well-hidden pain. Normally light irises have darkened; preferably not from lust, but from passing by different volumes of shading... The lighting of streetlamps and dark alleys. Either a sprint over here from Baker Street or a speeding taxi. In a rush. "You seem troubled."
The look Sherlock gave him only ensured his predictions. "Ah," Mycroft hummed with a feigned but slightly humored smile. "Come sit. Let us talk." Upon hearing this, Sherlock stuck his chin out, stiffly adjusted the navy scarf looped around his neck, and crossed the red floor- adding more footprints to Mycroft's new carpet, which gave him a low groan of annoyance- before dropping into the cushioned chair on the opposite side of the bedside table placed between him and his elder sibling.
Mycroft flicked the lamp on- he noted Sherlock's pupils again adjusting with the shift of lighting and his light wince- and leaned back, swinging his left leg over his right. They sat like this, Sherlock slumped forward with his nimble fingers positioned like a pyramid before his pursed lips, Mycroft lounging vaguely with a cup of tea still in his hand atop a saucer. When Anthea popped in, she brought her attention from the miniature screen of her mePhone and raised a brow. "Is everything alright?" she asked subtly, glancing between the two brothers. "Oh, yes, yes," Mycroft grinned and flitted a hand dismissively. "Just get my brother here some tea. We're only talking, as family does." Sherlock didn't snap at Mycroft and say something witty. Instead, he peeled his soaked scarf off and let it droop over the back of the chair he was in, the front of his snow-white neck again getting hidden as his fingers became a steeple once more. Anthea nodded, stuck her nose to the screen like a librarian would her to her book, and set off at a brisk pace. As soon as she was gone, Mycroft set his own tea down and pressed two fingers to his plump cheek.
"So."
No response.
"What is it, brother dear?" The third time I've asked one question and the bloke won't answer. The older cracked another smile. "Did you and John break up?" Still no response. Mycroft gave a sigh, slouched, and waited. Soon, Anthea returned, set Sherlock's cup down on the circular bedside table, and scuttled off. Sherlock didn't reach for the steaming tea; he only sat in silence, his thick coattails dripping with rain and melting little to no caked mud from the cloth. "What could possibly make you so quiet? You didn't bring your violin, so-" "I stubbed my toe."
The baritone voice interrupted Mycroft, making his eyebrows lift and add wrinkles to the plane of his forehead. Toe. Sherlock's toe? Mycroft's tea-time was interrupted by his brother so that he could complain about having hit his toe on a wall. The cleaner of the pair glanced to the window- thick, heavy drapes parted for a full show of outdoors with small tufts of gold at the hems- and stared at London. The streets were practically barren; rain clouded his vision for the most part, hammering against glass and begging for warmth indoors. He sighed again. What sort of imbecile stubs their toe, goes out into the rain, to their family member's office, and whines about it? A five-year-old. He pressed two hands over his eyes, exhaled, and sat up.
"Your toe?" Mycroft leaned forward, sniffing blankly. "You came here because your toe-" "It hurts, Mycroft." The older actually focused his attention. Sherlock came to him- not John or Mrs. Hudson (Mycroft wouldn't be shocked if he went to Moriarty instead if they were the last three in Britain)- with an... injury, and he had to help. It's what brothers do. Actually looking at Sherlock's face once it wasn't hidden under a curtain of inky curls, Mycroft noticed glassy coatings over his eyes, glistening and wet, several streaks of drying tears staining his narrow cheekbones and mixed with the rain that was dispersing from his face. "Oh, my," the agent murmured gently, rising from his place and getting to Sherlock's side in a single, elegant stride. "Brother dear..." He plucked the small napkin from his breast pocket and dabbed at the detective's puffy eyes, his lips set into a tight frown. Sherlock, again, did not move, hiss, thrash, or punch like he usually would; he simply let his brother dry his tears. What a silly boy Sherlock could be, choosing the oddest times to get sentimental. Mycroft gave a smile at that thought and set a hand upon Sherlock's shoulder, "Get up, now. You're ruining my chair."
Not even scoffing, Sherlock did as he was told, his shoulders slouched and head hung- a sign of embarrassment, somberness, or both. Mycroft couldn't help but continue to smirk; not slyly or tauntingly, but contently. The last time Sherlock had cried had been when Ace- his pet guinea pig- passed away. That was more than two centuries ago. He adjusted his crimson tie- it was his favorite, as it had a small picture of an umbrella stitched into its surface- and nasally sighed before tugging Sherlock into his sleeved arms. "Don't cry, brother mine," he cooed almost playfully, squeezing his sibling until he loosely hugged back. "You'll be just fine." "I need a bandage." "Brother dear, your toe was stubbed, not chopped off." With a dainty 'ha', he released Sherlock and dust off his now damp shirt only to hear the distinct chime of his mePhone going off. "Oh- is that yours or mine?" he raised an eyebrow as he spoke, strolling over to the circular table and raising his phone. "Yours," the younger said sharply, as if the events had never happened. "It's from John."
Giving an 'ohh~', Mycroft unlocked the phone's screen and read the text that lay before him.
HAVE YOU SEEN SHERLOCK? - JW
He grinned, his fingers dancing over the keyboard.
He's with me. - MH
Oh, good. He ran out of the flat without saying anything a few hours ago. I phoned Lestrade but he wasn't at Bart's or the Yard - JW
Yes... He's fine. Come pick him up. We're done talking. - MH
Mycroft shut his phone off and turned to face the dirt-mottled detective. "John is on his way, brother mine. He was worried." Sherlock rolled his keen eyes. "He always is. Send him a cab," he said while turning to the doorway and prowling off, his voice echoing through the quiet building. "He couldn't flag one down for his life." Mycroft's wide smile never thinned as he watched and proceeded over to his desk, phoning someone unnamed. "Yes. Bring a cab to 221B Baker Street for Doctor John Watson. Send him to my office and put the fee on my tab." He sat back in his plush chair next to the bedside table, examined his and Sherlock's no longer warm cups, and reluctantly lifted his to his lips. The taste was bitter, cold; just the way he liked it. Mycroft slid a hand over his slick hair and again looked to his phone as it beeped; Sherlock.
Thank you. - SH