"Are you ok?" Sherlock hears another boy ask.
He's confused. He wonders who is in his bathroom, so he blinks his eyes open.
The room is bright, too bright. It's like a hospital, but he hears nothing that sounds like a hospital.
He blinks again and realizes yes, it is his bathroom, it's just more empty than it should be.
He feels hands cradle his head and he jumps.
"Wh—" Sherlock tries, sitting up.
"Wow, careful," the boy says, stepping around him to help him up. "You bumped your head pretty hard."
"Who are you?" Sherlock asks, looking down at the hand on his shoulder. His eyes trail up the pale arm and he looks right into the face of his brother. "You're…"
"Oh good, you remember me," the boy says. "I was afraid you wouldn't."
"Why wouldn't I?" Sherlock wonders.
"Because you don't exist," Mycroft plainly says. He sits on the toilet seat and pulls a cigarette out of his pocket.
"What the hell?" Sherlock gasps, grabbing the cigarette. "How old are you?"
"I'll be thirteen next month," Mycroft tells him. "Give it back!"
"No way!" Sherlock yells, pocketing the cigarette. "Where did you even get this?"
"Father's study. I can get more, you know?"
Sherlock stands and scowls down at the thirteen-year-old. It's not the Mycroft he knows. It's not the Mycroft he loves. "What is wrong with you?"
Mycroft stands. "Come on, I'll show you."
Sherlock does the math in his head as Mycroft leads him out of the bathroom. If Mycroft is nearly thirteen, Sherlock would have just turned five, so the year is 1985. Sherlock remembers that when he was five, his bedroom was full of dinosaurs, but when they walk into 'his' room, it's empty.
"Shit…" Sherlock mutters.
"I know. Empty, right? Usually this room is used for all of Mother's friends who stay over after their parties."
Sherlock follows Mycroft through the house. It's dark, lonely, and Sherlock doesn't blame Mycroft for looking so sad.
Mycroft leads Sherlock to the stairs, where they sit on the top step and look down below to the sitting room.
They can hear 'their' parents fighting. Mycroft sighs.
"I don't even know what they're yelling about," Mycroft whispers.
"What's the date?" Sherlock wonders.
"January the fifth of 1985."
Sherlock frowns and looks into Mycroft's eyes. "It's the day before my birthday," he tells Mycroft, "Mother found out about Father's mistress."
Mycroft frowns more, drooping his body against the banister.
"Why are you in here?" Sherlock asks. "You're supposed to be outside building snowmen."
"With who?" Mycroft wonders. "I rarely go outside. I hear their fighting constantly. They keep me up at night."
"But don't you just go into my bedroom to—" Sherlock pauses. "Oh."
"Without you, I'm miserable," Mycroft tells him.
"Don't you have friends?" Sherlock asks. He recalls Mycroft's childhood friends were very good kids who would probably be glad to play with Mycroft so he didn't have to be around to see his parents fight. "What about Todd and Jimmy?"
Mycroft makes a face. "Those squares?" He shakes his head. "I hang around with Larry and Mark."
Sherlock remembers those were the boys who would pick on Mycroft and his friends; Mycroft would tell Sherlock that they were boys who would get high behind the building at school.
Doors slam downstairs and crying is heard. Mycroft sighs and stands, turning back towards his bedroom. Sherlock gets up and follows.
Mycroft's bedroom is dark and messy. He has nowhere near the same amount of books Sherlock remembers him to have, and it all looks very sad.
"Mum and Dad never pay attention to me, nobody ever does. I have nobody to work for, nobody to set an example for."
Sherlock sits on Mycroft's bed. "So…"
"So, you dope. Without you, I'm nothing. I doubt I'll go to university, if I even make it through high school. I'm in trouble all the time, look…" Mycroft pulls a pink slip out of his backpack.
Sherlock takes it and reads it. "Ditching?"
"Again," Mycroft tells him.
"But why?" Sherlock asks, looking at someone who isn't his brother at all.
Mycroft shrugs. "What's the point? I have no inspiration. You think the world would have been better off had you not been born? Well?" Mycroft holds his arms up in a questioning way. "Do I look better off?"
Sherlock gazes at the still-pudgy boy, who has tobacco stained fingernails and an apparent record at school. "No, you don't."
Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Exactly."
Sherlock hangs his head. He feels guilty, and he doesn't know if that's helping his suicidal tendencies or not.
"But if I die now," Sherlock says. "You'd be grown and it'd matter less."
Mycroft stands from the bed and begins towards his bedroom door. "You'll see. Come on, you've got to get back."
"Back to where?"
"To 1991, I think," Mycroft answers.
They go back to 'Sherlock's' bathroom, and Sherlock lays back on the tiles. Mycroft doesn't say anything more before he rests a hand over Sherlock's eyes until Sherlock doesn't feel anymore.