How can one possibly explain death to a five-year-old?
Mycroft stares blankly at the stipled ceiling of his bedroom, trying to organize his thoughts, but gives up and flops down onto the pillows. He knows Sherlock is going to be full of questions. The little boy always seems to be. Death seems so simple to Mycroft: a person is born; they wake up every morning and fall asleep every night; and the pattern carries on until the person eventually closes their eyes and never opens them again. He knows that Sherlock will come to him with questions. Mycroft closes his eyes. He's fourteen years old; he's not a sage with an answer for everything.
The door to his bedroom opens slowly, and the idle chatter of relatives he never really knew and really doesn't feel like speaking with invades his bedroom. He sits up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, clutching his stuffed toy bee close to his chest, and not smiling.
"Shut the door," Mycroft says quietly. Sherlock pushes the door with his foot until it clicks shut, and he wanders over to Mycroft's bed. He struggles for a moment to get up onto the mattress, until Mycroft grabs his brother under his armpits and pulls him up.
"It's too noisy out there," Sherlock says, staring down at his bee.
"It is," Mycroft agrees. He watches his little brother pluck out small chunks of polyester from the stuffed toy. "Hey, stop that. You're going to get fuzz all over the place." Sherlock looks up at Mycroft, and then back down at the bee.
"Mye," Sherlock starts. Here it comes, Mycroft sighs inwardly. "Mye, everybody's at our house. And Gran's not. And I asked where she was, and all the grown-ups looked really sad. And Mummy was crying. Mye, where's Gran?"
"She's not here, Sherlock," he answers. "She, um..." he trails off, unsure what to say next. He looks down at his now crossed legs, and shifts his weight so that they don't grow numb.
"Why not? Everyone else is here!" Sherlock is pulling at the tag on his toy now, and it comes off with a ripping sound. He rubs it between his fingers, and throws it on the floor. He starts running his fingers through his dark and curly hair, and then looks up at Mycroft with the saddest eyes Mycroft has ever seen. "Did she die?" The simplicity of the question is almost startling. Might as well tell the truth.
"Yes, she did." The words drop out of Mycroft's mouth. "She's not alive any more. That's why everybody is sad, and Mummy is crying." Sherlock scoots closer to his brother, and drops the bee into his lap.
"Why did she die?" Sherlock's voice is wavering now. Mycroft tries to smile sympathetically, but stops as soon as he starts. He reaches out and puts a hand on Sherlock's arm, and a few moments pass by in silence before he can think of anything to say.
"Because everybody dies eventually, Sherlock. Gran was very old, and when somebody gets too old, their body gets worn out. Gran's body got too worn out, and that's why she died." He hopes the explanation is enough.
"She used to read to me," Sherlock says after a few minutes. "And she used to watch me play outside when she was here. She was very nice."
"Yes, she was..."
"Mye, I heard Mummy and Aunt May talking. What's a funeral?" Mycroft clears his throat.
"It's when everybody in our family goes to the cemetary and says goodbye to Gran," he replies. Sherlock crawls into Mycroft's lap, and lays his head on his brother's chest.
"It's still noisy out there," Sherlock whispers. "I want to stay here with you."
The November sky is cloudy and overcast, just like Mycroft's mood. Sherlock hasn't left his side all day, and he eventually finds himself holding onto the boy's hand as they stand in front of the newly filled hole in the earth. Mycroft watches as Sherlock fiddles with the buttons of his thick, black overcoat with his free hand, chewing on his bottom lip. Mycroft knows that look. Sherlock's trying not to cry.
"You can cry if you want to, Sherlock," he says. "You can cry if you're sad." As if on cue, Sherlock's eyes start brimming with tears, and the boy hangs his head.
"I'm sad because I miss her," Sherlock manages. "Mye, I don't want to miss anybody ever again."
The little boy's words send a single tear down Mycroft's cheek.