Death
After their father's funeral, no one knew where Sherlock was—no one except Mycroft, who made it a point to always know where Sherlock was. He found him in that little unused room, more of a closet than anything, huddled on the floor, his head down on his knees, rocking back and forth. Seven years ago, Mycroft had dreamed of taking care of his baby brother, and Sherlock had rarely ever let him. But now when Mycroft put his arm around him, he did nothing more than stiffen slightly, and maybe he even leaned into his older brother a little.