Warning: Reference to abuse
Later, Mycroft sat in the hospital. The police sat next to him in the waiting room, asking him what had happened, but he simply stated his brother had been playing and fell down the stairs. He couldn't tell the truth. What would happen then? They would split him and Sherlock up.
"Do you have any relatives we could speak to?" the officer asked. Mycroft wiped his eyes, taking in a shaky breath before shaking his head.
"No." The officer frowned at him, looking rather suspicious. "My brother and I have been orphans for several years now." Mycroft informed them. The officer's face fell and a sympathetic look fell over his face.
"I'm sorry; how about we discuss this another time. It looks like the doctor his waiting to speak with you anyway," stated the officer. Mycroft's eyes drifted to the grim looking doctor and then to the officers again.
"Yes, thank you, Officer," Mycroft stated before quickly walking away from them. What a bunch of idiots. Officers of the law should be able to tell when someone is lying about hurting their own flesh and blood. He sighed to himself in relief. He would have to file his lie away for later. He can't let anything about this secret slip or both he and Sherlock will be separated forever and who knows how it may affect their lives.
"Mycroft Holmes?" the doctor asked as Mycroft approached him. Mycroft nodded, looking over the doctor, deducing the past hours off of him. He clearly has had a long night trying to save his brother.
"Yes, that's me, Sir. Is my brother all right?" The doctor nodded, taking in a long breath.
"He was very lucky. He's broken an arm, wrist, ribs, and a few more bones, but he should be alright now." Relief fluttered through Mycroft's body. His little brother was alright. He was alive.
"May I visit him?" Mycroft asked, adding a few tears to strengthen his hold on the sympathetic doctor. The doctor looked at him sadly and nodded, leading him down the hall.
When he entered the room he found Sherlock lying in a white bed, covered in bandages. The boy didn't look at his brother. His face was whiter and his lips were cracked in small cuts. Mycroft strolled over to his bedside, but Sherlock only stared out the window with cold emotionless eyes.
"Sherlock, I'm…I'm so…so sorry." Sherlock was still. Mycroft's eyes stared at his younger brother, pleading for forgiveness. "You have to believe me when I say I didn't mean it. I was drunk and angry about that stupid picture," Mycroft explained. There was still nothing from his brother. The boy just sat there, uncaring. This was starting to scare Mycroft. Why wasn't Sherlock saying anything? Why isn't he crying or shouting? What's wrong with him? "Sherlock…I…oh god…" Mycroft covered his face, feeling tears burn down his cheeks. "I'm so…so sorry…please…just…I'm sorry." Mycroft looked up; hoping to see his kid brother staring back at him with those soft blue eyes, but his brother still stared into the distance with a mask plastered on his face. "Sherlock?" Nothing; just stillness. "Sherlock?!" Mycroft screamed louder. Sherlock had no reaction toward his brother's cries. He just sat there. He refused to speak to his older brother. Mycroft turned to the doctor, who had now walked into the room to check Sherlock's vitals. "Why won't he speak to me?" he asked. The doctor only said that it was just shock, but Mycroft had a horrible feeling that it was worse than that.
Mycroft stayed with his brother all week until the doctors finally forced him away. He had gone back home only to find that the carpet was still soaked in blood. The picture was still lying on the floor, but this time it had another crack running through it. This time it was running between him and Sherlock. Mycroft lifted the picture and stared at his now shattered family. He was a fool. How could he have hurt Sherlock over a simple picture? The frame was the only thing broken. The picture was fine. He lifted himself from the floor of the room and peaked out the doorway, staring at the stairs that almost brought Sherlock to his doom. Mycroftshivered suddenly. He could have sworn he heard his little brother's screams as he stood there in the dim light.
"Please, MYCROFT!" Mycroft sucked in a breath as the voice bounced off the walls. No, he couldn't stay here. Not without Sherlock. He had to go back to Sherlock. He had to stay by his baby brother's side.
Mycroft burst into the hospital a few hours later, ignoring the shouting nurses from behind. All he wanted to do was see Sherlock. His hand grabbed for the door, yanking it open only to find an empty bed.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft called, peaking into the bathroom, which was empty. Mycroft peaked around the room, searching for any clues, but it was all in vain. His little brother was nowhere in sight. Worry and panic bubbled in him like a soda bottle. He ran to the doctors, demanding for his location, but they only stared at him dumfounded, unknowing of the missing patient. That only made Mycroft's heart gallop faster. His baby brother was lost, alone, and horribly injured. Mycroft rocketed out of the hospital screaming out his brother's name, hoping that he would answer him. Dashing down the streets he asked for people to help find him and to keep their eyes open. Mycroft even grabbed his phone and called a police squad to go out for him, but it was almost a full year and a half before he found his brother, running with the homeless.