To The Inevitable Dusk
Our brothers and sisters are there with us from the dawn of our personal stories to the inevitable dusk. - Susan Scarf Merrell
"Not again!"
It had been a difficult trip to Mycroft's room, and now Sherlock was beginning to wonder if it had been worth it at all.
"You're an idiot, Sherlock," Mycroft reprimanded, his arms laden with a number of cloths, his right hand expertly balancing a small water pitcher. He dipped a white towel into the water, then dapped it gingerly on John's head, trying to discern the amount of damage from all of the blood that was smeared across his little brother's face. "John - stay awake," Mycroft snapped, his nerves unsuitable for that of a gentle, caring nurse.
"He told me he was alright," Sherlock murmured, face flushed with something akin to shame, but he fought it off. "It wasn't my - our - fault! Will and Toby -"
"I know, Sherlock, I know!" Mycroft growled. "But John is not alright. He has a large gash in his head and it's going to need stitches. I can barely keep him up - John!"
It took but two moments for Sherlock to realize he was shaking. Mycroft's voice was so loud and tremulous, it was not entirely difficult to imagine mountains making way for him if he called them to do so. Sherlock looked at John - the cut on his temple stood out like a firebrand in his light, sandy hair, and he was pale enough to masquerade as a ghost. The little injured boy managed to catch his eye, and smiled, though it was the sort of smile that reminded Sherlock of their uncle when he visited during Christmas celebrations and had had just a bit too much to drink.
Mycroft wrapped up John's head as best he could, gathered the boy up in his arms, and made his way down the stairs, Sherlock following at his heels. He hadn't been able to protect John from Will, but he could make sure Mycroft didn't drop him or something.