Slowly but surely, Sherlock started to heal, both mentally and physically. But, as with everything, it would take time. It showed with minor things at first. He started reading the newspaper again and doing minor experiments with whatever he could get a hold off and that John wasn't hiding from him in order to prevent self harm or similar.

It became a bit easier for Sherlock to get out of bed. A bit easier to get dressed, to shower and to eat. Slowly, the colour returned to the world. John started to relax as well, to feel safe with leaving Sherlock unattended for minor periods of time. The doctor allowed himself to move back into his own bedroom and to have longer showers. He didn't feel like Sherlock was in need to constant monitoring. But he kept reminding Sherlock that what had happened was still fresh in their minds and to not get too hasty with the recovery.

About three hours ago, John had left for his first day at work since Sherlock's attempt. But, the detective wasn't left alone, of course he wasn't. Mrs Hudson had breakfast with him and then forced him to watch some dull chat show with her.

He had been saved not more than ten minutes ago, by the person he least expected to come to his aid. Opposite him, sipping the tea that Mrs Hudson had brought up, was Mycroft.

The two brothers hadn't spoken more than a few words in the last weeks and Sherlock hadn't felt the need to talk to his older sibling. But, now, Mycroft was there and it was clear from the way that he was acting that he had an agenda. To talk.

"How are you feeling?" The elder Holmes interrupted the silence as he reached for a biscuit.

"You've just lost about five pounds, are you really going to have biscuits?" Sherlock pointed out as he did the same.

A snort came from Mycroft as he took a bite of the biscuit.

"Answer my question, Sherlock."

With a sigh, Sherlock dunked his biscuit in the tea and bit into the now soft part. Once he had swallowed, he leaned back.

"Better. A lot better." He said as he inspected what was left of the biscuit.

"Good, that's good." Mycroft said before sipping the tea again.

The silence returned between them and only the occasional crunching as they chewed on their biscuits could be heard.

"Do you remember when we were children?" Mycroft suddenly said and Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "It was easier back then."

Summer. By looking out the window, it was impossible to tell that it was. The rain was hammering against the glass and the sound nearly drenched the one which was coming from the radio that Mrs Holmes was listening to as she cleaned up in the kitchen from the lunch.

Fourteen year old Mycroft Holmes was curled up in his father's large armchair, clutching a book. He was completely captured by the pages and was oblivious to what was going on around him. It wasn't a book that a "normal" fourteen year old would be reading. It was a book about the politics. It was extremely fascinating.

The young teen was home from school over the summer holiday. Even though he would never admit it, he was very happy to be home. He did miss his family quite a lot while he was gone. Especially his little brother.

Said little brother was now standing on the other side of the room, completely unbeknownst to Mycroft. Next to him was the faithful Irish Setter Redbeard, who rarely left Sherlock's side. The young dark haired boy was wearing a pirate hat and held a wooden sword in his right hand.

"Myyyyc." He whined as he walked up to his brother and dropped the sword on the floor in order to grab Mycroft's book. "Play with meeeee."

Over the edge of Mycroft's book, two eager and playful eyes appeared. The unruly curls stood in every direction ontop of Sherlock's head.

"Not now." Mycroft said as he ripped the book out of Sherlock's grip and tried to bury himself in the words again.

For a few moments, things were quiet. Then, two small hands grabbed Mycroft's ankles and pulled him to the edge of the chair.

"Sherlock!" He called out and closed the book a bit too hard. "Stop it!"

"You're so boring!" Sherlock complained and jumped up and down in frustration. "BORING!"

He swung his sword around, narrowly missing a potted plant. When he had gotten over his small tantrum, Redbeard licked his cheek gently to calm him.

Mycroft sighed before and looked at his hands for a few moments before standing up.

"First mate Mycroft reporting for duty, captain Sherlock." The redhaired boy said as he stood up, standing with his back straight and saluting Sherlock.

The light reappeared in Sherlock's eyes and he smiled widely, as if Mycroft had just given him something invaluable. And in many ways, he had. The Holmes brothers were one of a kind. They only had each other. Mycroft was intelligent enough to at least pretend to be normal. But Sherlock didn't possess that ability. The poor thing had a hard time and Mycroft hated it. He hated that he had to go away and could only come home on the breaks. He hated seeing how badly Sherlock was treated in school by the other children. There wasn't much he could do to help, but he hoped playing along would at least make things a bit better.

When the small smile appeared on his brother's lips after the comment, Sherlock couldn't help but mimic it.

"Agreed. The time when I believed that pirates had wooden legs and parrots. I was devastated when I found out about modern day pirates." Sherlock chuckled.

"I still don't know what possessed them when they thought it would be a good idea for us to meet other children." Mycroft pressed the tips of his fingers together.

"Well, at least you could... Censor yourself. I still haven't mastered that ability." Sherlock tilted his head. "Doesn't it every feel like you're about to explode? Like you have too many thoughts in your head at the same time?"

Mycroft nodded and stroke over his cup.

"Of course it does. Constantly."

A brief silence appeared between them once more.

"Redbeard." The detective muttered. The faithful Irish Setter who he had received on his fourth birthday. From day one, they had been inseparable. Sherlock had named him and taken him out on walks, with the help of his parents, until he was big enough to do it on his own. He had thought him tricks and talked to him when he felt like he had no one. That dog had been his best friend and Sherlock had never cried as much as when they had to put Redbeard at the age of fourteen.

"He was a good dog."

"The very best." Sherlock agreed. He looked up at his brother. They had been so close once. Before everything.

A few minutes went by as they just dived into more nostalgic memories. Eventually, the elder stood up to leave.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked without looking up.

"Hm?"

"What happened to us?"

A sigh.

"I don't know."