The knock at the door interrupted their frantic chase around the room, and Mycroft stopped dead still, nailed to the floor by John's intense stare. "I was hoping to have a word, Mycroft." The teenager frowned, set his face, and followed John out to the kitchen, leaving Sherlock craning his neck, pouting at being left out once again. They sat uneasily, Mycroft keeping his eyes low, and John trying to figure out just what he wanted to say.
"I'm sorry. About earlier. I shouldn't have," Mycroft faltered, fighting for his words through the lump in his throat. He really just couldn't do anything right, could he?
John reached across the terrible expanse of table between them and took Mycroft's hand, running his thumbs over the smaller fingers. "I'm not happy with how you acted, but I understand why you did what you did. That news would be huge for anybody. Next time, though, why don't you try calming down before you start talking? That way we can skip the running away and screaming bit and get right to what's bothering you."
Mycroft nodded, biting his lip and trying to pry his hand away. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to," he mumbled, just loud enough to be almost heard.
Suddenly, John pushed away from the table, jerking Mycroft up with him. For a moment, Mycroft thought he was angry, but then he was being crushed against John's chest.
"You have nothing to be sorry for. I am so, so sorry that I made you feel that way. I want you to know that I'll try, that I am trying to understand, to get to know you." Mycroft nodded, burying his face in John's neck, feeling stupid for needing the comfort, but he really, truly needed it.
To be told he mattered.
"I care about you just like I care about Sherlock. I would never let you two be hurt, be sad, be unhappy. Please, just stay here. Alright? You know we're trying."
Mycroft nodded, pulling away and rubbing at his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered, then quickly brushed past him and retreated to his room as quickly as he could, clicking the door shut behind him, oblivious to Sherlock staring intently at him from the desk.
That night, Mycroft curled around Sherlock protectively, hugging him to his chest and sighing contently when his baby brother didn't push him away. His eyes had gotten used to the dark some time ago, and he just laid there in bed for hours staring at Sherlock.
"I'm so sorry," he mumbled as he shifted in bed, pushing down further to rest face-to-face with his brother. He had assumed Sherlock was sleeping as well, but the little eyes flickered open after his whispered admission and stared him down.
"There's no need. And I know how you hate repeating yourself, so stop. It's fine, it's all. . . fine." Sherlock rolled over and placed his back to Mycroft, mumbling as he tried to go back to sleep. "Now shut up and sleep, I'm sure John's in bed planing 'family bonding activities' to get you to trust him and stop all this useless arguing."
Mycroft rolled his eyes at Sherlock's attempt to lighten the mood, then realized he might not be joking.
"Wait, is he actually doing that? I don't think so, it's not going to happen."
Sherlock grinned into his pillow and fell asleep to the sounds of his brother grumbling over the coming activities of the morning.