Brother
At 7:30 the next morning, I opened Speedy's Café and served a single table. At it sat a morbidly obese man with an umbrella and a three-piece suit and a junkie with the eyes of a little boy. I brought a tray with croissants, for Mycroft, and an Americano, for Sherlock. I didn't sit with them, but I went back behind the counter and watched from afar.
For a long time, they said nothing. Mycroft attacked the croissants like they were enemy assailants, and Sherlock ate nothing at all. Finally, I heard the older brother say, "They'll be here in half an hour."
"I'm—frightened, Mycroft," the younger answered.
Perhaps that seems like a strange first thing for a little brother to say to the big brother he hasn't spoken to in over a year, but it was fitting, I think.
"It won't be easy," his brother replied, more gently than I would have thought him capable of being, "but there's a future—after." They both turned and looked at me, and I nodded. It wasn't a cheerful moment, but it was a meaningful one, a little bit like the feeling I had when I looked at my army colleagues before they went into battle.
There wasn't much more talking after that, and at 8:00 sharp, a car pulled up on the street outside the café. Mycroft nodded once, and his brother rose. I followed behind them and watched as a smiling woman in a nurse's uniform opened the door for Sherlock. He turned once, and I wondered if Mycroft would embrace him. Instead, he reached out a hand and cupped the younger man's chin for a split second, before turning away. In a moment, the car was gone.
I had only known the Holmes brothers for a split second in time, but I felt like I was watching Harry go away all over again. I wanted Sherlock to make it so badly I could taste the hope inside me.