Life, everyone knows, is a precious thing. Every living creature knows its value even if they choose to ignore it. Those who have life cling onto it with all of their might.
Just as a lost little boy clings onto his teddy bear.
"I don't understand."
The voice is small, lost and oh, so quiet but Mycroft hears it anyway.
He doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to coat the whole situation in sugar and tell it to his little brother again. He doesn't believe the words that come out of his mouth when he says them so what's the point? He knows Sherlock heard him the first time around so he knows the words sank in. He frowns into his soft pillow, the words 'Go away, Sherlock' on his lips but he'll have to roll over to say them. He waits for a few seconds – and then a few more – before he rolls over to face his brother.
But the words die on his lips before they can be said. His little brother has never looked so lost before. He's so small and skinny, hidden depths of intelligence in his grey-blue eyes even at this age. More innocence lost in this day alone than should be possible. He's in his pyjamas, uncovered toes digging anxiously into the soft carpet, and of course ever-present Teddy handing by his side.
Mycroft feels a stab of pity for he still remembers what it was like to be Sherlock's age and he is selfishly grateful that he didn't have to go through this at such a young age.
"Why did you lie to me?" Sherlock asks from the doorway, the question taking Mycroft by surprise.
Mycroft props himself up on his elbows, the closest his little brother will ever get to having his full and undivided attention. "Pardon?" He heard perfectly well but doesn't want to acknowledge the accusation.
Sherlock continues as if Mycroft didn't ask, "Mummy didn't go to heaven."
"Of course she did." A fake smile, quirk of the lips. He's trying, because Sherlock needs something to hold onto that isn't just a plush bear – he needs hope. Mycroft wants his little brother to be in one piece come the morning, and the morning after that as well.
But Sherlock doesn't fall for it. "Dead people, they go into the ground," he says and Mycroft knows the battle is lost. So he doesn't answer, lets an increasingly uncomfortable silence fall between them.
Sherlock holds onto my paw like it's a lifeline, which for him right now it probably is. He turns to leave Mycroft's room. "Sherlock..." Mycroft says, hidden desperation in his voice, a crack of disappointment, but there is no answer and Sherlock doesn't stop.
He's staring at a page. Words, numbers, symbols; they all blur together into a mess. He wipes a single tear from his eye, irritated. He doesn't cry, shouldn't, hasn't cried yet and hopefully never will. He can be strong.
I need another nanny, he thinks. He can't look after a house of this size and two children with just the part-time staff he has now. He's shaking. His pen taps against the desk without him realising, leaves smudges all over his work. The work was a bad idea. But he wants to get away, bury himself in it. It's familiar, stable in its own way.
The room is too dark – the only light in the room that he's using is the small desk lamp – so he gets up. Walks over to the light switch which is beside the door, looks down –
"Why are you still up?" he asks, in a tone harsher than intended but it's been a long day so he has an excuse. He opens the door with one hand and flicks the light switch on with the other. Sherlock looks back up at him, teddy bear hugged close to his chest.
"I... can I have a book?" Sherlock says, glancing past him at the shelves.
Rodger doesn't move. "No. Go to bed."
"But—" the four-year-old begins, only to be cut off.
"Sherlock, go to bed. Now!" Sherlock stares back at him for a moment in what could be shock, before nodding and turning on his heel. He shuffles in his bare feet dreadfully slowly so Rodger huffs and grabs him by the wrist and leads him up the stairs and to his bedroom. The boy doesn't protest to the manhandling. He doesn't get tucked in. He's old enough – he can do that himself.
He's back in his study within five minutes. He numbly sits down in front of the very important page which he must have reviewed by morning. He gazes at it for an immeasurable amount of time – it could be anything from a minute to an hour. He may be sitting in his study but his mind is far, far away; lost in memories which are stuck on a loop. He's thinking about a person who he has lost today, someone who he held dear even though he wasn't the best at showing it most of the time. If he closes his eyes he can see her face – every little detail – and it kills him.
There is only one way to erase memories, ones that are too painful to keep on the surface. A braver man may grin and bear it, but Rodger Holmes never proclaimed to be a brave man. He's a coward and he's aware of it.
He reaches down and in one of his desk drawers is a bottle, almost half-empty, of brandy. There is a glass tumbler too and he pulls both out, shoves the paper aside to make room for them on his desk. He pours himself enough brandy to fill the tumbler but doesn't pretend that that will be enough and so leaves the bottle well within reach.
He takes huge gulps of the liquid, not caring if anyone's watching. The jagged edges of the painful memories soften as he drains the rest.
Perhaps another one, just to take the edge off... he thinks, before pouring himself another generous brandy.
There is something about teddy bears that makes people want to talk to them. Perhaps it is their neutral expressions – they won't judge you. Perhaps it is because they actually listen.
Sherlock has pulled the covers over us the best that he can with short arms and is hugging me close. The room around is big and dark and empty. Then, into my ear as if it is the greatest secret he has, with a voice too thick and heavy for a boy of his age, three simple words that I shall never, ever forget:
"I miss Mummy."
A/N: It hurt my emotions to write this. But the story must move on and so something had to change. If Sherlock and Mycroft's childhoods continued on the path that I had set then I don't think they would have turned out the way they did. Also for this chapter I wanted to try something a little different, hence the POV changes in italics. And another thing (and I promise, this is the last one) – 17 reviews? For 5 chapters? Wow. This is my most popular story ever. Thank you all so much!