"Sherlock?"
Mycroft knocked tentatively on the youngster's door, pushing it open a crack while still waiting for a response from his little brother.
"Go away, Mycroft." Sherlock replied bitterly, turning his back to the door and pulling his knees up to his chest.
Mycroft sighed and pushed the floor open a little further.
"Please, Sherlock," he said quietly, daring to enter the young boy's room despite the lack of positive acknowledgement or invitation, "I don't want you to hate me."
Sherlock's head flew round and his slitted eyes bore into Mycroft, making the elder boy feel, for a moment, as though he made the wrong decision when he entered.
"You left me, Mycroft." the eight-year-old scowled, turning his body back away from Mycroft's and burying his head in his knees, "You keep leaving me."
Mycroft couldn't be sure, but he thought that the youngster was crying, his shoulders shuddering sporadically although he himself remained silent.
The fifteen-year-old walked over to the bed and sat next to his brother, hesitantly placing a hand on his back.
Sherlock instantly shrugged it off and let out a long breath.
"Go away, Mycroft." he repeated firmly, lifting his head and pinning the elder with a glare.
Mycroft looked almost stunned as Sherlock morphed from upset eight-year-old to blank and expressionless.
All emotion drained from his face and he became tight-lipped and aloof.
"Leave me alone, Mycroft." Sherlock stood up and left the room, giving his brother only a brief backwards glance.
"I don't need you any more."
