Mycroft watched his brother as he slept on the sofa. Sherlock had been living with him for the past 5 months, in his attempt to get clean from the drugs and sort his life out.
Mycroft had reassured Mummy that Sherlock just wanted a bit of space; to feel like a grown up; to be independent. Of course, in reality, he had given himself over to his elder brother's care in an effort to sort out his life. Mycroft had no idea how he had managed to do so well in school, but he knew that, in Sherlock's current condition, he couldn't hope to be able to cope at university after the gap year that the two brothers had agreed that he needed to take.
Mycroft still had to leave his brother during the daytimes so he could work, and he could only hope that this didn't damage his recovery.
Sherlock shifted restlessly and Mycroft froze, listening to the mumbled words of his sleeping brother.
"No, please." he whined, curling in on himself before straightening out again violently and gasping loudly. His eyes shot open, his gaze desperately searching for something to lock on to. Mycroft wasn't sure if Sherlock even saw him as he approached and knelt alongside the sofa, and it was several minutes before Sherlock seemed to come back to himself and turn his head towards the concerned face of his big brother.
Mycroft ran a hand through Sherlock's damn, sweaty curls.
"It'll be OK, Sherlock." he reassured, hoping with all his might that he wasn't making false promises, "You'll be OK."
Sherlock nodded weakly.
He hoped so. They both did.