"To what do I owe this pleasure, Mycroft?"
Sherlock barely looked up from the slide of bacteria he was examining under the microscope as his brother entered his flat without knocking.
"I see you managed to get a copy of the new key then?" he added, annoyed that, despite changing the flat's door locks, Mycroft still managed to enter at will.
Mycroft just hmm-ed quietly in reply.
"No witty retort? You must be slipping, brother." Sherlock's monologue continued as he sat back in his chair and, for the first time since he had entered, looked towards Mycroft.
Mycroft was still standing in the doorway, his umbrella hanging loosely from his fingertips and his eyes fixed firmly on Sherlock. He cleared his throat before attempting to reply, his voice hoarse and rough.
"Are you done?"
Sherlock stood and walked over to his brother, removing the umbrella from his hand and placing it against the wall. As Mycroft began to fiddle with his own hands, Sherlock stilled them with his own.
"Mummy?" he asked quietly. For once in his life not wanting an answer but knowing what was to come.
Mycroft nodded slowly.
"In her sleep." he started, pulling his hands from Sherlock's grip and crossing the room to sit in the armchair. "Mrs Hawkins found her."
Mycroft had always been very close to Mummy. Even though she had been devastated when Mycroft had revealed himself as gay on the day that Mummy had arranged for a potential wife to join them for dinner, they had reached a tentative truce between them, and he had visited her regularly after Father's death.
Sherlock, however, had remained distant, unsure of how to deal with his mother's emotions.
Looking at Mycroft right now, he felt that same uncertainty. What should he do? Did Mycroft need Sherlock to do anything?
"Just... sit." Mycroft raised his head to his brother's obvious confusion. "Just sit with me, Sherlock. Please."
And Sherlock did.
The brothers sat for nearly 2 hours in complete silence but for the sounds of two men breathing and grieving, each in their own way.