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Mycroft shouldered his bag as he walked up to the house. Home for holidays. Had to be done, he supposed. He’d just turned nineteen, which meant that Sherlock was almost twelve. Not quite a small child any more, but not quite a teen. Either way, still his little brother.
The door opened before he could decide between knocking and walking in and Mummy wrapped him in a hug. “My big boy, back from university.”
Mycroft blushed and gently extricated himself. “Yes, Mummy.”
Father came over and patted him on his back and before Mycroft knew it he was being guided into the kitchen and put into a chair with a hot mug of tea (of course Father made it just the way he liked it) and Mummy was all but interrogating him about his classes.
Eventually, Mycroft managed his escape. He went up the stairs and down the hall, knocking on Sherlock’s door. There was grumbling from the other side, so he let himself in.
Sherlock was gangly, not quite grown into his limbs. His hair was shaggy and a bit long, falling in his eyes as he peered into the microscope that had once belonged to his older brother.
Mycroft walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. Sherlock finally raised his head and looked at him with a sigh. He got up and pulled down a board game from the shelf. Mycroft gave a small smile and helped him set it up.
**
After dinner, Mycroft went to his room. Most of his things were still there, the things that Sherlock hadn’t “borrowed.” He stretched, feeling achy around the edges. He frowned, but crawled into bed, chalking it up to the days travel.
**
By the time Mycroft woke in the morning, he was running a fever. Father stepped in to see why he hadn’t appeared for breakfast. He frowned and felt Mycroft’s head. Mycroft opened his eyes to watch him and slipped back asleep before he left the room.
**
Mycroft spent most of the day shivering under the blankets and sleeping. Tea kept appearing by his bedside whenever he woke again, with some crackers and, at one point, a small bowl of soup.
Towards evening he was surprised to find Sherlock standing in his doorway with a book. Cautiously, his little brother crossed the room, drew up a chair and opened the book. Mycroft smiled, just a little, as Sherlock started to read to him, much the way he’d read to Sherlock when he was small. It was his book of pirate stories, the one Mycroft knew was his favorite.
**
Mycroft woke in the small hours of the morning, feeling far better, fever broken. He looked over and saw Sherlock had fallen asleep curled in the chair, long legs dangling off the edge, book fallen to the floor. Quietly, Mycroft slipped out of bed, carefully picked up Sherlock, and carried him back to his own bed.
He returned to his room and bent down to pick up the book. As he did so, something fell out. He bent down and found a picture, one corner bent. It was a picture of the two of them, on grandfather’s farm, five years earlier. Mycroft looked at the camera while Sherlock looked distrustingly at a horse, eyes narrowed. Mycroft had an arm around him, placing himself between Sherlock and the creature.
Mycroft carefully put the photo back in the book and carried it to the bedroom, setting it by Sherlock’s bedside. He shut the door quietly, and stepped across the hall to his own room, crawled back into bed and was soon enough, fast asleep again.
**
Ten years later
Mycroft slipped into Sherlock’s room. He should be home for the holidays, not here. But then again, they’d never really done Christmas well. Not since Sherlock had reached his teenage years. Sherlock looked small in the bed, pale even against the hospital sheets. The track marks stood out, dark, even in the shadows. But at least he was breathing and alive.
Quietly, Mycroft pulled out a dog eared book with a pirate on the cover. He set it next to the bed, careful not to disturb the picture tucked inside.
Sherlock mumbled and rolled onto his side. “Read me a story?” He mumbled, clearly still a bit out of it.
Mycroft swallowed around the lump in his throat and took a seat by the bed, opening the book. He began to read, keeping watch as Sherlock fell into a deep sleep, looking almost young once more.
**
Twenty years later
John hummed quietly as he tidied the flat, careful not to disturb too much of Sherlock’s things as he knew how much it bothered him.
Still, as he moved around he bumped a shelf, a book landing on the floor and a photo sliding out. Curious, John bent and picked it up, finding an aged picture of a very young Sherlock and Mycroft.
Sherlock was suddenly by his side, plucking the picture from his hands and putting it back in the book. “I really don’t know why you bother tidying like that.”
John smiled softly. “Well one of us needs to.” He turned back to the shelves, continuing his dusting.
Sherlock put the book back on the shelf, and John noticed it was a book of pirate stories. Sentiment. He’d never understand either one of these Holmeses, but even he could see, deep down, how much they cared.