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Mycroft stirs his tea idly, glancing once more at the clock. Sherlock is late. Again. Not that Sherlock makes a point to be on time, but up until recently, he's always hurried home from his 'horrid' classes.
A creak from the front porch alerts Mycroft; he sips his tea, feigning disinterest before Sherlock can come barging in. Except he doesn't barge in. The door doesn't groan as it swings open- the front porch offers no other sounds to enlighten Mycroft.
With a puzzled frown firmly in place, Mycroft walks towards the door, opening it with a swift tug. His frown deepens when the porch is empty, bereft of a mishevious little brother.
A poorly muffled gasp jerks his attention skyward, his eyebrows following when he sees Sherlock in the branches of the large tree next to their house, easing his way towards his bedroom window. Two things are immediately clear. One, Sherlock is trying to hide something. Two, that something is stained red with blood.
Mycroft sucks in a breath as he takes in Sherlock's appearance: scratches and bruises litter what he can see of his brother's face, and, Mycroft assumes correctly, the rest of his body to match. Sherlock is staring with wide eyes, seemingly hanging on for dear life at the branch between his legs.
"Do you think you can get down?" Mycroft asks, trying to discern the best possible way to get his injuried baby brother out of a tree he climbed up just to avoid help. Sherlock’s strained expression is enough of an answer, and he nods.
"Hang on tightly, don't try to move. I'll help you in through the window. Understand?"
A small nod from Sherlock and Mycroft is off, muttering under his breath as he climbs the stairs to the second floor. Reaching Sherlock's room, he quickly throws open the window, relieved to see that his brother listened for once. "Okay Sherly, nice and easy." Mycroft ducks through the window, reaching a hand out for Sherlock to take.
Sherlock’s curls fall into his face as he stretches towards Mycroft, getting stuck on his pallor, clammy skin.
His appearance is all the more concerning when Mycroft accounts for the fact that Sherlock hasn’t said a single word since his discovery. No gibes, sarcastic comments- no gruff mutterings have fallen from his little brother’s lips. Mycroft’s mind races, putting together the pieces. The puzzle he completes makes for a very ugly picture indeed.
He helps his little brother through the window, tightening his grasp when Sherlock nearly crumples upon standing. Still no word from Sherlock, no sounds apart from a pained gasp here and there.
“Brother mine, what were you thinking,” comes the gentle chide.
Sherlock hunches his shoulders in response, glaring at the floor.
A heavy sigh and a light shove have Sherlock all but collapsing onto his bed, a disgruntled hum showing his displeasure.
“I’ll be back momentarily. Will you tell me if there’s any life-threatening injuries or will I have to check myself?”
Sherlock frowns, pouting into his pillows. After a long moment, he frees a hand from underneath him to sign ‘fine.’
Correctly interpreting that as ‘I’m fine,’ Mycroft huffs, rolling his eyes. He doesn’t bother replying, instead choosing to go downstairs to retrieve the first aid kit. Passing the kitchen counter, he spies his long-forgotten tea, gone cold. He sighs, grabbing it and dumping the contents in the sink.
He snags the first aid kit from under the sink, reflecting on all the instances he’s pulled it out before. Usually for Sherlock. When did he start caring for his brother in such a way? Keeping his secrets from their parents, guiding him, watching him grow up and grow apart. He chuckles dryly. Never imagined he would feel like a parent at 19. He shakes his head to clear it, focusing on the task at hand.
Upstairs, Sherlock blinks back hot and heavy tears. The last thing he wants to do is have a breakdown in front of his brother. When Mycroft comes in, gone for only a few minutes, he shoves his face into the abundance of pillows, trying to pull himself together.
A tap on his shoulder signals him to sit up, and after taking a shuddering breath, he does. He bites at his cheek, keeping everything inside. Mycroft, mercifully, pretends not to notice as he removes clothing, cleans and bandages wounds. A couple of pills are pressed into his hand and he swallows them without question. Knowing what comes next, he glares at the floor.
“Names?”
Sherlock shrugs, avoiding his brother’s gaze. A hand catches his chin and he squeezes his eyes shut as his head is forced upwards.
“Come now, brother mine. Tell me who did this?” It’s phrased as a question; it isn’t one. Sherlock, as stubborn as ever, refuses to answer. He hears Mycroft sigh, his chin is released and the hand moves to his head, running through his curls.
“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you this but… it pains me to see you hurt,” comes the murmured confession.
Sherlock hums in acknowledgment, allowing himself to enjoy the soothing rhythm his brother sets, relaxing into his hold instead of fighting it.
“What will you do, hm? When I’m not around or able to help?”
Sherlock scoffs, opening his eyes to look at Mycroft incredously. “Don’t be daft. Where would you go? And what could stop you?”
Mycroft pauses in his ministrations, brow furrowing. He opens his mouth to say ‘quite a number of things, actually’, but Sherlock has already closed his eyes again, clearly meaning it as a rhetorical question. With a worried frown, he allows Sherlock to believe as he will, his hand resuming running through Sherlock’s hair.
Sherlock unsuccessfully attempts to stifle a yawn. “When will Mummy and Father be home?”
“Should be three days time. Don’t give me that look, I’m sure most of the bruising will fade by then. You can make up some excuse. I’m quite certain she’d believe you if you told her you took a tumble down the stairs, you’re clumsy enough,” Mycroft teases.
“I am not!” Sherlock knocks Mycroft’s hand away, pouting. “I just got beat up you’re not allowed to be mean to me.”
“You’re right, I apologize,” Mycroft agrees. He repacked everything into the first aid kit, clearing the bed. “Get some rest, brother mine. I’ll make you something when you wake.”
Sherlock had already lay down, but he perks up at Mycroft’s promise. “Anything I want?”
“Of course, Sherly.” Mycroft rolls his eyes as he turns off the lights and leaves the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Sherlock frowns at this, but decides to allow it. It is… nice, he concedes, to know that his big brother is watching over him. Feeling safe and protected, he is able to drift off to sleep.