Notes:

This is another little Birthday fic, and if it were an episode of a sitcom it would be titled "A Very Special Episode", since it is much more angsty that any of the others. But it was an idea that snuck into my head and just wouldn't go away (despite liberal application of chocolate).

Note that this is a much younger, much less guarded Sherlock. That's intentional-I don't believe the brothers could have had this conversation five years later.

The significance of the title will quickly become apparent.

May, 2002

"Please don't tell," the voice whispered, cracking with tears and despair and illness too long ignored.

Mycroft Holmes looked, in what any outside observer would have presumed to be a dispassionate manner, at the limp, filthy body of his baby brother. The boy had been missing from his university rooms for more than a month.

"Why would I not?" he asked, not unkindly, but giving no quarter. The body on the tattered sofa rustled as if trying to rise, then subsided. "Please," came the whisper again, this time followed by a quickly-suppressed sob.

And between one breath and the next Mycroft acquiesced, as he had known he would from the start. Because this was, after all, largely his fault. Telling their parents that Sherlock had once again fallen off the edge of the world would cause additional pain, and make no difference whatsoever in how this situation was addressed.

It was tempting to simply take Sherlock to an MI6 medical facility; Sherlock was entitled, after all, even if the powers-that-be refused to formally acknowledge the debt these days. But that, too, would serve no purpose. Grudging care and sneering staff were not a recipe for successful rehabilitation, even though Sherlock's immediate needs were likely more medical than drug-related. The crusted bandage on his left thigh, the trembling, the flushed skin spoke more of infection than withdrawal, though the latter was certainly a component.

In the end, Mycroft opted for the pragmatic solution ("the easiest solution," he heard Sherlock sneer in his head), calling his car around to the rear of the ramshackle building and carrying his brother out to place him in the rear seat before climbing in after. While they headed towards Mycroft's comfortable Kensington flat, he contacted Anthea and requested her help in securing a discreet physician and an array of necessary equipment and drugs to be delivered within the hour. Sherlock had subsided into an uneasy doze, jerking slightly at every sound and occasionally requiring soothing before lapsing back into unconsciousness.

By the time Sherlock was settled in a clean bed in his old room (the "guest room", as the estate agent had called it, though Sherlock was the only "guest" the room had ever held), Mycroft was nearly as exhausted as his brother. The doctor had arrived earlier with Anthea and pronounced Sherlock's fever as "dangerously high", to the point where the bathtub in the en suite was turned into an impromptu ice bath—a small quantity of crushed ice thrown into a full tub of cool water. When Mycroft stripped off Sherlock's filthy clothes and lowered the emaciated body into the water, Sherlock keened, wept, and fought to the best of his (limited) ability, while Anthea hovered tight-lipped in the doorway and Mycroft closed his eyes and endured.

The hideous "bath" lasted 10 minutes, with Dr. Ames monitoring both temperature and heart rate (since such a drastic temperature shift could potentially stress the heart). Finally, the man stood and said "Enough," and Mycroft gratefully hauled his brother out and wrapped him in the towels Anthea offered. Sherlock continued to shiver and moan while Dr. Ames took out his materials and went to work on the deep slash and puncture in Sherlock's left thigh muscle, as well as the host of other injuries revealed when the vile clothing had been removed. Mycroft's experienced eye identified the thigh slash as a wound from a large folding knife, a kind often used by enforcers for dealers. Not surprising, but disheartening—and once again, his fault. He had thought that cutting off Sherlock's access to funds would force him home; it had apparently forced him into defaulting on drug deals instead, with disastrous results.

Dr. Ames eventually left, after more than an hour of stitching, debriding, cleaning and bandaging injuries large and small. The large wound in Sherlock's thigh had been left partially open and a drain installed, then wrapped heavily with thick bandages. Medicines for fever and pain had been administered, and supplies of both left with strict instructions for use (to which Mycroft nodded wearily—this was hardly new). High-potency antibiotics were injected, along with dire warnings of potential side effects to be watched for, given Sherlock's debilitated condition. The doctor also made a point of warning Mycroft that the additional medicines he had given Sherlock to offset the drugs in his system could produce catastrophic results, if he had guessed wrong about what his patient had ingested. Mycroft, finally out of patience, snapped. "If you believe you can get him to tell you what he took, or if you seriously think that he knows what he took at this juncture, you are more than welcome to try. Failing that, however, we must work with what we have. Good night."

This did not, of course, prevent Mycroft from subsequently obsessing about whether the doctor was right.

Once all was quiet (Anthea settled gratefully on the soft leather couch in the study, after a terse argument with her nominal employer about whether she should leave as well—predictably enough, Anthea won), Mycroft stripped off his damp, soiled clothes and dropped them on the floor of the en suite, then donned soft pajamas and climbed gingerly into the large bed behind his brother. He was asleep within moments.

The chattering of Sherlock's teeth woke Mycroft, an undefined time later. That was a good thing, as he was then aware enough to grab the bin beside the bed and have it in place as Sherlock started to heave helplessly. Mycroft waited for the first wave to pass, eased his brother back onto the pillows and padded into the en suite to collect the materials for this next stage—a bowl of cool water; two glasses, also filled with water; flannels; an additional soft blanket to combat the chills. This, sadly, was a well-worn routine, forged over too many instances over the past 2 years. Each time, Mycroft hoped that he would never, ever, have to do it again.

Two hours, two horrible hours, passed before the storm was finally over, and both brothers were once again limp from exhaustion. Mycroft staggered off to the kitchen and came back with a small cup of clear beef broth, which he proceeded to spoon into Sherlock's unwilling mouth while the boy lay propped on pillows, eyes sunken and closed.

When Mycroft cleaned everything up and returned to the bed, Sherlock was awake and uncomfortable—shivers, cramping, and the general malaise of fever and illness. Mycroft climbed silently back in next to his brother and waited. After a moment Sherlock spoke. "Sorry," he said, in a hoarse croak.

"I know," Mycroft sighed. He did know. If nothing else, Sherlock was sorry to be seen like this, yet again. Whether he was sorry for the drug use itself was a much more complicated issue.

With the doctor's admonitions ringing in his ears, Mycroft did try. "Do you remember what you took? It's very…it's frightening not to know what to treat." Sherlock's bleak look was its own answer; in the end Mycroft was sorry he'd asked.

They dozed for a bit, then, both of them still exhausted and knowing that more unpleasantness lay in the near future. Towards dawn, grey half-light seeping through the blinds, Sherlock struggled through another miserable round of vomiting, then a bout of weeping in his brother's arms that Mycroft hoped Sherlock wouldn't remember tomorrow. Finally, he laid back on the bed, sweaty and panting, asleep almost immediately. Mycroft reluctantly climbed out of bed, cleaned everything up, then padded into the kitchen for tea and toast for himself, snagging an operational report to read on the way—he knew he wouldn't sleep again.

An hour later, Sherlock was awake, most likely for good, and beginning to feel the cravings. He scratched fitfully at his left arm until he started leaving reddened streaks, and Mycroft gently pulled his hand away.

"Stop," he said softly. "You can't afford to get your whole arm infected."

"I need...," Sherlock began, and stopped himself. "Distract me. Please," he pleaded hoarsely. "Read, talk, anything. Just get me out of my head."

Mycroft reached into the drawer of the nightstand, and pulled out the book that had waited there since their last walk through this wasteland together. He had intended to put it back on the shelf in the study but had forgotten; just as well. He opened the book to the marked spot and began to read aloud. "Africanized bees first infiltrated the North American continent in 1985, and the first colonies were identified in south Texas in 1990. All of these migrants arose from 26 swarms which escaped Brazil in…"

Anthea wandered in at 8, looking a little disheveled and generally annoyed. At some point over the past hours Sherlock had slumped over so that his head now rested in Mycroft's lap, so he was not immediately aware of their audience. Mycroft politely stopped in his reading and Sherlock looked up at him in surprise, then saw Anthea standing in the doorway. The boy flushed and closed his eyes. "Go ahead," he rasped.

Mycroft could see the young woman considering her response. "You promised you would call me if you needed help," she finally said, in a tone more hurt than angry.

"I tried," Sherlock said simply. "You were away for four days with Mycroft. Your office said they would pass on my message; apparently they didn't feel it was important enough to do so. And by the time you returned I didn't care anymore."

Anthea's face looked like she'd been slapped; Mycroft wholly understood the feeling. He made a mental note to examine the phone logs immediately; whoever had taken that message would be unemployed by nightfall.

Anthea sat on the side of the bed with a thump. "I'm so sorry, dear heart," she said, resting her hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Don't concern yourself," Sherlock said coolly (or at least as coolly as possible, considering his head was still in his brother's lap). "We each let the other down, so in the grand scheme of things I would presume we are even."

"The only one you let down is yourself, brother mine," Mycroft said softly. "It's not your responsibility to make us happy; you need only keep yourself safe. And if anyone should be speaking of letting someone down, it is I. It was inexcusable for me to leave the country and not ensure that you had a ready means to secure support when you needed it. I promise, it won't happen again."

Sherlock was abruptly furious, trying to fling himself to his feet but managing only to subside in an angry heap at the side of the bed. "It is not your job to be eternally responsible for my wellbeing," he snarled. "It is not anyone's job but mine, and the fact that I do an abysmal job of it is by no means your fault, except insofar as your actions, or lack thereof, were initial triggers for…," he trailed off before starting off again. "It is incomprehensible to me why you continue to flagellate yourself for my idiotic failings, and drag Anthea along for the ride. I won't—"

"Don't you dare," Anthea snapped. "Don't you dare imply that your brother is forcing me to care about you. And don't you dare say that this is all your fault. We all know better." She reached out and cupped the back of his sweaty head. "Now get back up on this bed, and let's see about getting you better. Just because it's not your fault doesn't mean you get to waste our time trying to drive us away."

Sherlock stared at the floor for a bit, breathing hard and blinking heavily. Then all the fight went out of him. He crawled back onto the bed, allowing a bit of assistance from Anthea, and curled on his side beside Mycroft, with his back to the room. Mycroft and Anthea looked at each other helplessly, unsure what tack to take. "I still don't understand why you keep doing this," Sherlock muttered into his brother's leg.

And just like that, Mycroft knew what to do. "I'll tell you a story, shall I?"

January, 1981

It was too early. Mummy had said that the baby would come in late March, and had helped Mycroft fill out a chart on the baby's growth and development which clearly showed that an additional 10 weeks' gestation was required. Mycroft had greatly enjoyed their weekly sessions, in which Mummy let him use a dressmaker's tape to measure her growing abdomen, and record her weight (though she made him promise not to show the measurements to anyone other than Daddy). The two of them had sat together and looked through obstetrical textbooks which showed the internal development taking place, and Mycroft had also checked out books from the library.

The latter were what were now causing him to pace distractedly in his room. He had read all of the chapters on the many things that could go wrong with development and delivery—Mummy hadn't known about that, and Mycroft suspected that she would not have allowed him to have the books had she known. But he did read them, and he couldn't stop thinking about it. He kept seeing the terrible pictures of the tiny, delicate creatures, too small to survive in the outside world.

Daddy was afraid; that was the worst part, since an adult also being afraid meant that Mycroft's fears were completely justified. Of course Daddy hadn't said anything, but had instead generated the kind of false cheer and excitement that, in his right mind, he would have realized wouldn't fool Mycroft for a second. But that was the point—Daddy was afraid, and thereby not in his right mind. It was terrifying.

He had heard Daddy on the phone, asking Mrs. Carter to come stay with Mycroft while Daddy took Mummy to hospital. That, that was just completely out of the question; Mycroft knew that he would do something terrible if he wasn't allowed to come with them. The idea of staying here while who-knew-what happened to the baby, their baby (Mummy promised) was unthinkable. He had spent the last 10 minutes putting together a series of arguments for why it was logical, necessary, for him to accompany his parents.

When Daddy opened Mycroft's door and began to tell him that Mrs. Carter would be coming shortly, all of Mycroft's reasoned arguments fell by the wayside. He found himself sobbing, pleading, screaming that he could not be left, he must not be left, he couldn't bear it—a kind of loud assault utterly alien to his normal behavior (and he was completely unable to stop). And, in the end, a miracle occurred—his father changed his mind. Mycroft rode in the back seat with Mrs. Carter beside him, still shivering with reaction, his breath hitching occasionally.

When they reached the side entrance to the hospital building, a nurse ran up with a wheelchair, and Daddy and Mummy were hustled away while Mrs. Carter slid into the driver's seat and parked the car. She and Mycroft then went inside and searched for the correct waiting room. Mrs. Carter insisted on holding his hand; he allowed it, both because he didn't want to make a scene that might lead to Mrs. Carter taking him home, and because he found it comforting. Just a bit. Just for tonight, it was acceptable.

They found the waiting room without problem; one other family was already there, an agitated father and two sets of grandparents, idly playing cards while the presumptive father paced. Mrs. Carter settled the two of them on a long, upholstered bench in the furthest corner away from the other family, then made Mycroft lie down with his head in her lap while she covered him with a blanket she had brought along. "It will be at least a couple of hours before we hear anything," she said soothingly. "You don't have to sleep if you don't want to—you can just rest for a while." He reluctantly agreed; anything to keep him here.

He did sleep; he opened his eyes suddenly to see his father looking down at him. "What time is it?" he asked immediately. That was important—Mrs. Carter said that they would know something in "a couple of hours", which meant that, if it was now after midnight…

Daddy blinked. "Not quite one," he said. "Mummy is fine. The baby is here, but we can't take him home just yet. He's…he's very, very small, so he needs special care until he's big and strong." Mycroft knew from the tone of his voice that he was editing himself, and was abruptly furious.

"That's not all," he spat. "Tell me all of it. I read the books. Ten weeks early. Low birthweight, breathing issues, intestinal necrosis, or, or…" and he suddenly couldn't quite breathe, and then he was sobbing again, and Daddy picked him up like a baby and walked the two of them out of the waiting room and into a quiet hallway, where he rocked and crooned and waited patiently while the storm blew through Mycroft and swept him clean.

After a time, when the sobs subsided into hiccups and Mycroft's head finally lifted away from his father's shoulder, Daddy put him down and knelt in front of him. "Mycie," he said seriously. "I know you're afraid. But I would never lie to you. You know that, yes?"

Mycroft sniffled and nodded.

"The baby is very little. Not quite 3 pounds. But his heart is strong, and he's been able to suck a little. They will put in a feeding tube, but that's OK. They're having to help him breathe a bit, but they haven't had to put him on a respirator. You can't see him yet," and Mycroft's head immediately began to nod 'yes', "no, not yet. I'm sorry. But they want to make sure he's stable before they allow more people in. They've said he's very, very sensitive to noise and movement, and it upsets him and makes it harder for him to breathe. We don't want to do that, now do we?"

Mycroft, very reluctantly, shook his head. The books had mentioned sensitivity to stimulus, and that tiny babies could exhaust themselves simply by reacting to it. The sudden exposure to the hospital environment itself would be enough of a shock to begin with, after months in a warm, damp, quiet place.

Daddy smiled. "See there, I knew you'd understand. Now in a bit we can go see Mummy; she's sleeping right now, but should be awake in an hour or so. What say we go get Mrs. Carter and walk down to the cafeteria for some hot chocolate? They're open all night. Might even have some biscuits available," he added, with a lift of his eyebrows.

It was actually almost two hours before Mycroft was allowed to see Mummy. The hot chocolate and biscuits did help, though, so Mycroft wasn't as upset as he might otherwise have been at the delay. Daddy also let him hold his pocket watch so that he knew how much time had passed; Mycroft had always found that curiously reassuring, from the time he was very small.

Seeing Mummy, so pale and exhausted in the hospital cot, was nonetheless very distressing, and Mummy could read it on his face. She patted the blankets next to her, and even though he clearly wasn't a baby and so didn't require cuddling per se, he scrambled up and nestled against her with a sigh.

"I'm fine, Mycie," she said bracingly. "Just tired. It's hard work, delivering a baby. Even a very tiny baby," she added with a grimace. She noticed his flinch at that. "Now don't worry so much. He's small, but very much in line with his expected weight for 30 weeks, so there's nothing seriously wrong. So far he's breathing fine with a little extra oxygen, and he can take a little milk on his own. No big problems there. He'll have to stay in hospital for a while—probably several weeks, in fact, since they want him to weigh at least 5 pounds before he can leave."

Mycroft appreciated this flow of information, but Mummy still hadn't addressed the most pressing issue. "But when can I see him?"

"Well, not tonight," she said firmly. "He's had a very traumatic evening, you know, so they want to give him time to calm down. It's almost 3 in the morning-Daddy's going to take you and Mrs. Carter home now, so you can get some sleep, and so can I. Then he'll bring you back after lunch, and maybe you can see the baby then. How does that sound?" Mycroft knew she wasn't really asking, she was just being polite. He sighed and nodded.

They headed back at 2 that afternoon; Mycroft had been asleep when they got home, and Daddy had carried him straight to bed, having to wake him when it was time for lunch. The hospital had called in the interim and said the baby was doing as well as could be expected; Mycroft wasn't entirely sure he liked that phrasing, even though Daddy seemed unconcerned.

Upon arrival they went straight to Mummy's room; she would likely be released tomorrow, but for now she was still comfortably ensconced in her cot. "Good afternoon, sleepyhead," she said with a smile. "I would have thought you'd have dragged your father back here an hour ago." He came over for a kiss and a hug but didn't climb up this time; he was a big boy, after all.

Mummy and Daddy nattered on for a bit, and Mycroft finally couldn't contain himself any longer. "Can we see him now?" he said suddenly. And then, remembering Mummy's insistence on manners, "Please?"

Mummy frowned theatrically before sliding back into a smile. "I suppose so," she said calmly. "Why don't you and Daddy go get me a wheelchair to ride in, and we'll all go?" Mycroft was out the door and hustling to the nursing station before Daddy had a chance to move.

Mummy let Mycroft push the chair; as she told Daddy, it was the only way to keep him from running ahead. When they came around the corner, Mycroft saw a set of glass doors with large windows on either side. Inside, he could dimly see nurses bustling about, a large cluster of mysterious medical equipment and a group of tiny cots with see-through covers over them.

When they reached the doors, Daddy pushed a button to ring for admittance, and the nurse who opened the door established who they were there to see. Daddy took over pushing Mummy's chair (since it was much harder to maneuver in this laboratory-like space), while Mycroft found himself clinging close to Daddy's side, a little overwhelmed by the equipment and the tiny, tiny babies he could barely see in the cots, many hooked up to a host of machines, lines and hoses.

And then they were there. At the last cot in the room, tucked in a somewhat quieter annex to the larger area, Daddy pushed Mummy's chair to a stop and gently nudged Mycroft forward. Mycroft inched carefully up, conscious of the nurse's admonition not to touch anything, and not to get too close. The first thing he noticed was the blue index card fitted into a slot at the foot of the cot: "Holmes, William", it said.

Mycroft touched the hovering nurse's arm. "That's not his name," he said, as politely as he could.

She looked over at his parents in confusion. "Isn't it? That's what it says on his birth certificate."

Daddy started to explain, but Mycroft beat him to it. "We always use our second names in our family. That's why Daddy is Siger rather than William, and I'm Mycroft rather than James. This," and he pointed at his new brother, "is Sherlock, not William."

"Oh," the nurse said with a kind smile. "Well, we certainly need to fix his card then. Would you like to do that?" she asked, reaching into a compartment under the cot and pulling out a new, blank card and a blue marker. Mycroft took them, but didn't look for a place to sit and write just now—he wanted to see.

And there he was, finally. Mycroft expected him to be small, but this was…this was minute. Perfectly formed, doll-like, but only half the size, or less, of new babies he had seen before. The reed-like arms and legs were not much bigger around that one of Daddy's fingers; all of the baby was thin, in fact, not round and plump like other babies. His head was covered with a tiny knitted cap that came down over his eyebrows, but the rest of him was uncovered, basking under the warming lights, except for a miniscule nappy and booties.

"Can I hold him?" Mycroft whispered, his gaze riveted to the little form.

The nurse shook her head. "No, dear. He has to stay very, very quiet or he gets tired and forgets to breathe. He's very sensitive to noise and movement—that's why we put him here in this little corner. And see all of these monitors?" She gestured around at the various leads and drips and tubes connected to the baby—Sherlock. "They will tell us instantly if Baby needs help. But for you to hold him we'd have to disconnect them, and that's not a good idea just yet. Perhaps in a couple of days," she finished, still kind but quite firm.

Mycroft suddenly felt his bottom lip wobbling. "But…" he began, the disappointment crushing. Mummy reached over and captured his hand, pulling him over to lean against her. "I know, sweetheart. It's very hard. I haven't held him myself, yet, and it's all I can think about. But we have to do what's best for Baby, now don't we?"

Mycroft reluctantly nodded. "I…yes," he said. "But can I still fix his namecard?"

"Of course," said the kind nurse. She pointed over to a white metal desk near the entrance. "Why don't you sit over there and write?"

Mycroft went and sat at the desk and started filling out the card, using his very best handwriting. Mummy and Daddy stayed by the cot, chatting quietly with the nurse while the baby slept on. A cleaner came in and started carefully mopping under and around each of the cots, avoiding the stands, monitors and other equipment arranged around each. Suddenly, though, the end of the mop caught a hidden lead; when the cleaner pulled back, a tall metal monitor teetered, while the cleaner frantically tried to reach for it, and then fell with a loud clang to the linoleum floor.

There was a momentary horrified silence. Then monitors began to go off- at first one, then two, then three of the cots. And the third cot, terrifyingly, was Sherlock's. Nurses hurried everywhere; Sherlock's nurse shoved Mummy's chair out of the way with Daddy's help and leaned urgently over the cot, while Mummy sat with one shaking hand over her mouth as the alarms continued to shrill. It wasn't until the nurse looked up and beckoned urgently to one of the other nurses for assistance that Mycroft jerked up from his chair, tugged open the door, and ran and ran and ran.

He didn't realize where he was heading until he was already there. Last night, while waiting for Mummy to wake, Mrs. Carter and Daddy had given Mycroft a tour around the maternity floors, ending up in the chapel at the very farthest end of the corridor. He now dashed inside and settled himself, shaking and terrified, into one of the pews.

Mycroft wasn't sure what he believed about churches, honestly. They always went to Mass with Grandmere when they visited her in France, and they sometimes went to the church in the village when they weren't in London. He had had a long talk with Mummy about it not long ago, after their last trip to Mimizan. Grandmere's priest had made a point of telling Mycroft that little boys who told lies hurt God; the comment had bothered him, though he wasn't sure why.

"I'm not quite like your Grandmere, Mycie," Mummy had sighed. "I believe in something greater than ourselves, certainly—I'm just not sure any of us know what that something is. But I don't think that God would be angry at little boys for fibbing, even though you know very well you shouldn't do it."

So now Mycroft sat, in an agony of indecision. Finally, though, he spoke, if only in his head. "I know I'm probably not a very good boy; at least, not as good as I could be. And I don't know if You have time to be concerned about us, or if You even listen. But please, please—help The Baby. It's not his fault, and he hasn't ever had a chance to do anything wrong yet. Please." And then, after a minute, wanting to do this right, "Amen."

Just as he finished, the door opened quietly and Daddy peeked in. "I hoped I might find you here," he said, in relieved tones. "Mummy and I were worried about you."

Mycroft's lip wobbled again, but he made himself speak. "Is Sherlock going to die?" he asked in a tiny voice, as tears rolled once again down his cheeks.

"No," Daddy said immediately, sweeping Mycroft up and dropping into the pew with Mycroft in his lap. "Oh God, no. He's back to sleep now; they all are. It looked frightening, but it really wasn't anything so very bad. I promise." And Daddy held him tight as he cried for a bit, just to get it out of his system. But his mind kept going back, and he finally asked. "Can you promise he won't die?" Mycroft said carefully.

Daddy looked at him, very seriously. "I can't promise, because I will never promise you something that is beyond my control. If I make you a promise, I will do everything I possibly can to keep it. That's very important, you know." Mycroft nodded; he knew that.

"But I will promise you that the doctor believes that Sherlock will be fine," Daddy continued, "and I believe the doctor, and so does Mummy. Does that help?" And it did; not as much as an unequivocal guarantee that Sherlock would live would have, but much better than Mycroft's horrified imaginings.

They sat companionably in the pew for another 10 minutes, until Mycroft had stopped shaking and was leaning drowsily back against his father's chest. Finally, Daddy poked him gently. "Ready to go back? Mummy's back in her room, but we can make a quick stop at the nursery just to let you see that everything's OK."

That sounded more than acceptable.

The nursery was back to normal; not quiet, exactly (not with the constant beeping/whirring/whooshing of machines in the background), but calm. The lights had been dimmed; Daddy said that the nurses did that after alarms, to let the babies settle. It was quite peaceful.

Daddy reached into his pocket and pulled out the unfinished card and the blue marker, abandoned in Mycroft's rush for the door. "Why don't you finish this up and go put it on the cot, while I have a quick chat with the nurses?" he said, and Mycroft took the items to the little desk and sat down.

When he finished writing, he stood up quietly and crept back to the little niche where his brother's cot lay. The baby was very still; still enough that Mycroft had to look very closely to make sure he was breathing. He felt he needed to do something, say something. It was important that he say it; even if Sherlock was too little to remember, Mycroft would always know. He had to do this right; Daddy had reminded him of that.

He bent over the cot, as closely as he dared, and spoke, quietly enough that only he and the baby could hear; this was just for the two of them.

"I'm your big brother," he breathed. "That's very important; it's my job, forever. And I will always do my very best to keep you safe." He leaned very close then, almost close enough to touch if he'd been allowed. "I promise."

May 2002

When Mycroft finished, Sherlock was silent, while Anthea gave a tiny little sniffle. After a moment, though, Sherlock rallied himself enough to speak, in a raspy, wrecked voice. "You always were one for grand gestures," he said drily. Mycroft, looking down, could see just the hint of a smile in his eyes. Sherlock pushed his hands against the bed, and Mycroft read his intention enough to help him settle back against the pillows with a sigh.

He laid there, eyes closed, for more than a minute—to the point where Anthea had started out of the room, presumably to see what invalid foods were available for breakfast. Sherlock's voice stopped her.

"I'm not good at this," he said, his eyes now open and troubled. "I'm not good at very much just now." He looked down and picked fretfully at the bedding. "I wish I could promise you I will never use again. But I can't. I will try, but we all know that's not quite the same thing. And I won't make promises I can't keep."

He took a deep breath and looked back at his brother, while Mycroft fought the urge to do something, anything, to make this better. But Sherlock's next words surprised him, and, after all of this, gave him a small particle of hope.

"All I can promise is this. I will try," he said." I will contact you or Anthea for help if I'm able; I may not always be able, and you have to understand that even if you don't like it. But I will think about what I am doing before I do it, even though I will, in all likelihood, continue on the same path regardless. And I will write down everything I take, before I take it. I know it's not much; I know it's not enough. But I will do it, every time." He nodded to himself, making a pact. "I promise."

Notes:

The descriptions of issues of prematurity are largely accurate (in fact this is less terrifying that the books actually are). Like Mycroft, I was one of those kids who wanted to KNOW, and I vividly remember reading things that scared me to death (and not telling my parents about it).

The bit with the ice bath is, sadly, also accurate for emergency use. Before hospitals had cooling ice blankets available, patients were sometimes placed in baths like this if fever was life-threatening. My appendix ruptured when I was 9 and I ran a very, very high fever for two days-I was put in one of those stainless steel baths TWICE. The second time I fought them, sick as I was.

And yes, I know I've dropped mysterious hints about Sherlock and MI6 and Mycroft/Anthea. At some point I will write that story. But today is not that day.