Bad Day

Today was a bad day.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft huffed, hurrying after his brother, taking the stairs two at a time. His brain quickly supplied the appropriate probabilities as to whether his brother would stop if he called a second time; the definite negative convinced him to throw himself bodily into the door Sherlock had haphazardly slammed behind himself as he fled to the confines of his room.

His brother knelt on the floor, two paces from Mycroft, hands shaking, covering the face that was surely pulled into a grimace. Today was a bad day, after all, and Mycroft had experienced days like this before.

A pause.

Then, softer, "Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was gravelly, deep, as if designed not to startle. In fact, it was the painful result of seeing his brother in such a state. Bad days were rare - well, that wasn't true at all. Bad days were common; days when his brother couldn't hold back the truth were the rare ones. At seventeen, Sherlock was in that tremulous phase of life where one had all the drive one needed to break free of their former life, the structured regime ones parents detailed for them - but possessed none of the direction needed to focus and achieve.

And it didn't help matters that Sherlock was brilliant.

His brother's mind ate at flaws and problems with a voracity unmatched by any but his own. It created a certain contention between Sherlock, who had never had the instinct for herding that Mycroft did, and the rest of the world - that was a small matter, however. Sherlock didn't need people the way most of the population did. In a sad twist, it was often from the lack of interesting problems that conflict arose; Sherlock's stagnation also meant his downfall. His hungry mind would turn upon itself, biting and tearing unforgivingly into the fleshy, vulnerable underbelly of Sherlock, the pieces of himself that had never, and would never, see the light of day. It was the vulnerability, the compassion, the need for validation that those teeth tore into, the parts only Mycroft could see blockaded behind Sherlock's eyes in the drowsy, drizzling weekend mornings and the crackling, spit-fire evenings when he would debate his younger brother until neither could speak more than a hoarse growl.

It was the choked tremor rippling through Sherlock's shoulders that broke Mycroft from his stupor. With a graceful step and pivot, Mycroft lowered himself on one knee, a hand carefully placed on Sherlock's right shoulder. He didn't need to speak, only breathing slightly harder than normal as he waited for a cue.

Sherlock's face was twisted, eyes bright with pain and emotion, his lips trembling as he fought to return to stoicism.

"My," he whimpered, the sound soft and high in the relative silence and gloom of the bedroom. Mycroft grasped Sherlock's wrists, gently tugging them away from his face.

"I know," was all he responded with, and suddenly his brother was pressed tightly to his chest, flushed and sodden face tucked neatly under his armpit. Mycroft's arms wound their way around his brother seemingly of their own accord, and he laid his cheek over the brown curls.

They stayed that way for a while, even though Sherlock's bum was sticking in the air, and Mycroft was beginning to regret placing his ankle at that angle - but eventually Sherlock's tears and tremors halted, leaving an exhausted and drowsy teen in their wake.

Mycroft led his brother into standing, a fierce expression on his face. Sherlock refused to look at Mycroft, his face again a grimace, but this time of shame. A gentle shake brought the younger Holmes' attention flicking up into his face.

After a moment of gauging Sherlock's face, Mycroft found he couldn't think of anything to say. Instead, he dropped a butterfly kiss on his younger brother's forehead and stepped neatly out the door, assured that Sherlock would understand what he meant.

Today was a bad day, but it was a day that was almost over.