Title: Runaway

Summary: Mycroft should never have told Sherlock to go away and never come back, he shouldn't have.

disclaimer: Don't own.

"Sherlock, give it back!"

"But it's mine!"

"No it's not, it's mine!"

Sherlock successfully manages to save the toy- a little stuffed cat with a tattered ear- by climbing up onto Mummy's wardrobe. Mycroft would never follow him up there, after all. He's too scared of heights.

So, naturally, seeing that he's been beaten, Mycroft huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Fine. Keep the stupid cat," he spits, turning up his nose. "It's too ugly to play with, anyway."

Sherlock frowns, cat clutched to his chest. Mycroft doesn't usually say words like 'stupid'. Did he do something wrong?

"Mycroft?" He questions cautiously, but his brother ignores him.

"I wish Mummy never brought you home from the hospital," he continues. "I wish you'd just go away and never come back."

His eyes are closed, but he hears his little brother clamber down from the wardrobe.

"My?"

He harrumphs and turns his face away, keeping his eyes closed.

"No. I want you gone. I don't want you to be my brother anymore."

There's a beat of silence, then a soft, wet sniff.

Oh, no.

Mycroft opens his eyes to see Sherlock staring at the floor, eyes red with tears. If Mummy sees him, Mycroft will definitely get in trouble.

"No, Sherlock, don't cry-" he reaches out to touch his arm but Sherlock pulls away with a wet sob, dropping the cat and rushing out of Mummy's bedroom, down the stairs and into the gardens.

Mycroft follows after him, desperate to stop him from telling Mummy.

Oddly enough, though, his brother doesn't lead him to the parlor, where Mummy's taking tea with her friends, but out into the garden.

"Sherlock!" He cries. "We're not allowed out here without Nanny, we'll get in trouble!"

But Sherlock keeps running, straight across the manicured lawn and into the woods surrounding the property.

No, no, that's bad. They're never allowed in the woods, especially not alone.

"Sherlock!"

He stops right on the edge of the tree line, peering in desperately. He can't see his brother at all, now- Sherlock's always been fast- and he feels his earlier annoyance returning.

He stomps his foot.

"Fine!" He cries, clenching his fists. "I hope you get lost!"

He turns on his heel and marches back to the manor, half-expecting his brother to scramble after him.

He doesn't.

-SOH-

"Mycroft, where is your brother?" Mummy asks at dinner.

Mycroft shifts uncomfortably. He'd been wondering the same thing from the moment Sherlock didn't follow him inside. The cat, which he'd rescued from Mummy's room after he'd calmed down enough to remember the toy they'd been arguing about in the first place, sits by his seat and glares accusingly at him with blue bead eyes.

"He's hiding," he tells her. "We were playing a game and he got mad."

She hums. "Well, he's missing dinner," she says. "Tell him so when you find him."

"Yes, Mummy." He swallows hard and ends up only eating half of his dinner.

Something's not right.

-SOH-

Nanny can't find Sherlock to put him in bed that night. Mycroft spends most of the night curled up on his sheets, worrying.

The horrible feeling in his stomach, the thing besides the worry, is what keeps him up all night.

-SOH-

"Sherlock!"

Mycroft is armed with Mummy's umbrella and his favorite water gun, calling his brother's name from the edge of the trees. Nobody's outside to watch him, and he's going to- he has to- go into the woods.

He's terrified. What if a bear got to his brother, and all he'll find is a tattered trainer and a spatter of blood? What if there's a witch in the woods, or a ghost? What if he's run away, never to come back?

"Sherlock!"

Three hours, he roams the woods in search of his brother. He can't find hide nor hair, and the sun's setting, and he's absolutely terrified and nearly sick with worry. He's lost his water gun somewhere, and the umbrella is starting to get dirty, but it doesn't matter, because he can't find Sherlock.

Stopping at the stream he's certain he passed at least twice already, Mycroft curls up and hides his face in his knees, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

What if Sherlock never comes back? What if he doesn't want to be brothers anymore?

A strange sound stops him, a sort of whirring whoosh that does NOT belong in nature.

He whirls, umbrella at the ready.

There's a blue box that was definitely not there before, and the door is opening.

A familiar head of curly black hair appears in the doorway, and Mycroft drops his umbrella and practically tackles his brother.

"Sherlock!"

There's a moment's pause before the younger Holmes hugs him back, and Mycroft buries his nose in his shoulder.

"I don't want you to go away, I don't!" He promises. "I was just angry, I don't want you to stop being my brother!"

"Well, see, I told you," says a familiar voice behind Sherlock, and Mycroft looks up to see a strange man in a bowtie smiling down at them from the doorway of the police box.

"Armed to fight the monsters, I see," he says pleasantly, nodding at Mycroft's abandoned umbrella. "Good lad. A good weapon, an umbrella. It'll serve you well."

"Mycroft, this is the Doctor. He's my new friend."

The Doctor smiles, offering a hand for Mycroft to take.

"Your brother and I had a talk, and he promises not to run off anymore," he tells the older Holmes as he shakes his hand. "But in return, you have to take care of him. Okay, Mycroft?"

Mycroft nods furiously.

"I'll be the best big brother ever!" He declares, and the Doctor's grin is like sunlight.

"Good man," he says. "Now, I have to go, now."

"Will you come back?" Sherlock asks, eyes big.

The Doctor puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Always," he promises. "Now, be good, Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes."

Both boys nod their assent and the man nods decisively.

"Good. Bye, boys. Have fun and be clever."

He slips back into the police box, and Sherlock nudges his brother.

"Watch," he whispers, hand finding his big brother's.

Mycroft stares as the blue box makes that strange sound and disappears before his eyes.

"Magic?" He breathes, eyes wide and mouth open.

"Of course not," Sherlock says with authority. "It's science."

Mycroft's brow furrows and he promises himself to look up what sort of 'science' could be involved in a disappearing blue box when they get home.

"Come on," he says, tugging his brother's arm and picking up the umbrella. "Nanny will be annoyed if we're not back for dinner, not to mention Mummy."

The six year-old shivers at the thought.

"Okay," he agrees, smiling slightly. "I love you, Mycroft."

Mycroft blinks.

"Love you too, little brother."

Sherlock smiles the whole run home.

-SOH-

Mycroft can't bear to look at the newspaper, not right now, probably not for a while.

The death's still too fresh.

Sighing to himself, he runs his finger over the handle of his umbrella, scouring the bookshelves of his personal office, purposely skipping over the tattered stuffed cat as though it wasn't right there between a copy of Churchill's biography and the first few books on English law. But the cat is there, no matter what, and the reminder doesn't help.

Pursing his lips, he turns to the window.

His eyes widen and his mouth parts just slightly.

A little blue police box, right there on the corner.

No.

It couldn't be.

The comm buzzes, and Anthea's voice filters through.

"Sir, there's someone here. He's calling himself the Doctor."

Mycroft blinks and presses the button on the comm.

"Let him in."

There's a pause, and the door to his office is pushed open to reveal a familiar smile and a ridiculous bow tie.

"Hello there, Mycroft. How are you?" The Doctor asks, taking a seat. "Good. We've got loads to do, people to see, a little brother to help out-" he cuts himself off, eyes on Mycroft. "What?"

Mycroft shakes his head, smiling slightly.

"Let's get started."