It started out as a typical day in 221B, at least from John's perspective. They'd gotten home from a case the day before, and now Mycroft was in their flat this morning 'checking' on Sherlock. The two brothers were bickering, as per usual.

John chose to ignore them, also as usual. Eventually Mycroft would get fed up with Sherlock and would leave. To pass the time, John decided to turn on the telly. Their case for the past couple days had been trying to locate a steeplechase horse before the Grand National, which was today. Sherlock hadn't had much trouble locating the horse so it was set to race today. John flipped through the channels, he wanted to see the race because he figured it would be good closure to the case when he finally wrote about it in his blog.

The Holmes brothers began raising their voices to be heard over the telly, John began turning up the volume on the telly so he could hear over the two bickering brothers. The race was just about to start, Sherlock didn't even glance at it, keeping his focus on insulting Mycroft on his diet. Mycroft however, had looked over to see what John was watching so intently. The color suddenly drained from his face and he stood up quickly, "I need to go," he said abruptly.

Sherlock sneered at him, "Going so soon?" he asked. Indeed, Mycroft never usually ended their conversations just like that. Usually he had a final remark or something to say before huffily getting up and bidding everyone goodbye. Mycroft nodded and shakily grabbed his overcoat off the coat rack, pulling it on.

John watched him from his chair, "Are you alright? You look pale," he commented.

Mycroft dropped his umbrella as though John's voice had startled him and stammered to answer. Suddenly Sherlock's demeanor changed as he too finally took a look at what was on the telly. "Turn that off John, or mute it if you must keep it on," he said, uncharacteristically calm.

Sherlock then stood and approached his brother, who had since managed to get his umbrella back. He was shaking, and had broken into a sweat. "I think you should sit down Mycroft," he said firmly.

The older Holmes shook his head in a panic, "No, no I need to go now." Before he could even get to the door he stumbled and fell, Sherlock catching him before he hit the floor. John shot up from where he'd been sitting and went over to them.

John could hardly believe his eyes, Mycroft was weeping in Sherlock's arms. The younger Holmes seemed both annoyed and rather frightened by this, and attempted in vain to get him up, "Pull yourself together Mycroft!"

"Mycroft, I need you to come over here, and take some deep breaths ok?" John coaxed, helping Sherlock practically drag him over to the nearest chair. Sherlock seemed unsure what to do, so John took the initiative and began leading him through what he should do. "Just keep stay with him, speak softly. He's having an anxiety attack, and he needs to calm down. I'm going to make tea for him, once he stops shaking we'll give him some. For now just, don't let him leave."

Sherlock, much to John's amazement, did exactly as he'd instructed. He sat directly in front of Mycroft, pulling his chair over so that his knees were touching Mycroft's. He held Mycroft's free hand, squeezing it periodically. Mycroft's other hand was wrapped tightly around the handle of his umbrella, his knuckles white. Sherlock hushed him every time Mycroft tried to speak, and then went on to assure him in a low voice, "You're fine Mycroft, you're in Baker Street with John and me. You'll be just fine. Just take some deep breaths." Sherlock also positioned himself stratigically, so that his brother wouldn't be able to see the source of his anxiety.

By the time the kettle had boiled, Mycroft for the most part had relaxed. However his break down had exhausted him. "John!" Sherlock called, John immediately poked his head in from the kitchen, "What do I do now? He is falling asleep!"

John turned off the stove before walking over to the brothers, "We'll just have to uh, put him in your room to sleep. I think it'd be best to keep him here just to keep an eye on him and make sure he's ok."

Sherlock looked indignant, "MY room? Why not your room?"

"You want to carry him up the stairs to my room?"

"No! Obviously his diet hadn't been working! We'd never get him up there!"

"Good then, your room it is."

There was no room left for argument, and the two flatmates half carried Mycroft into Sherlock's room, depositing him rather ungracefully onto the bed. Sherlock immediately spun around, wanting to leave, when John cleared his throat. "What?" Sherlock asked, mildly annoyed.

John motioned to Mycroft, who had curled up on his side and was trembling. "He's your brother Sherlock, he needs you."

"He's a grown man John, he can take care of himself."

"He's just had an anxiety attack, he is in no state to do anything! Now you stay here with him until he is asleep!"

Before Sherlock could retort John walked out of the room and shut the door, he wished there was a lock on it. He could only hope that Sherlock wouldn't try to leave.

Sherlock stood in the room, awkward and unsure what to do. Finally he walked over to the bed, pulling the blankets up and over Mycroft's shaking form before sitting down on the bed beside him. He sat in silence for a long time before his brother's timid and hoarse voice drew him out of his thoughts, "Sherlock?"

"I'm here Mycroft."

"Is my brolly alright?"

There was a long silence, because in all honestly Sherlock didn't know where the umbrella had gone off to. It must have been out in the sitting room, since he couldn't see it in here. "I'm sure your brolly is fine." he finally told him.

"Can I see my brolly?"

Suddenly Sherlock felt an overwelming sense of deja vu, as though he'd had this conversation before. It was a lifetime ago, yet he had indeed had a very similar conversation to this one with his brother.

"I'm afraid John won't allow me to leave the room until you are asleep, so no." Sherlock replied plainly.

Mycroft seemed incredibly uneasy over this news, and curled in on himself tighter. Sherlock rested a hand on his older brother's upper arm, gently rubbing his thumb back and forth, "Go to sleep Mycroft, you'll get your brolly when you wake up. John's making tea as well, you'd like that wouldn't you?" he asked.

There was no response, however Sherlock figured the answer was yes. Once more silence reigned in the room, as Sherlock continued to rub his thumb on Mycroft's arm comfortingly. Finally Mycroft's breathing evened out, and Sherlock slipped out of the room happy that he was finally free of his brother.

John was back in front of the telly, watching the post race interviews. The horse Sherlock had found had won the race. Sherlock half smiled at the cup of tea that was sitting on the table, waiting for him. He picked it up and sat down in his chair, watching the telly.

"What was that?" John finally asked.

"What?"

"That reaction? The British Government just had an anxiety attack. What were you talking about?"

"It wasn't the conversation that upset him," Sherlock stated, taking a sip of his tea, "It was what you were watching that upset him."

"Horse racing?" John asked, surprised. He couldn't fathom how Mycroft Holmes could be upset over horse racing.

Sherlock put his tea down then leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin, "He was traumatized when we were boys. He had this big thoroughbred mare that he adored. She'd been all right on the track, won a few graded stakes races but overall was a pretty shoddy racehorse. My parents bought her for him rather cheaply once she'd retired. Mycroft used to attend eventing competitions on her, she was a decent jumping horse and flew through cross country courses. Mycroft was a hopeful to join the British riding team on that horse, Starlight Express was her name."

John turned off the telly, wanting to listen to Sherlock's story instead, which seemed far more interesting. "Mycroft loved this horse?" he asked.

"Oh yes, we both did. She was the gentlest horse I ever knew, Mycroft would let me ride her sometimes at the stables he boarded her at. I was never really interested in horses, they're rather dull-minded creatures. But I did enjoy walking around the arena on her. Mycroft used to call her Brolly, because he used her as such. He would sit underneath her whether she was in the stall or out in the paddock, whether the sun was shining or it was pouring rain. He'd read and do his homework before going riding, or going home depending on the day. She never kicked him, though I wish she had."

"Well what happened then? Did something happen to her?"

"What do you think?"

"I think I want you to tell me the story!"

Sherlock looked over at his bedroom door before closing his eyes. He took a long moment to search his mind palace, he did in fact have an area for this horse in there. Branching off of Mycroft's part of the palace was a stable full of vivid memories of the one horse that had changed his brother's life.

Finally he opened his eyes, the corner of his mouth quirking up, "Alright John, I'll tell you all about Mycroft's first brolly."