#147, "Zombies aren't real, I promise."

It was clear that Mycroft wasn't one who for monsters of any kind. Sherlock's cruel clown prank was enough. His mind disagreed, though. As he slept, images of his loved ones as zombies swam in his head. First, it was Eurus; that one wasn't hard to imagine as she wouldn't talk anymore now. His first thought was to go to Baker Street to find Sherlock. Searching the sitting room, Sherlock lay on the sofa with his hands steepled together. It was a usual sight until his baby brother's eyes shot open, all life drained from them. Mycroft backed away in a mix of panic and grief.

He suddenly found himself at his parents' house and breathed a sigh of relief. The scent of berry trifle wafted through the air; a favourite of Mycroft's. At least his parents weren't craving human flesh. He crept to the kitchen to find his father's face buried in a newspaper and his mum baking, her back turned to him.

"Something's happened to Sherlock...and Eurus. I don't know what to do," he admitted. His mother turned, showing the same lifeless eyes his siblings had possessed.

"Mummy," he muttered in horror, suddenly reverting back to childhood. His father revealed the same pair of eyes and Mycroft never felt more alone. Family was a value to him and he had lost them all. He was alone in the world.

"Mycroft," a feminine voice spoke. "Mycroft, wake up. Wake up, sweetheart."

His eyes shot open, a cold sweat overcoming him to find Alicia beside him. She stroked his cheek tenderly with concern in her eyes.

"You're not a zombie, are you?" he asked frantically.

"No," she laughed softly. "Zombies aren't real, I promise." Mycroft felt himself relax and sink back into the pillows. "You're okay now."

"Yes," he agreed, holding her hand in his. "I am now."