Sherlock was hiding behind the door, trying to go by unnoticed as his parents stared at Mycroft. His mother had placed a hand on his shoulder, and his father was furrowing his eyebrow, hands alongside the body, a composure he would show when he didn't know what to do. He was not one to offer comfort, his father.

Sherlock could only see Mycroft's back but he deduced, by his rigid body, that whoever rang the bell on that rainy morning, had been the bearer of bad news. It was confirmed right away, as Mycroft turned around, a resilient expression on his face. He wanted to cry, but he wouldn't, Sherlock also knew that. He got out of the way before his parents could catch him eavesdropping and, when the sounds of their footsteps got lost inside the house, he ran up the stairs, to Mycroft's room.

He raised one tiny hand to knock on the door, but before he could touch it he heard his brother, telling him to come in. Sherlock opened the door slowly, and entered the room. It was tidy, clean. Filled with books in all the right places. Mycroft did not look as he approached the bed, and kept his back turned to Sherlock. With only seven years it was difficult for Sherlock to know what to say now. He reached out to touch Mycroft's arm but his brother spoke instead and the gesture ended there.

"You should have been playing in your room, not listening to other people's conversations." Mycroft said. His voice was different. Colder.

"I wasn't listening on purpose. I heard the bell ring and came downstairs." Sherlock explained, his own voice small and fearful.

Mycroft had basically raised him, and even though Sherlock loved his brother, and he knew his brother loved him, sometimes he was afraid of what Mycroft could do to him. He had never hit him, or been rough, but the way he talked sometimes was more than enough to make Sherlock respect him. Fear came along as well.

"I know." was all Mycroft said, swallowing hard.

Sherlock waited for a while, rocking his little legs back and forth, that didn't touch the floor. He stopped, wondering if that annoyed Mycroft. He placed his hands on his own lap, waiting for Mycroft to tell him to leave and close the door behind him. He didn't want to go, though. He liked to stay close to Mycroft, even when he was just studying or reading a book. In his presence Sherlock felt bigger, clever. He felt like he mattered for someone.

"A friend of mine died." Mycroft choked out the words, carefully, audible only to Sherlock who was half-leaning to his side. He then grabbed Sherlock's shoulder with his big arms.

Sherlock let himself be embraced by his older brother, wondering if it wasn't Mycroft who needed the comfort.

"Was it… Was it Daniel?" he asked, afraid of the answer.

Daniel was Mycroft's best friend. Many lazy afternoons, Sherlock had seen them walking around the garden, laughing and talking about school and girls and also boys. His parents thought they were just friends. Sherlock was clever enough to understand quickly it wasn't only like that. Sherlock envied them, their freedom and their laughter. Their cleverness and kindness. He wished he had a friend like Daniel. Someone who cared for him, someone who laughed at his jokes, even when they were not funny. A friend who would hold his hand on the quietest corners of the garden and tell him how lucky he was to have him. And now, he felt guilty, because Mycroft had lost that. He had never meant for Daniel to die, he only meant to have a friend himself. He was lost for words, but Mycroft didn't seem to be expecting any word from him.

"Come on, go and play now."

Mycroft didn't wait for Sherlock to turn around and leave. He knew he would. And so Sherlock did, closing the door behind him, leaving him to his grief.

Four days later Sherlock came down the stairs, fully dressed. Mycroft was by the door, their mother fixing his tie for him.

"May I go with you?" Sherlock asked, almost yelling, before Mycroft disappeared out the door.

Mycroft looked behind to look at Sherlock and sighed.

"If you are sure you would like to come…" he didn't ask their mum for permission. He knew that if Mycroft thought that was okay, that it would be okay.

Sherlock nodded. He had dressed his best suit and coat, all black. He had never gone to any funeral but he had seen enough pictures on the newspapers to know the formalities. Mycroft seemed to approve his vestment and grabbed his shoulder again, opening his umbrella as they left home. Sherlock recognised the umbrella.

"He left it here the last time he came to visit. I don't think he will mind that I keep it." Mycroft said, noticing Sherlock's attention.

Sherlock did not say a word. Once again, he didn't know what to say. The black car left them at the cemetery's door and they walked together again, slowly. Sherlock understood they were not going to the burial. Mycroft did not wish to face Daniel's family, the consolation, the added grief all that brings. He had avoided all that. Now, as the earth was still fresh and smeared their shoes, they approached the gravestone. Mycroft had come to pay a last visit. He let go of Sherlock's shoulder and placed a hand on the gravestone, a last touch. Not once did he cry. But the silent pain was bothering Sherlock more than a few tears would have.

As the rain subsided they headed to the car, that was waiting to take them home.

It took a whole month. A whole month in which Mycroft acted as if nothing out of ordinary had happened. He went back to school, he came home and studied, he read. Sherlock would do his homework by his side, and would play after, and it was as if Daniel had never existed.

Then, on one day as grey and damp as the one when the bad news had been delivered, Sherlock put on his pyjamas to go to bed. He liked when Mycroft read him pirate stories, something he hadn't done since the fateful day, and Sherlock decided to ask Mycroft to go back to their old habit.

He knocked on the door but did not wait to open it. He froze as he paced inside the room. Mycroft was sitting on the floor, only a towel covering his body, his right hand was bleeding. And, to Sherlock's astonishment, he was crying. Mycroft was curled over himself, wet from the rain, crying all the tears of the world.

Sherlock didn't have words enough to relieve him, but he had his tiny arms. He got close to Mycroft and kneeled down so that his head would match his brother's, and held him close, his chin resting on Mycroft's shoulder, Mycroft's tears wetting his light-blue pyjamas. He stood there for a long time, trying to breath slowly so that the ups and down his chest made every time he inhaled and exhaled wouldn't bother his brother, wouldn't make him aware of his presence. Only then did he notice the golden band on Mycroft's finger. He let go and grabbed his brother's hand, carefully not to hurt him.

"You are bleeding."

Mycroft nodded and looked at Sherlock for the first time that evening. It was ironic how right his brother was. What he couldn't guess was that the external bleeding was nothing when compared to the way his heart was being twisted, stabbed. To the way all of his being hurt from all the memories they had made and especially from the ones they would never make. The golden ring had been a gift he had never had the courage to wear. Now, it had helped him break the glass, and it had helped Mycroft realise that he, as well, was shattered.

He let go of Sherlock and took care of his own hand. Then, he put his brother in bed, assuring him that everything was going to be okay. He read him a pirate story to sleep and turned the lights off when his brother fell asleep.

That was the last day Mycroft cared. But he never took off the ring.