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“Mycrooooft”. When his brother called like that, it meant that he needed something. No matter the hour of the night, Mycroft would rush to his side, his heart pounding. His room was only one door away but the seconds it took to get to his side were enough for Mycroft to imagine all sorts of terrible scenarios.
His brother was always fine but too absorbed in whatever he was doing to lift a finger and get something he wanted - usually, within reach. So Mycroft would take a deep breath, enjoy a moment of gratitude in seeing Sherlock safe and sound, and get annoyed. He’d pass him the book by his nightstand, the magnifying glass on the top shelf, or even the ink cartridge right next to him.
He’d go back to his own bedroom muttering about inconveniencing older brothers and how he also had things to get done.
When Mycroft left for university he could read for hours without being interrupted, write his assignments at any hour of the night without being disturbed, and regularly enjoyed the benefits of retrieving to the library and basking in the silence among the old books.
He wondered how Sherlock got by with having to get up and fetch a glass of water on his own. Was he drinking enough? Sometimes he went hours and hours without moving. Would he get dehydrated? Mycroft would fixate on these worries for a while, though he didn’t share them with anybody. Not even with Sherlock when he went home for the summer - especially not with him. He feared the more he fussed over his little brother, the more he’d retreat.
As the summers came and went, Mycroft saw Sherlock drawing back even more. By the time Mycroft was 21 and spending his last July in the family home, Sherlock never called for him.
He ought to have been happy about the uninterrupted reading time, but the silence made the house feel even more foreign to him.
He kept on worrying, from a distance. Sometimes a fairly close distance, but never just one door down the hall again.
When Sherlock called now, Mycroft didn’t have to let his brain scramble to come up with dreadful scenarios. The reality was often far worse.
Most of the time, someone called on behalf of him. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Whoever had found Sherlock in whatever state. Dr. Watson.
They’d say “Mycroft” over the phone, and he’d wish the only thing his brother required was to be handed over something that was nearby.
They’d say “Mycroft” and he would go. Each and every time.
When he was little, his brother had barely looked as Mycroft would find him tucked in bed, having called because he couldn’t be bothered to get up and switch off the lights. When Mycroft found him laying in different beds now, Sherlock would turn his head as well.
Then, slowly, he had started calling again. “Mycroft”, he would say, and Mycroft would once again pretend to be annoyed. When Sherlock called for assistance now it was because he still wanted something, but he had gotten better at swallowing his pride and admitting to needing help.
Mycroft would go, no questions asked.
Sometimes Sherlock didn’t need anything, he would only want to see his brother. But they didn’t say that - neither of them. He’d say “Mycrooooft” like he was 9 again, and for a brief moment they’d share the bonding trust of needing and being needed.
It had always been an excuse, after all. The ink cartridge, the magnifying glass, the sensitive information regarding a case, the heirloom cufflinks Sherlock wanted to wear.
But he’d call, and Mycroft would go.