When We Were Young (kidlock)

I'll Come Running

Sherlock was fifteen years old. He wasn't a normal fifteen year old. But then when had Sherlock ever been normal?

Mycroft was twenty. Six years older than his brother. Sometimes it didn't feel like they were brothers, or that they even could be brothers. Totally different people with totally different lifestyles, outlooks and priorities. The only things they shared any more were genetics and parents.

Anyway, Sherlock wasn't a normal fifteen year old. Something just wasn't right about him. As a child he was perfectly alright, if a lot cleverer than every other child his age, but he fit in, had friends. He was happy. Was happy.

It was a cold winter night when Mycroft received the phone call. He was in his apartment, studying, learning, laptop open, pen in hand, cramming as much useful knowledge into his mind as possible. His thoughts were swimming, head buzzing with information and he was having a difficult time concentrating if he was honest. Too many thoughts. Too much to process.

Mycroft left his home office and went to retrieve some paracetamol from under his kitchen counter, swallowing it down with a sip of his cold coffee that had been long forgotten about, left abandoned by the sink. He scowled at himself for wasting his favourite blend while he poured the rest of the drink down the sink and rinsed out the empty bone china mug, leaving it to dry on the draining board.

God he needed some rest.

Just as he was heading to his bedroom, his phone began to chime from his office. Silently tutting to himself for forgetting he'd left it in there, he headed back, answering just in the nick of time. The name that flashed up on the screen told him immediately it was Sherlock.

Mycroft wondered why he was phoning him at one in the morning on a Thursday night. Surely the boy had school in the morning?

"Brother?" Mycroft answered with a slightly inquisitive tone.

For a second there wasn't a reply before Mycroft heard the soft croak of Sherlock's already deep voice come through. "Mycroft..." He was barely even audible. His throat sounded dry and Mycroft knew instantly something wasn't right. His heart surged in his chest, he was anxious and trying not to panic.

"Where are you? Do you need help?" Mycroft asked all in one go, the worry plainly obvious in his voice. All he could hear was the deep, heavy breathing on the line. There was no reply.

"Sherlock. I need you to tell me where you are. Now." Still, only breathing. "Now Sherlock!"

"Yes, yes okay." Sherlock coughed before continuing to say, "I'm in the field. Out-Out behind our house. The old house. In that old barn. Come quick." There were long pauses between each sentence.

As Sherlock spoke Mycroft was already on his way downstairs and out of his apartment, locating his sleek black car in the gloomy garage out the back. "Do I need an ambulance? Or anything. Do I need anything?" Mycroft asked.
Sherlock replied with a whisper of the word "ambulance" which sent more jolts of severe panic through Mycroft's tight chest.

He threw his suit jacket on the back seat and climbed into the drivers seat, frantically fiddling with his keys.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, putting the phone on speaker before quickly navigating himself onto the main road, heading towards Sussex, "I'm going to need to hang up so I can phone for an ambulance but I will call you right back. Don't go anywhere, don't move and don't you dare stop breathing."

"What kind of idiot do you take me for?" Mycroft smiled a little, "Of course I'm not going to stop breathing."

"Okay, I'll phone right back." Mycroft hung up and proceeded to dial 999 while at a set of traffic lights, asking for an ambulance. The operator asked what was wrong and that was when Mycroft realised that he'd completely forgotten to ask that kind of sensible, important question. He mentally kicked himself, stepping harder on the accelerator as if that would somehow compensate for his stupid mistake.