You cannot have a black spectrum- once you're in that state of mind, colors and white will not appear, so when Mycroft falls headfirst into depression when his and Sherlock's parents die, what will...
Sherlock's eyes were barely on a single page for more than 5 seconds as he skimmed disinterestedly through one of the volumes in his pile of literature. Slamming the cover shut, he let out a heavy sigh, shoulders sagging. "Bored." he murmured to himself. That would not do, not at that moment in time. Boredom would lead to thought. Thought would lead to remembering. Remembering hurt and the younger Holmes brother was trying desperately to shut off pain.
Mycroft's stomach growled loudly, defining his great hunger. He hadn't eaten in a week. "Sherlock?" he croaked, from lack of using his voice. He needed some human contact; those little voices in his mind were whispering obscenities, and it hurt. He know they were in his mind- of course they were, there was no-one else in the room. But he needed to be sure.
Sherlock's head quirked but for a moment that was all the response he gave. Slowly, chewing his nails absently now no one was around to remind him to stop, he padded down the hall to find his brother. "Mycroft?" Sherlock peered around the door, vaguely curious.
Mycroft made an incoherent noise, gesturing at Sherlock to come in. "I need someone to come and speak to me." His voice faltered, still unable to make it sound normal.
Sherlock sauntered in, eyes darting from one thing to another around the room until he settled on the floor at Mycroft's feet, his eyes meeting those of the older Holmes. "I'm here." His voice was even, detached, and carried with it a vague sadness and wisdom beyond his eleven years.
"Come and speak to me. Tell me things... Please?" He added at the end, trying to seem as kind as possible- he wasn't nice at the best of times. He continued to stare out the window.
Dark eyes followed a matching gaze and Sherlock frowned but quickly switched back to an expression if unreadable indifference, a safe mask to protect him from kind 'are you okay?'s and such. "I could tell you about the books I've been reading?" he offered. His words carried a weight, like they were literally heavy to speak.
"Please do." Mycroft practically whispered, his voice breaking, for the normality of the situation. He composed himself quickly, looking down at the aged wooden desk. He gestured at the chair sat beside his bed, wordlessly asking Sherlock to sit.
He pushed himself off the floor and perched on the end of the bed until he gradually felt comfortable enough to crawl into the middle like it was an island belonging solely to Sherlock. "Well," he started, swallowing the lump in his throat that formed when he met Mycroft's eyes, realizing the blatant pain behind. The younger boy pined for Mycroft a week or two ago, who teases him and took his things away and locks him in the cellar. Not Mycroft who looked about as fragile as a wine glass. Sherlock tapped his knee, cross legged, absently with his fingers as he spoke. "It's about a detective. Dull plot really. Same old murder mystery tale but I like the characters. Stock of course but interesting all the same. Aloof antagonist. Idiot of a sidekick. You can borrow it if you like, I'm almost finished."
"I do not know if I can read. Sorry. I am very tired." he sighed, again, clicking his knuckles. "Do you know what is happening? In the world, I mean. Because I do not." Mycroft stared into the younger Holmes' eyes, dazed, everything dark and light and blurry. He just didn't know anything anymore.
"The old lady down the street was mugged." Detached from his words, Sherlock just sounded distant, disinterested. Fidgeting, his eyes fixed on a painting on the wall. "I'm hungry, Mycroft."
"You know how to cook. How much did the bandit take?"
Sherlock frowned a little but didn't retort; it didn't seem fair given the circumstances. "The contents of her bag.. Loose change, a few notes."
"Do you want to investigate it? It seems like something to do. Maybe bring in a little bit of money?" He tried to smile, a grimace falling on his face. He did care. He just did not show it that well.
"I'm too young, they'd never pay attention to me.." he looked down. "I'm going to go and make some food. Want any?"
"No, thank you. You're beyond your years, Sherlock."
Sherlock gave a curt nod, glanced about and then strode into the kitchen, fixing himself a sandwich out of the remaining foodstuffs in the cupboards. He sat at the table eating with the radio playing quietly, pining for someone to take care of him. Not that he was a incapable; Sherlock had always been independent but who didn't like to be looked after?
Meanwhile, Mycroft gazed into his hands. 'I've literally worn away my fingertips..' He thought, idly. He'd played flute for a while, now, almost five years. 'I miss everything.'
The music infuriated him, electric computer that produced trash that hurt his ears. Sherlock slumped down on the table, pushing his plate away and anyone would mistake him for a sulking toddler should they not know the reasons behind his mood. A lump in his throat formed and alone he thought, childishly in his opinion, that he may start to cry.
Mycroft stumbled to his feet, after so long, to walk slowly into the living room, where Sherlock was situated. He didn't have the energy for much. "Sh..Sherlo-" He cut off, collapsing and fainting to the floor.
Sherlock looked up to see his older brother drop to the ground with fatigue. His eyes widened and he darted to Mycroft's side. "Please wake up!" His tone was suddenly desperate. This was the kind if weakness he hid behind a reserved coolness, he hated to seem so vulnerable but the mask drooped; fearful as he clutched Mycroft's hand, he couldn't lose anyone else.
Mycroft groaned lightly, clutching his stomach. "H..hurts.." he whimpered, eyes screwed shut. He had to stay. For Sherlock, he needed to stay.
"Should I call a doctor?" Sherlock tried to keep an even tone but his wide eyes, dilated pupils and face filled with trepidation gave him away.
"No, they'd take you away.. I need to just lay here..." The older boy's voice had improved slightly, sounding a little healthier. "I came to tell you that I-" he was interrupted by a bellowing coughing fit, "-I miss you."
Sherlock rubbed his brother's arm soothingly, brows furrowed. "You just saw me." he stated. "How could you miss me already?"
"Let me rephrase that. I miss us."
Silently, Sherlock fetched his sibling a glass of water as he mulled that over. Logic, deduction, academics, all his strengths. Delving into emotions was not his forte. Cross legged, he offered a hand to help Mycroft to sit up so he could drink.
Mycroft sighed for what felt like, and probably was, the hundredth time that day. He gulped down the water quickly, choking, and doubled over in fits of coughing.
Perhaps rather unhelpfully, Sherlock patted Mycroft on the back until the choking ceased. "Better?" he asked, regaining composure.
"Not really. But I must try and stay strong- or, at least, get strong." Mycroft looked down guiltily, sudden realization hitting him. "How long has it been since you have been outside? Since you have done normal things?" He refrained from saying 'since Mother and Father died'.
"Twelve days, fourteen hours, forty-two minutes and approximately thirty-seven seconds." Sherlock replied smoothly without thought nor hesitation, choosing not to respond to the former half of Mycroft's words.
The older Holmes- oldest, now- nodded slowly. "I'm sorry I have to put you through this."
"It's hardly your fault." Barely audible. He cleared his throat and spoke louder. "I'll go and get some food later.. The cupboards are empty." After a pause, he added; "Maybe you should join me, get some fresh air."
"No, thank you. I do not wish to go outside." Mycroft sat up, trying to regain his usual, particular stature and prose. He whispered quietly to himself. "It is all my fault, my stupidity.. I let them leave.." The family had never been very close- the six year age difference between Mycroft and Sherlock meant that it was very difficult for them to bond. Their parents were only 'together' when they went out for dinner meals, like that night...
"There was nothing you could do." His voice had depth, a serious tone but sounded strained, as if the conversation were hard for him; frankly, the entire debacle was more than so. "I can't go out by myself." Sherlock said after a few moments. "And you can't allow me to go hungry."
Mycroft frowned at his response. "You are not hungry, right? And I could have stopped them going out..."
Sherlock sighed and left it at that.