In retrospect he couldn't tell whether it had been the lightning that lit up his whole room had woke him up or if the deafening thunder had made him jerk upright in his bed. He pulled his blanket up to his chin, his eyes darting over to the huge window.
Outside, the rain was pouring down, soaking the ground and slowly turning the fields around the Holmes Manor into swamps. Another flash of lighting and he could see the trees bend in the wind, the shadows of their branches crawling up and down the walls of his rooms, like fingers trying to get a hold of him and to drag him into the darkness.
Little Sherlock shivered and squeezed his eyes shut, so he wouldn't see the monsters that the thunderstorm had let loose. He curled up under his blanket and pulled it over his head, thinking about what Mycroft had told him. If he wanted to be a real pirate, he needed to be brave. Pirates aren't scared of lightning and thunder, no, they are the scary ones, the ones that were feared by others.
The next stroke of lightning was so bright that Sherlock could even see it with his eyes closed and buried under his sheet. It was closely followed by a rumbling thunder that almost brought the little boy to tears. He had always hated storms. When he was little Mycroft had let him sleep in his room, where he'd been save, no matter how much the wind had been raging and howling around the house, no matter how loud the thunder had been. But now he was older, he went to school and he wasn't a little boy anymore.
Then again, he could just pretend that he was little, he could be a pirate any other day, because right now, all he wanted to do was sneak down the hall to Mycroft's room.
Sherlock grabbed his blanket tight and wrapped it around himself like a cape. He wanted to switch on the light, but when he tried it wouldn't turn on. No power then. He picked up his pirate sword, which he kept under his pillow, just in case he ever needed it, and crawled out of his bed.
The floor under his bare feet felt like ice and it made him shudder. He made his way across the room on tippy-toes and his door creaked when he slowly opened it. The whole house lay in complete darkness, it felt extremely empty to him and truly, Mycroft was the only one in the manor, except for him of course. Mummy and Father weren't home, they had gone on a trip to London to attend to some important business. Probably another boring dinner party. Sherlock didn't like the dinner parties his parents held at their house, they were boring and the other kids called him a freak, because he liked to do experiments with the cake rather than eating it.
He slowly walked down the hall, his sheet dragging behind him on wooden floor, holding on tightly to his sword. Sherlock heard the rain on the roof, saw the hallway light up again, the thunder crashing almost simultaneously. He wanted to run as fast as he could, but he wasn't a coward. Still, his steps quickened and soon he had reached the door to Mycroft's room.
Very steady, to be as quiet as possible, he opened the door and snuck in, shutting the door with a barely audible thud. Mycroft, however, must have heard him, since he stirred in his bed.
"Mycroft?" Sherlock whispered. It almost sounded like a whimper.
His brother reached for a flashlight on the bedside table and turned it on. It wasn't too bright, but Sherlock could see him raise his eyebrows at him.
He swiftly ran over to the bed and jumped up, looking at Mycroft's stern expression with teary eyes. He was about to send him back to his room, he was sure of it. "Please don't be angry, Mycroft. Don't make me go back. Please."
Sherlock's little fingers tightened around Mycroft's bedsheets, not willing to ever let go, in case his brother was planning on making him leave again.
It only took a second for Mycroft to give in, he didn't want the boy to get to emotional and weak and to be scared of such silly things like a thunderstorm, but he couldn't do it, not when he seemed so terribly afraid. Saying nothing, he scooted over with a sigh, to make space for Sherlock, whose face immediately lit up.
He put his sword on the ground, next to the bed, he wouldn't need it anymore, at least not that night. Mycroft waited until Sherlock had crawled under the covers and then switched off the his flashlight.
In the darkness, Sherlock glanced at his brother and muttered "thank you". Thank you for letting me stay, thank you for watching over me.
Mycroft still didn't speak, he just breathed heavily and nudged Sherlock's arm. He could sleep now.