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Mycroft made his way onto his bed. His walk from the door to his destination was slow; both from the physical pain and guilt that became of him this night. It wasn't the first time; the older of the two Holmes brothers had learned to stifle his tears and not say a word against him that dealt the wicked hand.
A quick glance over to the opposite bed; Sherlock lie motionless upon it. Mycroft wasn't sure whether he was sleeping, or just having a lie down. But he wouldn't dare speak the first word. As it always had been, Mycroft would not bring a conversation to the welts and bruises upon his and Sherlock's body. Not at this point in time, at least.
He crawled onto his bed after fishing out a book from below. Tucking himself into the covers, he began to read. It was his way of removing himself from feeling the pain; Mycroft was able to get away, despite it being only through the words on a page.
