The nightmares that night focused on his mother. Mycroft thrashed silently in bed, completely silent tears wetting his face and pillow. Guarding her while she sobbed for hours in bed. Cuddling up while she was asleep, pretending she was hugging him. Shouting desperately for his father when he found her passed out at the mirror, a bottle of sleeping pills half empty near her hand. Standing at attention while she screamed obscenities at him. Being made to stand in front of the mirror, staring at himself, repeating cruel words over and over. Being dragged on endless shopping trips when she would buy him new wardrobes of clothes. Being beaten senseless for allowing her to spend the money. Walking on eggshells trying to avoid upsetting her. Hiding when they were screaming at each other, cowering under the bed as they threw things at each other's heads, trying to keep Sherlock quiet. And the days of normalcy, where he and his mother would simply talk, or read to each other. The uncertainty. The injustice. The fear.
Mycroft sprang awake, gasping for breath, not making a sound. He wiped his face with the sheet and tried to steady his breathing, timing his inhalations with Sherlocks snores. It took a long time to calm down enough to go back to sleep.