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Mycroft worried about his younger brother constantly . He always had. Being the smartest and most capable person in the family, it was only natural for him to worry and be the one to look after the family.
So, when Mycroft got the alert from his secretary who oversaw the CCTV cameras that Sherlock hadn’t left his flat in two days, Mycroft's interest peaked. When said secretary mentioned that there was no one in the flat with him, Mycroft’s anxiety peaked.
Now, this wouldn’t have alarmed anyone else, after all, it wasn’t unheard of for people to stay in for a bit and Sherlock on occasion stayed inside, but two days was a tad excessive. Coupled with his brother’s drug problems and the fact that his brother didn’t do well alone for extended periods, Mycroft was sick with worry.
“Call the driver,” Mycroft ordered without looking at the woman who nodded.
“Right away, sir,” she replied before hurrying out, her phone already dialing the requested number.
Mycroft sighed and brought his hands together in front of his nose. Get it together, Mycroft. Sherlock is fine and you’re probably overreacting. But…he supposed there was no harm in checking even though Sherlock would probably despise him for “stalking” as his younger brother so kindly put it.
Five minutes passed before his secretary returned and they headed to the car at a brisk walk before getting in and heading to 221B Bakers Street. Mycroft couldn’t stop his fingers as they drummed anxiously the whole drive despite his best efforts.
They arrived shortly, the traffic being nearly nonexistent thanks to it being late in the evening, before Mycroft stepped out of the vehicle, unlocked the door with ease, and stepped into his brother’s flat.
It was quiet, oddly so since Mrs. Hudson was usually making one noise or another or Sherlock was muttering to himself about the latest case regardless of if John was there or not.
He moved silently and methodically up the stairs so as to not alert his brother of his arrival even though Sherlock would hear him if he wanted to. His brother was annoyingly attuned to his senses when he needed to be.
What confused him was the fact that the lights were off in the house as he reached the floor where Sherlock resided and even his room didn’t appear to have a light on.
Opening the door slowly, he took in his surroundings as his eyes did a quick sweep of the perimeter. He spotted a couple of blankets laid haphazardly next to the couch and as he peered into the kitchen, he spotted more than a few empty mugs on the table.
He rounded the corner and finally saw a single light glowing through the darkness from the crack underneath the bathroom door. Mycroft hesitated as he assessed how far he was willing to go and if he should knock or barge in the door.
He finally settled on the former, not being keen on walking on his brother naked, and knocked thrice on the wooden door before waiting for a reply.
“John?” A hoarse voice asked, the sound somewhat muffled by the closed door.
“Not John, brother mine,” Mycroft replied, a smirk on his lips at his brother’s reply.
He heard the sound of scrambling as someone—presumingly his brother—sat upright. He imagined the face his brother was making at his sudden visit.
“Mycroft?” His brother replied with a hint of surprise mixed with something else. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, you haven't left your flat for two days. I was bound to notice eventually,” Mycroft replied, but he couldn’t help but notice how repressed his brother’s voice seemed. Almost like it pained him to speak.
“How many times have I told you that I don’t need you to spy on me?” An annoyed voice replied.
“Afraid I can’t stop, brother. Not unless you swear on mother’s life to never do drugs again,” Mycroft said, knowing his brother could never make such a promise.
He was proved right if Sherlock’s silence was any connotation. He cleared his throat and straightened himself before speaking again. “Now, may I come in? Speaking through the door is getting troublesome.”
Mycroft heard a grunt through the door before he heard his brother mutter “fine” under his breath.
“Brilliant,” Mycroft said as he opened the door. There, was a sight that he hadn’t quite expected.
Slumped against the bathroom cabinet in a disheveled mess was Sherlock whose face was alarmingly pale and his locks of hair were plastered to his forehead that was soaked in sweat.
Mycroft scrunched up his nose disapprovingly. “Are you high?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes with a flourish of his hand before he stared at Mycroft with half-lidded eyes. “Am I?”
Mycroft took a second glance and looked past the obvious or expected from his brother and after a moment’s pause, shook his head. “No, you’re not.”
Bending over as Sherlock attempted once again to right himself, Mycroft laid a hand on his brother’s sweaty brow. His eyes immediately widened and his lips formed a tight line.
“Where’s the thermometer,” he demanded rather than asked and followed Sherlock’s gaze over to the upper cabinet.
He opened it quickly before grabbing it out and shoving it in his brother’s mouth without allowing for any complaints.
“Shat washn’t mery mice,” Sherlock grumbled as he sat on the floor and it was only then that Mycroft realized how much his brother was shivering.
“Be quiet while we wait for the results,” Mycroft said, more alarmed rather than angry at his brother even though it was astounding how little Sherlock paid attention to his health. When Mycroft touched Sherlock’s head, he felt like he would be nearly burned by the temperature.
Exactly 17 seconds later, the machine beeped and glowed red as Mycroft read the numbers before he pinched his nose.
“Hell Sherlock, one degree higher and I would be taking you to the hospital!” He exclaimed, outwardly frustrated but Sherlock could clearly read his brother’s anxiety despite his illness.
“How high?” Sherlock asked, his voice gravely and quiet as he tried to stop trembling.
“39.5,” Mycroft replied before he extended his hand. “Now get off the floor, you’re going to bed.”
Sherlock’s hand shook as he accepted his brother’s help and stumbled to his feet before Mycroft had to catch him as his knees buckled
“Sorry,” Sherlock apologized, his voice slurring slightly as his eyes shut. Mycroft assumed Sherlock was barely conscious since apologies weren’t common in his vocabulary.
They made their way slowly to Sherlock’s bedroom and once they reached it, Mycroft let go and allowed his brother to fall haphazardly onto the mattress. He landed with a thud before crawling underneath the covers until only his head was showing.
“So, why are you alone?” Mycroft asked the question that had been weighing on his mind from the beginning. “Where are John and Mrs. Hudson?”
“John’s at some doctor meeting,” he mumbled, and Mycroft had to strain his ears just to hear him. “And Mrs. Hudson’s with her sister.”
“How long have you been like this?” Mycroft pressed, needing details.
Sherlock glared from beneath the blanket, but it hardly amounted to anything even remotely threatening. “What’s with the interrogation? I’m not one of your lackeys.”
“How long,” Mycroft asked again, in no mood for his brother’s games.
“T-Two days, but I’m s-sure you a-already k-knew that,” Sherlock replied just as another shiver ripped through his body.
“And you didn’t think to call me, call someone?” Mycroft said, exacerbated by his brother’s foolishness.
Sherlock mumbled something Mycroft didn’t catch. “What did you say?”
“I…didn’t…think…you…cared.” Sherlock ground out, pronouncing each word after a second-long pause.
Mycroft’s eyes widened. “Then you really are as much of an idiot as I always say you are. Do you honestly think I don’t care? Sherlock, I worry constantly about you.”
The ill man didn’t speak and simply turned his body to look at the wall and face away from Mycroft who sighed heavily and walked out of the room without another word.
Sherlock listened and heard his brother’s retreating footsteps before he groaned and ran a hand through his messy hair. His head was pounding so painfully that he was unable to form a coherent thought, though he assumed the fever was somewhat to blame for that aspect if the chills were any consolation.
The room felt so very lonely and colder without his brother’s presence and he immediately regretted saying the things he’d said before. He honestly wasn’t sure why he’d said it. Mycroft, despite his annoying habit of stalking him on the CCTV cameras, cared about him. It was Mycroft who’d played with him as a young boy, sat with him through his countless drug-filled escapades, and saved his life on numerous occasions.
Sherlock, while keen on many things, had a shortcoming when it came to his own health and wellbeing, and if not for his elder brother, he would have died long ago.
Maybe he really was an idiot like Mycroft always said he was. But, he couldn’t apologize now. Mycroft had left and he probably wouldn’t be back anytime soon if past behavior was something to be depended on.
He sucked in a shaky breath but his breathing hitched halfway through and before he knew it, he was doubled over coughing harshly as his throat and lungs burned. He gasped for air as he tried to stop, but the coughing refused to abate and tears sprung at the corners of his eyes as he clawed at his chest.
Suddenly, strong arms were lifting his spasming body into an upright position and soft words coaxed a cool glass to his lips. Water slid down his aching throat and soothed the coughing as the liquid made its way down his esophagus.
The coughing finally ceased, and he collapsed back onto his pillows, his chest heaving up and down as he sucked in much-needed air. His eyes were still squeezed shut, the lids too heavy for him to open.
“Take this,” he heard before two pills were slipped into his mouth and washed down with more water.
“Mycroft?” He asked, confused. He distinctly remembered him leaving so why wasn’t he gone?
“I fear the fever has dulled your mind considerably, brother mine,” he heard the man chuckling, but it seemed to hold no joy. “I simply left to get some water and fever reducers and it’s a good thing I did.”
Still panting a bit, Sherlock cracked open one eye to look at his brother and was met with worried eyes. His stomach filled with a slight inkling of guilt when remembering that it was his fault his elder brother held such an expression.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice coming out in a sigh.
“Sleep now, brother mine,” Mycroft said, his voice low and uncharacteristically soft.
Sherlock listened to his voice, his mind filled with memories of the past before the world swam dizzily by and faded into darkness.
—
“Sherlock, Sherlock can you hear me?”
Was that…John’s voice?
He felt the pressure of a hand on his wrist and realized that someone—presumingly John—was taking his pulse. But where had his brother gone?
“Mycroft? Where?” His voice cracked painfully before he felt his body being lifted up and a glass was brought for him to drink from.
“Mycroft’s not here, Sherlock,” John said and Sherlock could sense his friend’s confusion. “It’s John.”
Now rightly confused, Sherlock opened his eyes despite the blinding light that assaulted him and peered around the room. He tried to sit up, but John pushed him back down.
“Stay still. You have a fever,” the man chastised but seemed more worried seeing his friend’s obvious confusion and distress.
“But…he was here…Mycroft…” Sherlock rambled as he tried to gather his muddled thoughts even though his mind was disobeying his orders. This is why he didn’t like getting sick. It messed with him.
Had he really imagined his brother coming here? But it had seemed so real.
He startled out of his thoughts as a comforting hand touched his shoulder and he turned to face John. “Try and relax, Sherlock. I arrived this morning to find you bedridden, but no one else was there. Mycroft certainly wasn’t.”
Sherlock blinked before he shook his head. Maybe John was right. Maybe he had imagined it. His fever had been quite high and people were known to hallucinate when the body temperature rose to unnatural levels.
So, he decided to listen to John and had just relaxed and became comfortable again before his phone buzzed. His eyes flickered over to the device before he looked at John expectantly. The other man rolled his eyes but handed the phone over.
Opening it, Sherlock’s eyes widened when he read who had texted.
Until next time, brother mine. But let’s not meet under the same circumstances again, shall we?
“Who was that?” John’s curious voice spoke and shook Sherlock out of his reverie.
“Hmm, oh, just a goldfish,” Sherlock replied and John looked at him with quizzical eyes before shrugging, his mind already accustomed to the other man’s unusual responses.
Sherlock turned off the phone before placing it on the bedside table and closing his eyes.
A goldfish indeed.