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"Your brother was here 3 days ago," John grumbled. "Why is he here again?" He was at the window, looking out at the busy street below.
Sherlock poked his head out of his bedroom door, just as he did, he sneezed.
"What the- you're sick?"
"Cold, yes. Nothing big."
"Do you want me to get rid of him?"
Sherlock tried to shake his head but groaned at the headache, he raised his hand to his temple as if that would shoo it away.
"No. He's here for me."
"You aren't going out on a case looking like that," he crossed the room and helped the detective to the couch.
"That's not why he's here. I called him."
"What? Why?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and grumbled as he settled onto the cushions. "Because he always comes when I'm sick. And he gets real mad at me when I don't tell him."
"It's a cold."
"And mummy and daddy were always busy when I was a kid. It's his thing."
Mycroft let himself in and he had a big tub of ice-cream in his hand.
"Good morning, Doctor Watson."
John just nodded once. "He said he called you."
"He did... You find that hard to believe."
"Because the last time he called you it was to scream abuse down the phone."
Sherlock snorted and covered his face with a pillow.
"Ahh, well little brother dear is a completely different person while sick. Is that the kettle I hear?"
"No," John straightened. "But I can take a hint."
"And bring spoons," Sherlock called through, cutting off in a sneezing fit.
John rolled his eyes. "Fine. But I'm bringing 3."