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When Sherlock had arrived half an hour ago, Mycroft recognised that his little brother wasn’t well. Exhausted, and raving. He knew the mood well.
Around twenty minutes ago, he had deduced that collapse was inevitable.
From there, he had merely observed.
The thing was, Sherlock thought he was being discreet, and to anyone else he might have been. However, from Mycroft’s perspective, Sherlock had all the subtlety of sledgehammer to the head.
From Sherlock’s perspective, it was easy to outwit his older brother. Mycroft had allowed this fiction for years. It was easier that way. If his little brother believed him slow, then he did not have to work very hard at all to get the truth.
He was seeing the fruits of his labour now.
“Are you even listening?” Sherlock grew impatient at the silence, shooting a glare toward Mycroft, who was sitting comfortably at his desk, as he often did, hands entwined and resting at his waistcoat.
“Yes.”
Sherlock stalled at Mycroft’s measured gaze, having expected more of a response.
“…Good.” He said finally, with some suspicion.
Mycroft gave him nothing.
Sherlock readjusted, taking off his coat and resumed his tirade.
Mycroft raised a questioning brow. Sherlock removing his coat was ordinary enough, except that he almost never removed it at all. That coat was more than warmth to his little brother. It was an extension of him. It made him feel cool and allowed him to turn his collar up for mystique.
This was also the same coat that Mycroft knew made Sherlock feel like a pirate captain, though he would never say it.
For a moment, Mycroft could see his little brother, merely seven years old.
“You’re staring.” Sherlock snapped, frowning at him.
“Am I?” Mycroft questioned, the confusion played up a touch.
“Don’t start.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He spoke conversationally, leaning back in his chair. “No sense in overburdening you.”
Sherlock’s gaze hardened as he absorbed his brother’s tone but quickly pivoted, unwilling to take the bait. He crossed the room to the window, fumbled with the latch and freed it. The cool air rushed in.
Mycroft watched him evenly.
Sherlock ran toward discomfort as an aesthetic. And now he was cracking a window.
Mycroft knew Sherlock was merely covering for the fact he was seeking air. The poor boy felt wretched, that much was clear to him. He didn’t bring attention to it.
“You never open the windows in here!” Sherlock exclaimed. “You just sit around in the dark, breathing in the same air all day. Don’t you ever change anything in here? Don’t you get bored?” Sherlock asked with agitation.
“Yes, I imagine I do, don’t I?” Mycroft mused, “It’s not what one would call stimulating work, but someone must do it.”
“Must they?”
Mycroft paused for a moment, brow knit, his gaze flicking away and then back as if he might find a hidden meaning in Sherlock’s petulance. When he found none, his eyes narrowed with confusion.
“…Yes.”
Sherlock exhaled sharply through his nose and swayed slightly.
Mycroft spotted it immediately.
“My advice? Though you so rarely take it.” Mycroft began, “Sit down. Before gravity makes the choice for you.”
Sherlock ignored him, straightening his posture in response.
Mycroft sighed.
“I was about to make tea; would you care for some?” Mycroft asked, gesturing.
“I don’t need any.” Sherlock responded tersely, sweat gathering at his hairline.
Mycroft noted the strain but made no mention of it. “I don’t remember tea being included in Maslow’s Hierarchy.” He sniped.
“Still no.” Sherlock responded, breathless. He was a touch paler now than he had been when he arrived.
“Mm.” Mycroft made a clipped sound of acknowledgement, unconvinced. He stood then to cross to the kitchenette.
Opening the tea draw, he rifled through the collection with discernment, like one might when selecting the right music for the evening.
Sherlock’s tirade continued in the backdrop of his acumen.
Earl grey, trite for this time of day.
“What I don’t understand is …”
Russian Caravan, a trifle robust.
“AND!”
Orange Pekoe, too indulgent.
“Then John said…”
Jasmine, too light.
“It wouldn’t do much good…”
English Breakfast.
Mycroft tilted his head with consideration as he brought the tin up to inspect it. Steady, dependable, one might go so far as to say digestif in the right circumstances.
He measured out the loose leaf, the equivalent of three bags. One for each person, and one for the pot.
After some steeping time, he crossed back to his desk and placed the tray down, noting how Sherlock had become quiet. Well, quieter.
“…and uh…” Sherlock blinked a couple of times as he staggered. “If…uh,” he attempted the thread again, but could not resume it.
Mycroft poured the first cup, then the second. He took the second, as was customary.
He let Sherlock spin his wheels, because his brother so often needed the dignity of trying. Interrupting too early only ensured Sherlock fought him, and intersecting too late meant Sherlock would fall.
Still, he stood now where he was sure Sherlock would land. He smoothed his tie idly.
“Sherlock, you’re going to faint.” He spoke finally, watching him with disbelief.
“I’m not – “
“You most assuredly are.” Mycroft said mildly.
“Are you always going to be this insufferable?” Sherlock retorted, earning him a deep sigh and a skyward glance.
“Yes. I imagine so.” Mycroft’s response held no judgment, no chastisement, only the weary understanding of someone who had been here many times before. “Tell me when you are quite done.” He added, as he took a measured sip of tea.
He leaned against his desk and waited.
It was several long minutes later before Sherlock started to stumble over his words in earnest.
Mycroft placed his cup and saucer down, off to the side.
“…Mycroft?” Sherlock said quietly.
“Mm?” Mycroft queried, sensing that Sherlock had finally hit a wall. He was already watching the tremor in Sherlock’s hands when he’d heard his name. He lifted his gaze to meet his.
“Please don’t call a doctor,” Sherlock murmured.
“We shan’t need one.” Mycroft responded without concern, and a small incline of his head.
Sherlock only had enough time for a flicker of confusion before sound dimmed, and his knees buckled.
“There we are.” With a practiced ease and without alarm, Mycroft caught his weight. One arm caught across his chest, the other braced behind his shoulders, redirecting the trajectory of the fall so that Sherlock collapsed into him.
“Easy – easy.” he murmured into Sherlock’s hair as their combined weight brought them both down to the floor. It wasn’t a graceful descent by any means, but it was with enough control that Sherlock’s head did not strike the ground.
Mycroft’s knees hit first. Then Sherlock’s body gave out against him, heavy with full surrender.
Mycroft exhaled sharply as he regained his composure. “Honestly,” he chided gently.
Sherlock was out only briefly, though longer than Mycroft would have liked.
As always, Sherlock had come out of it fighting. Wild but not violent.
His gaze skittered across the room, struggling to anchor. A faint, strained sound escaped him. He tried to move and discovered he was already being held, the resistance surprising him.
“Sherlock, you’re alright. Don’t try to get up.” Mycroft spoke steadily, anticipating the instinct before Sherlock had even fully formed it.
Sherlock shifted immediately, trying to push himself up from the floor.
Mycroft shook his head once, placing his hand at his shoulder decisively. “Sherlock, really. Don’t be so predictable.”
Sherlock tried again, stubborn and unfocused.
“Sherlock.” Mycroft lowered his voice, steady but not scolding. “Stay where you are or I will call a doctor.”
Sherlock stilled and shot Mycroft a dirty look.
Mycroft merely absorbed it, inciting only in the way he held his expression. Brow raised with challenge.
Sherlock knew better and slumped, defiant.
A beat.
“I felt – lightheaded,” Sherlock conceded, groggily.
“You’re exhausted,” Mycroft corrected gently. “Dehydrated. Underfed.” he paused, then added, “And an idiot.”
Sherlock huffed, incredulous, “Don’t lecture-“
“I wasn’t,” Mycroft said flatly. And he wasn’t.
Silence fell between them, and Sherlock trembled.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock’s voice shook.
“I know.” Mycroft pressed his thumb to his arm, reassuring. “There’s no rush. Let your body catch up.”
Sherlock adjusted with rising discomfort, “I’m – sick”
Mycroft took him seriously enough to look at him but was quickly convinced otherwise. “No.” Mycroft responded confidently, “Your breathing is wrong for it.”
Mycroft felt Sherlock’s protest before he spoke, and he stilled him with a glance.
“I’ve seen you ill often enough, brother mine. If I thought you would vomit, I would have fetched the bin.”
Sherlock exhaled sharply.
At that, Mycroft placed two fingers at Sherlock’s wrist, checking his pulse.
For once, Sherlock did not argue. He instead closed his eyes, allowing himself to receive the care being offered.
“Hm,” Mycroft hummed. “You’re still hypotensive, however.”
“…hate that word,” Sherlock grumbled.
“Then stop giving me a reason to use it.” Mycroft retorted with sass.
Sherlock opened his eyes just enough to look sideways at his brother with allegation. “You’re enjoying this.” He accused.
“I can assure you I am not.” Mycroft responded calmly, and matter of fact.
Sherlock huffed.
Their shared stillness deepened.
“You should have told me,” Mycroft said after a long silence, voice gentled. “You were heading for this an hour ago.”
“You already knew.”
“I did.” Mycroft responded, wearily. “Although a little cooperation from you now and then wouldn’t hurt.”
Sherlock did not speak, instead, he sighed, letting his weight lean fully against his brother. The smallest surrender Mycroft had learned to recognise as trust. He adjusted to accommodate the weight without fanfare.
“Better?” Sherlock asked with attitude.
“Much. Thank you.” Mycroft gave his arm an affectionate squeeze, and Sherlock did not bristle.