Undesirable Side Effects: (Sherlock) Part 3/3 updated Feb. 7

[matilda3948]

Hi all! "The Abominable Bride" wrecked me in so many wonderful ways. I'm not sure if this will be a one-shot or if I want to have some of the other characters make an appearance. Obviously spoilers for the Sherlock Christmas Special. Hope you like!

**

Sherlock groaned as he started to become aware of his surroundings again. Baker Street. Odd. He didn't remember coming back to the apartment. He remembered regaining consciousness on the plane and John making sure he wasn't likely to die, and giving his brother the list.

His brother.

Sherlock sighed and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. There were a number of undesirable side effects from the drugs, but none so unpleasant as what they did to his brother. The tone of his voice, the absolute fatigue and unguarded worry in his face. Only narcotics could do that to Mycroft Holmes and he didn't even have to be the one to take them. Sherlock pressed his hands against his face even harder, his fingers coming up to rub his throbbing forehead. Despite feeling like he’d been hit by a truck there was work to do—critical work that couldn’t wait until his transport got over his very near overdose.

“Sherlock? You alright, mate?”

Lestrade then. Sherlock sighed and pried his eyes open even though they felt weighted down and hot. He blinked several times struggling to bring the room into focus, a task that seemed to take make longer than it should. It took a moment before the silver haired inspector’s face cleared up. He looked exhausted, five o’clock shadow creeping in and dark circles ringing his eye. Sherlock attempted to ask a question but frowned when a sharp pain in his throat choked his voice off causing him to cough into his fist. He felt the sofa dip and Lestrade pat him firmly between the shoulder blades. When he opened his eyes he saw the older man holding a glass of water for him. Sherlock guzzled the whole thing without taking a breath.

“Where’s John?” he finally asked.

“He’s with Mary at her doctor’s appointment,” Greg said.

“Her appointment isn’t until Wednesday.”

“It is Wednesday,” Greg said. “You’ve barely moved from that sofa in two days. Not surprised you don’t remember. You’ve been—”

hhNGSHH! hhsngSHH!

“Bless you.” Greg got up and grabbed a box of tissues off the nearby desk, pulling out a handful and holding them out to the consulting detective. Sherlock scowled but took them nonetheless, mostly because he could feel another sneeze threatening. He held the tissues to his nose, eyes closed and waited.

huh Huhh…hhIHGNSHH! ngtSHHoo!

“Bless you again.” Sherlock nodded slightly and opened his eyes. “Like I was saying,” Greg continued, “Not surprised you don’t remember. You’ve had a raging fever for the last two days. John thinks at least a sinus infection, maybe bronchitis in addition. Said he won’t know for sure until he can properly examine you. The drug overdose probably didn’t help your case either.”

“Moriarty?” Sherlock asked, attempting to stand. His head was swimming with congestion and he fell back onto the sofa when the room suddenly tipped sideways.

“Relax. There’s been no news on Moriarty,” Greg said. He watched as Sherlock tried to steel himself for another attempt to stand. Greg was at his side in an instant. “Sherlock stop,” he said firmly. This time Sherlock managed to stay on his feet but only because Greg was taking half his weight.

“John and Mary. Molly. I have to huhh…hhGSNshhhoo!”

“Bless you, Sherlock. Everyone is fine. Sit down and I’ll tell you what’s being done.” Greg knew Sherlock’s legs were about to give out and he could feel the heat still radiating off the younger man.

“M’fide. I need to—”

“You need to sit down. You’re sick, Sherlock.”

“Lestrade, there is no time to waste. I have to get to work.” The statement was punctuated with a hoarse, rattling cough. Greg sighed.

“I’ll tell you what, if you can make it down the stairs on your own you can go.” With that, he stepped back and let Sherlock try and make it to the front door under his own power. He made it all of four wobbly steps before his strength gave out and he crumpled to his hands and knees. For a moment Greg thought he might actually try and crawl towards the staircase but a sneezing fit arrested his progress.

huhgnschh! GntSHHoo! hhSNSSHHHoo! huhh ehh hhNTSCHHHoo!

Greg shook his head. It was pathetic almost to the point of comedy watching Sherlock on his hands and knees repeatedly sneezing towards the floor but still refusing to admit defeat.

huhIHGNSCHHoo!

“Bless you. Here.” Greg crouched down and held out a handful of fresh tissues. Sherlock eased back onto his heels and blew his nose. His face was flushed but Greg wasn’t sure if it was fever, frustration, embarrassment, or some combination. He pushed a few damp curls away from Sherlock’s face and rested his hand on his forehead. Definitely a fever. Greg shifted his hand and cupped Sherlock’s face, turning his head towards him. “Are you ready to stop acting like a stubborn child and listen to me?” he asked. Sherlock didn’t say anything and that was as good as a yes. “Mycroft has teams with John and Mary, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, even me. There are agents watching Baker Street, New Scotland Yard, St. Bart’s and no one goes anywhere without an escort. There’s been no additional communication from Moriarty and nothing suspicious has happened. Everyone is safe.”

“No one is safe, Lestrade,” Sherlock rasped. Greg looked at him and sighed. He gently patted the side of Sherlock’s face and stood up, his knees protesting a bit.

“We’re holding the tide at bay for now,” he said. “But you’re the one who will have to end this. All the more reason for you to get healthy as quickly as possible before the storm.” He held his hand out to help Sherlock off the floor. After a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock accepted the help and let Greg haul him to his feet and back to the sofa. He was shaky by the time he sat back down and Greg grabbed the discarded blanket off the floor and wrapped it around Sherlock’s shoulders. “I’ll get you some tea.”

In the kitchen, Greg resisted the urge to spike Sherlock’s tea with whiskey—both their teas really. He was glad he’d been here when he woke up. Clearly he couldn’t be left on his own and John was still angry about the drugs and Mrs. Hudson didn’t have the strength to haul him off the floor. Despite the long hours at work, Greg was glad to take shifts keeping an eye on the genius.

The genius in question looked close to falling asleep sitting up but Greg really wanted to get some tea and medicine into him before he did. A sudden gasp caught his attention and he looked up just in time to Sherlock jerk forward with a painful sounding sneeze.

HUHihsgnsSHHH! GnSHHoo!

“Bless you. These aren’t just for decoration you know,” Greg said putting the box of tissues right in the middle of Sherlock’s lap.

hhIGKTsschhh! NGKT’SHHHoo!

Greg winced and put Sherlock’s tea down next to him, then grabbed two of the medications John had prescribed and put the pills on the table as well.

“Christ, you sound terrible,” he said, sitting down with his own tea. The lack of scathing retort was nearly as concerning as the younger man’s cough. Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around the mug and shivered, sniffling miserably.

“I feel terrible,” he finally whispered.

“It’s the heroin,” Greg said quietly. “You always get sick after heroin. For some reason it does a number on your immune system.”

“Hmm.”

They sat quietly for a few minutes. Sherlock nursed his tea and finally took the pills.

“Were you sick before you got on the plane as well, or just high?” Greg asked.

“Both,” he said, breath wavering as Sherlock reached for the tissues.

huhh…hhGSNshhhoo!

“Bless you.”

"Aren't you going to get it over with and yell at me?"

"I'm not going to yell at you," Greg said.

"Tell me how disappointed you are, lecture me on my health, call me reckless, etc."

"Not going to do that either."

"Why not? Those seem to be the only available options," Sherlock said.

"Nope. I'm going to sit right here, be glad that you're alive, and do whatever you need in order to recover—physically and mentally."

“If you’re planning on staying that long you might want to find a more comfortable chair.”

Concern washed across Greg’s face. Sherlock was not prone to self-deprecating comments. The last few weeks had obviously taken a toll and Sherlock was still reeling even if he wouldn’t admit it. He frowned when the younger man shivered again and Greg went to go get another blanket from the closet.

“You’re a wreck, Sherlock. Settle back down and get some more sleep,” he said.

hhGNTsshhh! huhSNSHHHoo!

“Bless you.” He shook out the second blanket and let it fall over Sherlock’s body.

“Thank you, Lestrade.”

Edited February 8, 2016 by matilda3948

[SneezyHolmes]

Adorable! <3

[cally]

Concern washed across Greg’s face. Sherlock was not prone to self-deprecating comments. The last few weeks had obviously taken a toll and Sherlock was still reeling even if he wouldn’t admit it. He frowned when the younger man shivered again and Greg went to go get another blanket from the closet.

Awwww. Poor lamb.

This is absolutely lovely and I look forward to its continuation!

[stargazer]

I really like this. Hope you decide to continue.

[tma]

Oooooo!!!!! YAY!!! :wub:

Am loving this!

Will comment more coherently later- but wanted to let you know that I really enjoyed this

[JustASneeze]

Eeeek this is so cute. I love it. Keep up the good work cuz I hope to see more!

[AngelEyes]

"The Abominable Bride" wrecked me in so many wonderful ways.

Me too!!!

There were a number of undesirable side effects from the drugs, but none so unpleasant as what they did to his brother. The tone of his voice, the absolute fatigue and unguarded worry in his face. Only narcotics could do that to Mycroft Holmes and he didn't even have to be the one to take them.

This breaks my heart! You have it so right. He looked so shattered in the episode. You captured that perfectly.

“I’ll tell you what, if you can make it down the stairs on your own you can go.” With that, he stepped back and let Sherlock try and make it to the front door under his own power.

This is so Lestrade!

In the kitchen, Greg resisted the urge to spike Sherlock’s tea with whiskey—both their teas really.

Definitely both.

"Nope. I'm going to sit right here, be glad that you're alive, and do whatever you need in order to recover—physically and mentally."

“If you’re planning on staying that long you might want to find a more comfortable chair.”

Concern washed across Greg’s face. Sherlock was not prone to self-deprecating comments.

This is very Lestrade. No fuss. No drama. Just deal with the situation. I like the sort of sad tone Sherlock has. Like he knows he's a mess, but he's not quite sure what to do about it.

I really like this! Would love if you continue.

[silentdreamer789]

Wonderful

[matilda3948]

Awww! Thank you all so much for the kind feedback. I wanted to post this piece before I go to bed. Too tired to proofread it tonight so I apologize for typos. I'll come back and fix them tomorrow when I'm not so sleepy . I figured typos were better than waiting another day.

**

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to fall into an uneasy sleep. Greg grabbed a couple files he’d brought from the office and settled into a chair to read and keep watch. An hour later he heard someone coming up the stairs; he stood up and took a few steps towards Sherlock just in case someone had slipped through the net Mycroft had cast around Baker Street. However it turned out to be none other than the British Government himself. Greg nodded his head towards the sleeping man on the sofa and Mycroft nodded in understanding.

“Fancy a drink?” Greg whispered.

“God yes,” Mycroft said. “Give me a moment.”

Greg went into the kitchen while Mycroft took a moment to examine Sherlock. He frowned when he saw how gaunt and ill his brother looked. Still feverish, terribly congested, and restless. Mycroft sighed and straightened the blankets before joining Greg in the kitchen. He accepted the glass of whisky with a nod.

“Not quite up to your usual standards but better than nothing,” Greg said, taking a sip of his own drink. The sat down at the kitchen table and kept their voices low.

“And how has the patient been today?” Mycroft asked.

“He tried escaping a bit earlier,” Greg said, eliciting something between a sigh and a growl from Mycroft. “Don’t worry. He made it all of four feet before his legs gave out and he had to sit there sneezing his head off. I got him sorted out.”

“I appreciate you putting up with his antics.”

“Oh, he’s asleep. You can drop the heartless big brother bit,” Greg said. A comfortable quiet settled over the two men for a few minutes. Finally it was Mycroft who broke it.

“Has he eaten?”

“Just tea. Bloody fever won’t break and you know what it’s like to try and get him to eat when he’s like that.”

“This is almost like old times,” Mycroft said, draining his drink. Greg ran a hand over his face and sighed. It was true that this was not the first time that the two of them had shared a drink while Sherlock slept off his latest foray into the drug world.

“Was hoping we were past this with him, you know?”

“He will always be vulnerable no matter what he likes to think,” Mycroft said.

“Family trait.”

“Hmm.” Mycroft poured himself another drink. “I’ll stay with him for now. You’ve got the early shift tomorrow and there’ve been no developments so there’s no reason you shouldn’t get a decent night’s sleep. I fear this may be a marathon—we must take advantage of the respite while we can.”

“You sure?” Greg asked. As exhausted as he was, he wasn’t sure it was wise to leave the two brothers alone.

“Positive. He may be stubborn but he’s weak as a kitten when he’s detoxing and ill on top of it. I’m confident I can manage him for a few hours.”

**

He sat on the edge of the sofa and placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Calm down, little brother,” he murmured. Mycroft had watched him struggle with a nightmare for the better part of five minutes but it seemed to be getting worse not better, so he was doing his best to coax his brother back into a peaceful sleep. “Sherlock, it’s in your mind. Send it away and sleep.”

Sherlock shot up with a strangled gasp, his eyes wide and panicked. He immediately began coughing into one hand, the other clutching his throat. Through teary eyes he could make out Mycroft holding a glass of water and the moment he was able, Sherlock grabbed it and took a couple sips. His brother then traded the glass for a handkerchief and did his best to look passively disinterested as Sherlock continued to struggle.

huhgmfschh! NtSHHoo! hhSNSSHHH! huhh ehh hhMFSHHHoo!

“Good heavens. Bless you brother.”

Sherlock didn’t respond but sat upright at the edge of the sofa and rested his head in his hands.

“I’m afraid I have no substantial update for you,” Mycroft said. “There’s been no chatter, no indication whatsoever of—”

“Shut up,” Sherlock said raising a hand in his brother’s direction.

“Come now, Sherlock. There’s work to be done and withdrawal and a case of the sniffles is no reason to…Oh.” He stopped the moment Sherlock lifted his head and looked at him. “I see,” Mycroft said quietly, shifting so he could sit directly next to Sherlock.

HUHihsgnsSHHH! GnSHHoo!

“Bless you.”

Sherlock made a tight noise in his throat that could have been a whimper and Mycroft sighed.

“Your body is just readjusting, Sherlock. The drugs flood your system with dopamine and now you’re—”

“I know the chemistry!” Sherlock growled. Mycroft leaned down so his lips were close to his brother’s ear.

“Then you know it will not last. Now close your eyes and breathe.”

Mycroft may have been something of a connoisseur of panic attacks but they didn’t happen frequently to the younger Holmes. A likely combination of withdrawal, nightmares, and illness had now come together to utterly overwhelm Sherlock’s system. Mycroft rolled up his shirt sleeve and took one of Sherlock’s hands, prying open the clenched fist, and wrapping Sherlock’s fingers around his wrist. It was something they had discovered years ago, a trick to “reset” Sherlock’s own malfunctioning nervous system. Sherlock found the pulse point in Mycroft’s wrist and pressed his fingers down, feeling the steady (and considerably slower) beat of his brother’s heart. Sherlock focused on the feeling and Mycroft made his breathing more audible—an attempt to set a more reasonable respiration rate for Sherlock to follow.

It took 7 minutes, 32 seconds by Mycroft’s estimation before it was over. Sherlock dropped his brother’s wrist and Mycroft immediately rebuttoned his shirt cuff. He went into the kitchen and refilled Sherlock’s water glass, setting it down on the coffee table.

“Drink all of it, Sherlock,” he said. While his hands shook, Sherlock wordlessly drank the entire glass and Mycroft nodded his approval. “You’re going to eat as well,” he said.

“Not hungry.” His voice was heavy with congestion and even lower than usual.

“It wasn’t a request. Man cannot survive on tea alone, brother mine.”

He’s too tired to put up a fight, Mycroft noted with worry. A docile Sherlock was a very unwell Sherlock indeed. He watched as the younger man rubbed his nose in an attempt to stave off a sneeze. Seconds later he picked up the handkerchief off his lap and held it a few inches from his face, head tilted back slightly, chapped lips parted as his breathing grew shallow.

huh Huhh…hhIHGNSHH! ngtSHHoo!

“God bless you.”

huhh…hhGSNshhhoo!

“And again.”

hhSNSSHHH! huhh ehh hhMFSHHHoo!

“And again, Sherlock.”

He waved a hand in Mycroft’s general direction, either as acknowledgment or a signal to not bother, before blowing his nose until he felt his ears pop. Sherlock scowled when he looked up to see his brother still standing there, arms crossed, not even making the smallest attempt to hide his concern.

“M’fide.”

“Clearly,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “Might I suggest a shower? You look dreadful. Your food should be ready by the time you finish.”

“You cooked?” Sherlock looked incredulous.

“Don’t be absurd. I ordered food during one of your disgusting sneezing fits earlier. Carried on long enough you didn’t even notice.”

“You have all of London’s restaurants on speed dial—Oh sod it. I feel too awful to do this bit. Just tell me what you ordered.”

“A wild caught salmon fillet with mixed summer vegetables in a white wine sauce,” Mycroft said as he helped Sherlock stand up from the sofa. He watched his brother turn slightly green. “But that’s for me. I ordered you two grilled cheese sandwiches and a cup of plain chicken broth. Had to order off the children’s menu.” Mycroft watched as at least five different emotions passed over Sherlock’s face in as many seconds. “Shower,” he reminded him. “You’re beginning to smell.” Sherlock’s face relaxed.

“With a nose like that, I’m sure hehh…ehhh…everything smells. huhgnschh! GntSHHoo!”

“Bless you. Yes, you’re terribly clever, little brother. Now go.”

[AngelEyes]

“Oh, he’s asleep. You can drop the heartless big brother bit,” Greg said. A comfortable quiet settled over the two men for a few minutes. Finally it was Mycroft who broke it.

I love that camaraderie between these two. Just lovely.

Mycroft may have been something of a connoisseur of panic attacks but they didn’t happen frequently to the younger Holmes. A likely combination of withdrawal, nightmares, and illness had now come together to utterly overwhelm Sherlock’s system. Mycroft rolled up his shirt sleeve and took one of Sherlock’s hands, prying open the clenched fist, and wrapping Sherlock’s fingers around his wrist. It was something they had discovered years ago, a trick to “reset” Sherlock’s own malfunctioning nervous system. Sherlock found the pulse point in Mycroft’s wrist and pressed his fingers down, feeling the steady (and considerably slower) beat of his brother’s heart. Sherlock focused on the feeling and Mycroft made his breathing more audible—an attempt to set a more reasonable respiration rate for Sherlock to follow.

I love this so much. Mycroft's experience with panic attacks. His solution for Sherlock. Such a perfect connection between the two. Mycroft being the rock pulling Sherlock through.

huh Huhh…hhIHGNSHH! ngtSHHoo!

“God bless you.”

huhh…hhGSNshhhoo!

“And again.”

hhSNSSHHH! huhh ehh hhMFSHHHoo!

“And again, Sherlock.”

I love the "and again"!

“With a nose like that, I’m sure hehh…ehhh…everything smells. huhgnschh! GntSHHoo!”

“Bless you. Yes, you’re terribly clever, little brother. Now go.”

LOL

I love this story!

[ID2006]

....breathless....please more

[cally]

Awwww Greg and Mycroft.

Mycroft rolled up his shirt sleeve and took one of Sherlock’s hands, prying open the clenched fist, and wrapping Sherlock’s fingers around his wrist. It was something they had discovered years ago, a trick to “reset” Sherlock’s own malfunctioning nervous system. Sherlock found the pulse point in Mycroft’s wrist and pressed his fingers down, feeling the steady (and considerably slower) beat of his brother’s heart. Sherlock focused on the feeling and Mycroft made his breathing more audible—an attempt to set a more reasonable respiration rate for Sherlock to follow.

*wibbles*

“Don’t be absurd. I ordered food during one of your disgusting sneezing fits earlier. Carried on long enough you didn’t even notice.”

Pot, kettle, black- Mycroft?

“Bless you. Yes, you’re terribly clever, little brother. Now go.”

Yes, terribly clever Sherlock.

I do truly love this.

[JustASneeze]

Fantastic progression here. Keep up the good work cuz I'm really enjoying reading it after daily classes.

[matilda3948]

Thank you guys!! I'm really glad you all liked this story. I had lots of fun writing it and although this story is done (it feels done) I'm sure I'll write other followups from TAB.

Matilda

***

Mycroft watched another chill wrack Sherlock’s body and he pocketed his mobile.

“I think it’s time for bed,” he said.

“You’re not my mother.”

“No, but I could always call her if you refuse to cooperate.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Do you really want to chance it?” Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow. Whatever answer Sherlock had ready was cut off by a rattling cough that caused him to nearly double over. Mycroft sighed and sat down on the sofa next to his brother and rubbed slow circles on his back until he was able to calm his breathing. Once he did, Sherlock didn’t move away and Mycroft pretended not to notice, allowing them to simply sit there for a few moments. Sherlock seemed far away. Not in his mind palace—this was an unfocused, glassy sort of distance, his eyes open but not seeing. Mycroft pressed a hand to his forehead and Sherlock’s eyes drifted shut. “You’re too warm,” Mycroft said. “Get into bed.” Sherlock stood slowly, his body achy and stiff and wandered into his bedroom. He paused just as he reached the threshold and was suddenly thrown forward by a violent pair of sneezes he just managed to catch in his hands.

hhGNTsshhhoo! huhSNSHHHoo!

“Bless you.” Mycroft sidestepped his brother and straightened the tangled mess of sheets and blankets on the bed. Nightmares, he noted to himself. He cleared off the bedside table and put a glass of water and fresh box of tissues within easy reach. After flopping onto the mattress and yanking the blankets up to his chin, Sherlock shivered so hard Mycroft was surprised his teeth didn’t chatter. Going into the bathroom, Mycroft sifted through the drawers until he found a thermometer and got a clean flannel, wetting it in the sink. When he came back he found his younger brother on the precipice of a sneeze—no, three sneezes, Mycroft corrected himself. Not that he would admit it to anyone, but he did feel slightly bad as he watched Sherlock’s breath stutter, a handful of tissues at the ready, and the dampness gathering at the corner of his eyes from the constant irritation.

hhSNSSHHH! NtSHHoo! huhh ehh hhMFSHHHoo!

“Bless you, little brother.

“Thag you,” he rasped. His voice had been growing weaker all evening and by Mycroft’s estimate, his brother would have full-blown laryngitis by morning. Worse things could happen, he supposed. Once Sherlock had settled back into bed Mycroft sat on the edge and put the cool, wet cloth on his brother’s forehead.

“I’m surprised it didn’t sizzle when it hit your skin,” Mycroft mumbled, slipping the thermometer in Sherlock’s mouth. He took advantage of Sherlock’s forced silence to take stock of what he was dealing with. He hadn’t planned on staying the night but he could see that Sherlock was in no state to be left on his own. His frown deepened at the high number blinking back at him on the thermometer. “Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, getting up and going back to the en-suite. Armed with another damp flannel, Mycroft began blotting the sides of Sherlock’s face and neck. He found it somewhat unnerving the way Sherlock’s heavy eyes tracked his every movement—he had to be beyond exhausted. “Close your eyes, Sherlock,” he finally said, but the younger man just shook his head. “Why on earth not?” Mycroft demanded.

“Moriarty,” he whispered.

“For goodness sake, Sherlock. Moriarty’s dead.”

“Doesn’t maahh heh—matter.” He took two tissues from the box on the nightstand. huhh ehh hhMFSHHHoo!

“Bless you.”

The brothers locked eyes for a moment and Mycroft was horrified when he saw tears threatening to fall down Sherlock’s face. This was well outside of his comfort zone but worry, fatigue, withdrawal, and illness were chipping away at his younger brother piece by piece. Where was Dr. Watson when he needed him? Or Inspector Lestrade? Even Doctor Hooper or Mrs. Hudson? Basically, anyone other than him to deal with this situation.

“Stop that, Sherlock,” he said quietly. “Tears help nothing.” Mycroft toed off his shoes and shifted so he was leaning against the headboard next to his brother. He could feel Sherlock shaking with chills and felt his ability to keep his concern in check waiver slightly. Mycroft pulled a handful of tissues from the box and handed them to his brother.

huhgmfschh! NtSHHoo! hhSNSSHHH! huhh ehh hhMFSHHHoo!

“Bless you, brother mine. Here.” Mycroft held out more tissues, knowing there were more sneezes on their way.

Hahmschhoo! hhSHHoo! hehh AhhMFSHHHoo!

“Bless you again, Sherlock.”

A low groan was all he received in return. Well, that and a terrible sounding cough that tore at Sherlock’s throat. When he finally settled down, Sherlock all but collapsed against the pillows. Mycroft smoothed the blankets out and checked his forehead for fever again—no worse but little better. Mycroft’s hand drifted backwards and he smoothed Sherlock’s hair back from his warm forehead. When he felt his brother relax slightly, Mycroft repeated the action and began speaking in a low voice.

“Listen to me now, Sherlock. It’s vital that you close your eyes and get some sleep. Moriarty, or whoever is operating on his behalf, will not strike while you’re ill. It’s too much like cheating and he would never settle for a hollow victory.” Mycroft fished his phone out of his pocket and sent a quick text. Thirty seconds later it chimed several times in quick succession. He scrolled through and read back the responses. “Mrs. Hudson is safe at her sister’s. Lestrade has turned in for the evening. Doctor Hooper is at a pub with friends and being watched by two of my best agents—not that she knows of course. And John and Mary are at their flat watching a movie. Everyone is safe. You have my word.” Sherlock yawned and slide down in the bed until his head was nearly in Mycroft’s lap. “Hmm. In for a penny, in for a pound I suppose,” Mycroft mumbled. He put a pillow across his legs and directed Sherlock to put his head down before resuming running his fingers through that unruly dark hair. Just as he thought Sherlock was about to drift off, Mycroft saw his nose twitch and he just managed to hand his brother a tissue.

HahNTsshhhoo! huhSHHHoo!

“Bless you.”

“You should tell your people who run those solitary prison cells they might consider turning on the heat every now and then,” Sherlock said. “Impossible not to get ill after a week in that damp, freezing pit.” He rubbed his nose in the tissue and then nudged his head against Mycroft’s hand.

“Yes, well perhaps you should consider not doing things that land you in solitary prison cells,” Mycroft said, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair once again. Sherlock forced his eyes open and he looked up at his brother.

“I am sorry, Mycroft.”

“I know, brother mine. I know. Now sleep.”

Edited February 8, 2016 by matilda3948

[cally]

Oh, poor Sherlock. That being said caring!Mycroft is one of my absolute favourite things and you did it so well.

I look forward to more TAB stories from you.

[Subtly Clashing Wishes]

Oh yes, what Cally said! Your Sherlock and Mycroft scenes are marvelous. Ok, the whole story was marvelous, but my favorite parts were the Sherlock and Mycroft scenes. I love the way Sherlock just gave in bit by bit to Mycroft. Please don't hesitate to write more if the mood strikes you!

[AngelEyes]

Aww! Caring!Mycroft is the best! I love how he feels so out of his depth but actually does really well at it. Great story!

[kushamisukii]

Omg why was this so cute

I love the bit where he was feeling his pulse to calm down.

I loved the brother caring so sweet

Ahhh so good ! I love the idea also of Sherlock sneezing while in withdrawal ..

<3