Mycroft Holmes was furiously typing a report for a conference he was to attend that coming Tuesday. He sighed and paused, rubbing his wrist lightly. It pained him but for what reason, he didn't know. He had asked one of his private doctors about it earlier, but he'd dismissed it easily.

"Probably just a beginnings of some arthritis. Surely nothing to worry about, Mister Holmes. I'd prescribe a few tablets of paracetamol." Doctor Whittler assured him.

Mycroft shook his head. "You must know I'm not a fan of medications, Doctor."

"Yes, but if it pains so much as to affect your work…" the doctor trailed off, letting the other man think for himself.

"Yes, right. Well, thank you."

And that was that. The appointment was short lived, unlike his wrist pain. Of course, Doctor Whittler was correct; even typing hurt. It was most inconvenient, enough that he actually considered taking the medicine. On top of this, his head had started to hurt. Fantastic.

"Mister Holmes?"

"Ah, Anthea."

Anthea smiled pleasantly, then frowned. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing." Mycroft returned the smile, his looking a little more deflated than hers.

She placed her arms on her hips and gave him a look. "Mycroft. I've been working for you for more than a few years. I've the ability to see when something's bothering you."

"Did you want something?" he asked flatly.

"Yes. Mister Gad was wondering if your financial report is finished."

Mycroft stared at his obviously uncompleted paper. "Er, no. It's not. Quite."

"Well, it needs to be soon. You know the meeting is—"

"Next Tuesday, yes, I'm aware."

"I guess you'll be fine without me for a while?" she mentioned, a certain coldness to her voice.

He pursed his lips. "I suppose, however, I don't recall giving you the day off."

"Family emergency." Anthea retorted, sending a quick text on her Blackberry. "Feel better soon." She called, turning on her heel.

"Feel better…? I'm not ill!" he shouted.


Sherlock abruptly stopped playing his piece.

"Why'd you stop?" John mumbled sleepily. He was laying on the couch, an open magazine on his chest. He hadn't gotten a good night's sleep, Sherlock had deducted, and just like he'd predicted, the sound of his violin soothed John to an almost-sleep.

Now, Sherlock was staring at his mobile.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was still thick with sleep.

"Er, text from Anthea."

"Anthea…?"

"Oh, don't act like you don't remember her, John."

"I don't." He retorted, an edge in his tone.

"The woman you… fancied? Mycroft sent her to kidnap you a while ago."

"Oh, yeah. Her… why's she texting you?"

Sherlock's frown was nearly audible. "She says something's the matter with Mycroft."

"The matter? He's been hurt?" John pushed himself into a seated position and rubbed his eyes.

"I don't think so."

"Well, what did she say exactly?"

"'Your brother is acting like an arse. Something's up.'"

John tried to keep from laughing. "Are they a thing?"

"If by 'thing' you mean 'couple', no. Not to my knowledge."

John grinned. "Please tell me you can at least deduce that."

Sherlock was confused. "Deduce what?"

"That woman, Anthea, or whatever her actual name is, she likes Mycroft."

"Obviously." Sherlock scoffed. "He is her employer."

"No, you—I mean to say I think she's in love with him."

Sherlock stared blankly at his friend. "You can't be serious." He appeared worried, concerned even.

John nodded slowly. "I think so… are you okay mate?" It almost looked as if the detective was going to cry. "Sherlock?"

Instead, he did quite the opposite. He burst into a fit of giggles. "Oh, John! This is fantastic! Better than a case, nearly. I can hold this over his head foryears." Sherlock emphasised with a final leap off platform he was standing on. "Perfect, let's go pay him a visit."

"Right now?"


Mycroft re-read his report carefully. He made some minor edits and winced as he did so, then wiped his brow. He was sweating and found the room itself to be unbearably hot. It hadn't even been a month since Mycroft had gotten rid of that horrid case of strep throat. Now Anthea was right about him being ill? Oh, how he hated being proved wrong. At least she wasn't present now…

Mycroft saved his document while loosening his mint-coloured tie, then removed his jacket.

As he was unbuttoning his dress shirt, Mycroft noticed something extremely strange. An angry red rash had appeared on his normally pale chest. He traced the peculiar pattern with his fingertips, cursing to himself. He hadn't seen this in a long time.

Suddenly, Sherlock burst into the room, giving his older brother only seconds to close his open shirt. "Sh-Sherlock!" he stammered, apparently surprised.

Sherlock grinned. "You never told me you were in love."

John trailed in behind him like a loyal puppy. "Hello, Mycroft."

"How did you even get in here?" Mycroft asked Sherlock, annoyance dripping from his voice.

Anthea strode in the office, smiling. "I let them in."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at her. "Why ever would you do such a horrid thing?"

Sherlock feigned hurt. "Oh, truly?"

"You're obviously ill or injured. Something is wrong with you." she replied, arms akimbo.

Unknown to all others, John had been making deductions of his own the whole time. Mycroft's defensive attitude, his tie and jacket discarded on the back of his chair, the sweat lining his brow and the hint of a rash peeking out from his loose shirt… it all made sense.

John cleared his throat. "Mycroft, is that a rash on your—"

"No." Mycroft answered quickly.

Sherlock squinted. "Yes, clearly there's a… Oh. Oh." he repeated. "Mycroft, you don't…? Have you even had…?"

"Nothing's the matter with me! I've a conference with three world dignitaries in a matter of days, so if you all would kindly be on your way…"

John shook his head. "No, I think we'll have to stay here actually. I will, anyway." He walked over to the man and unbuttoned the rest of his shirt.

"John Watson!" Mycroft spat. "It's none of your business what's under my—"

"God, what is that?" Anthea gasped, pointing at the red pattern across his chest.

Sherlock blinked with an eerie sense of calm about him. "An apparent, red rash. Fever. Swollen joints. My brother has a case of rheumatic fever. Again."


AN - Onto the next story! This was a request from someone on AO3 who requested that I do a sick!Mycroft fic in which he has a recurring childhood illness. It'll definitely be a multi-fic. Thanks so much to everyone who reads it! Reviews are appreciated. ALSO, I attempted to post a poll, but I'm not quite sure if anyone can see it or how it works. If anyone has some advice on this or if they are able to view it, let me know! Hope you all have a great night!

Disclaimer - From this chapter and the chapters that follow in "Playing Patient", I realise that I do not own Sherlock. All rights to Sherlock go to all it's wonderful writers, producers and director. Thank you!