"M- Mycroft?"

Mycroft Holmes looked up. Seven-year-old Sherlock was standing in the doorway of the study, clutching his small blanket and looking very unhappy.

"What?" Mycroft snapped. "I'm busy. And why aren't you in bed?"

"I don't feel so good," the little boy whispered. "Mummy won't be home until much later, and Daddy's not here, and I-"

Mycroft grabbed his brother's thin shoulders and hurried him out of the study. "Do not throw up in here, Sherlock. I mean it."

Sherlock gripped the blanket tighter, his face a very attractive shade of old porridge. "I don't feel good," he reiterated in a whisper. "But not like I'm going to throw up. I just feel- awful, all hot and thirsty and awful."

"It might be fever," Mycroft mumbled distractedly, leading Sherlock down the hall and back into his bedroom. "Go and lie down. I'll get you something to drink."

Sherlock climbed onto the bed and collapsed onto it, not even bothering to get underneath the blanket. Mycroft left the room, returning shortly with a glass of water and a thermometer.

"Open up," he commanded, shoving the thermometer into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock squirmed uncomfortably. Mycroft ordered him to stay still. Sherlock moaned. The thermometer beeped.

"101.5," Mycroft reported. "You're staying in bed. Drink your water and get some sleep."

"Will you come check on me?" the patient asked plaintively. Mycroft groaned.

"Periodically. Now drink up and go to sleep."