Mycroft should have known better. He should have known that with Sherlock, simple things are never just that. Not even a visit. Especially not a visit requested by John Watson to, "Make sure the git is still breathing." And anyway, Mycroft should have known that easy hasn't been in Sherlock's nature since he was brought into this world.
Doctor Watson has been gone for five days on a medical conference, which in Sherlock's exaggeratory nature must feel like a lifetime. The phone call hadn't been unexpected, nor had the worry in John's voice or the fact that Mycroft had been second choice to one Greg Lestrade.
Two days ago Sherlock had stopped answering John's persistent phone calls and texts. Mycroft even considered ignoring John's worry, used to Sherlock's antics, for a quiet night in after a begrudgingly long week of work. But then Mycroft's own niggling worry even gets the best of him sometimes. Sherlock ignoring him is a lifelong occurrence. Sherlock ignoring John Watson is...unusual.
He has long suspected a change in the nature of John and his brother's relationship. Of course, Sherlock would never confide in him on that.
"Sir, we've arrived." Anthea's voice cuts off his musings and he nods appreciatively before exiting the car and striding up to the door.
Mrs. Hudson is away at her sisters and so Mycroft uses the emergency key that Sherlock, of course, knows about, but seems to have deemed it useless to argue the fact.
The flat is quiet.
Mycroft halts his movements, intently listening for any sounds of domesticity or more likely in Sherlock's case, distress. Even the sound of one footfall will alert Sherlock to his presence, so he need not bother mounting the stairs quietly.
The sitting room looks to be in order- no messier than usual. But what alerts Mycroft to the first thing out of place is Sherlock's bedroom door. Closed. Sherlock never shuts his door, unless it is in someone's face or at the request of his mother as a young child. Or, of course, there is his brother's terrible habit.
Wasting no time, he strides to it, turning the handle and pushing it open.
Sherlock looks-to be frank-awful.
His brother is sitting up in bed, knees bent and white bed sheets clutched in a tight fist. Bloodshot eyes stare into the corner of the room and a glint of light from outside reveals tears streaming down his cheeks. Despite the warm air of his bedroom, he is shivering.
"Sherlock," Mycroft whispers, not wanting to startle him even more. "What's happened?"
Sherlock flinches, glancing at his brother as another tear trails down his cheek. "John." His voice is hoarse and strained through gasping breaths. "Get John. Please."
At first, Mycroft considers the possibility that something has happened to the good doctor, but he is sure would have been informed immediately.
With fingers slightly numb and fumbling, Mycroft pulls his phone from his pocket.
The call is answered after two rings.
Mycroft?" John always answers his phone calls with ambivalence, but right now Mycroft doesn't even have it in him to roll his eyes.
"He needs you." He doesn't mean to keep his reason for calling quite so short, but his eyes refuse to leave his brother's heaving chest and the feeling of being at a loss of what to do is overwhelming. They both need John right now.
"What's wrong? Is he ok? God, I should have never-"
"John," Sherlock calls between labored breaths. The name sounds quiet and weak, but apparently, John heard and it was all he needed to take action. "My chest-"
"Put me on speaker and hand the phone to him. I need to hear his breathing."
Mycroft can see Sherlock's chest stuttering beneath his dressing gowns. The shock of it makes memories from years before flood-
"Mycroft! Now." The soldier has taken over and anyone else wouldn't be able to detect the worry in John's voice now.
On heavy legs, Mycroft strides from the doorway to sit on the edge of Sherlock's bed, gently prying Sherlock's fingers from the sheet and placing the phone in his hand. He grips so hard Mycroft worries he might shatter the phone.
"Sherlock? Love, can you hear me?"
The term of endearment slides so easily from John that it doesn't even register as strange to Mycroft's ears.
"John. I-I can't...again."
"It's alright. I need you to slow your breathing down for me. Can you do that?" John asks gently.
Mycroft watches helplessly as Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and tries hard to breathe through his nose, but it ends in a hacking cough.
"Need...you."
"I'm right here, sweetheart. I need you to do exactly what we did last time, alright?" Sherlock's breathing has turned a bit frantic, a high pitched whine accompanying each one. "Mycroft, put his head between his knees and take his hand. As he breathes in squeeze his hand and then release."
Gently, Mycroft does as he's told, coaxing Sherlock to bend his knees and place his head down, before taking Sherlock's hand that isn't clenching the phone. Sherlock squeezes him hard in return.
"It's alright, dear brother," Mycroft says in a low voice, feeling desperate to comfort Sherlock more, even though his encouragement might fall on deaf ears.
He clutches the shaking hand in his as Sherlock takes a congested breath in and slowly lets it out. The action seems to take a lot out of him as he slumps sideways into Mycroft's arm.
"That's good, love. Do it again for me," John says, quietly.
For five long minutes, Mycroft continues to do as he's told as John whispers words of encouragement through the phone. It seems to work as Sherlock's breathing has slowed down considerably, but it is still ragged and with each one he slumps more into Mycroft's side.
"How is he?"
It takes a moment for Mycroft to realize the muffled words are directed at him and he looks down at the soft light emanating from Sherlock's lap.
"Better," Mycroft replies.
"I had the dream again. And I woke up-...you weren't-"
"I'm coming home, love. I-"
And then Sherlock sobs. The horrific sound permeates the quiet room and Mycroft can hear John's gentle voice speaking to Sherlock before he is overcome with a fierce protectiveness towards his brother that he hasn't felt in years. Instinctively, his hand tightens in Sherlock's weak grasp and he is trying his damnedest to control himself before Sherlock notices.
A distant voice breaks through the fog in his ears.
"He's going to be sick! Mycroft!"
Unconsciously, he can feel himself reacting- reaching down to grab the waste bin and nudging it between Sherlock's thighs a second before he vomits into it.
He reaches out to pull Sherlock hair back from his forehead and rubs his back with his other hand. There must not be very much in Sherlock's stomach because the next moment he is left dry heaving.
He can hear John's voice calling from somewhere on the floor. Keeping a soothing hand on Sherlock's back, he reaches down to grasp it. When he is fully upright once more, Sherlock sighs heavily and falls against his chest.
Mycroft freezes.
"Is he alright?"
"Exhausted," he responds warily, placing a hand against Sherlock's chest and pulling them both back so that Mycroft is against the headboard with Sherlock lying back against him.
"Is his breathing ok?"
His hand moves slowly up and down to the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. "Much better than before."
"Alright. I'm on my way. Supposed to come home tomorrow anyway, one day won't matter. Call me if he needs me. Or you, Mycroft. Please."
"I will, John. Thank you."
"Sherlock, I'm coming home. I love you."
Sherlock already looks half asleep, but he responds lazily. "Love you."
With the phone call ended, the silent room is filled with deep controlled breaths from his brother.
"Thank you," Sherlock whispers weakly before his eyes fall shut and he is asleep.
A/N Thank you so much for reading! Comments are always appreciated!