No interesting cases from the police, haven't had a private client in weeks. Being the world's only consulting detective was harder than he expected, he thought, absently pulling the blanket tighter around his clammy skin. It wasn't that the work was so hard, but the lack of it was exhausting. Sherlock reached for the piece of toast Mrs. Hudson had brought, and nibbled on it briefly before his stomach tightened in disagreement, placing it back on the tray in favour of the tea that had sat a little too long.

He never could manage a normal job with normal hours, but at least it was consistent. There hadn't been a decent murder in at least a week, and nothing else of interest in three. What exactly was he supposed to do?

He was currently lacking in suitable materials for experiments back at the flat, and every time he went to the morgue lately, Molly kept trying to chat; it wasn't like she had anything better to do. Mrs. Hudson handled most the cooking and cleaning, probably for her own safety after three house fires and the incident with the eyeballs in the microwave.

He considered getting a pet, but finding something that didn't require regular care or feeding that he was likely to forget, wouldn't mess with his experiments, and wouldn't bother him incessantly on days like today when he just wanted to lay miserably on the sofa didn't seem possible. Perhaps a flatmate would due. But who want want him as a flatmate?

Anyway, they'd not only have to put up with him, but his annoyingly intrusive brother as well. Speaking of which, Mycroft's "random" visit of the week was likely to be anytime now. He really ought to get get dressed or do something to at least act like he had done more than spend the week lounging on the sofa.

Too late. The stairs creaked as someone climbed them, and it was neither Mrs. Hudson's bustling, nor Lestrade's determined tread. That meant Mycroft.

There was a polite knock at the door before he entered. Sherlock ignored it, pulling the second blanket from the back of the sofa and tucking it around himself, trying to banish the feverish chill.

"Good afternoon, brother dear."

"Is it?" Sherlock quipped back.

"Quite pleasant actually,"Mycroft returned, "you might know that if you ventured out of your hovel a bit more often."

"Hasn't been anything interesting enough in ages, besides I have the flu."

"No you don't."

"I have. And you should probably leave before you catch it and spread it to rest of the cabinet members at your meeting later."

"You don't, and opiate withdrawal is hardly contagious."

Sherlock glared silently at his older brother.

"You have dilated pupils, no cough, and there are two bottles of morphine missing from the hospital," Mycroft supplied. "Simple enough conclusion. Why, might I ask, the morphine though? In the past you've always seemed more inclined toward stimulants."

"There's nothing to do, the last thing I need is more energy."

"Be that as it may, I do not condone this any more than the cocaine."

"Should I be packing for rehab?" Sherlock sneered.

"Just get it under control. I would hate to see you lose your newfound job as the world's only consulting detective. Where would we find another one?"

"It is under control," Sherlock returned. "Just find me something to do."

"Precisely why I came. Family of four murdered a week ago in their own house, but there is reason to believe the killer stayed in the house for quite some time after the deed. I'd like you to look into it."

"I'll think about it."

"Do. Well, I have a meeting to be getting to, like you said, try not the spread the flu, and do feel better, brother."