It's a Gross Stomach Bug!

Mummy told him to go to sleep.

As a five year old with a raging mind, a dislike for sleep, and an intense stomach bug, Sherlock did not want to sleep.

But, as a five year old with a raging mind, a dislike for sleep, and an intense stomach bug, there was little for Sherlock to do.

He had paged through his battered copy of The Little Prince (he had almost the entire book memorised, and he loved the pictures) for a bit, before boredom took over and plagued his mind with an impenetrable fog.

He switched from his book to working on a bit of practicing writing letters. There was some satisfaction in a capital d looking less like a capital o, but it wasn't long before Sherlock found writing boring as well.

He had just picked up his new box of crayons- intent on peeling the paper away, of course- when the icky feeling he had been feeling before settled back into his stomach.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his stomach, squeezing his eyes shut.

Mummy had told him to rest, but Sherlock didn't like to rest. He wanted to be doing something- reading, drawing, writing- as long as it wasn't sleeping. Resting was so boring!

He wanted to be sailing the seven seas, but Mummy had taken his eyepatch, and how could he be a good pirate without an eyepatch? It just wasn't proper!

Sherlock crawled onto the mess of blankets covering his bed, curling up underneath the duvet. He snuggled close into the fuzzy blue blanket that was his blanket, pulling it close. It was comforting, and Sherlock yawned after a moment.

He didn't want to rest. He really didn't.

But his stomach hurt so much and it was intent on making strange noises; shivers ran up and down his body, making his teeth chatter and his hands shake.

It hit him in waves, this ickiness. Mummy had said "It's a nasty tummy bug, Sherlock" but Sherlock liked bugs and he didn't like this. He wondered what sort of bug it was... A spider or ant or maybe even a bee... but it was gross, he had decided, after spending the better part of a half hour in the bathroom. It was gross and he didn't like it and he wanted it to go away.

Sometimes, he thought it went away. The ickiness would leave and the shivers would stop and Sherlock was left only a bit tired. That was when he would pick up a book or crayons, only to have the ickiness return.

He whimpered slightly, burrowing further into his blankets.

"Mother, I don't want to share a room with my sick brother. Can I sleep on the sofa?"

Mycroft's voice drifted through the closed bedroom door. Sherlock looked reflexively towards the doorway, curling up tightly under the blankets.

"Yes, Mycroft. It's probably best if you avoid your brother right now, anyway. We don't want you to catch whatever he has, now do we?"

"Of course not, Mother."

The bedroom door opened and Sherlock flinched slightly, his shivering increasing. He curled his fingers around the blankets and pulled them impossibly closer.

"Just stay there. I don't want your germs," Mycroft said, crossing the room to his bed. He picked up his pillow and the afghan. "It's bad enough that you've been around my stuff all day. You better not make me sick, Sherlock. My school's important."

Sherlock didn't respond, only shivered some more.

Mycroft crossed the room again, only pausing by the edge of Sherlock's bed. He silently reached over and pressed his hand against Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock tried to stop his teeth chattering and closed his eyes, delighted at the warmth.

"You have a fever. You need to be sleeping. So, go to sleep," Mycroft ordered.

"It's the middle of the day and sleeping's boring," Sherlock complained, opening his eyes again.

"Go to sleep, anyway. Perhaps you'll dream of Captain Hook's ship."

Sherlock smiled, although his teeth started to chatter again. "Mycroft?"

"Hmm?"

"What kind of bug is it?"

"What?"

Sherlock curled up on his side, pulling his pillow closer. "Mummy says I have a tummy bug. What kind of bug is it?"

"Uh... It's just flu."

"No, Mummy said it's a bug."

"You don't have a bug, Sherlock. It's a sickness."

"Bugs aren't sicknesses..." Sherlock mumbled, closing his eyes. "Don't be stupid..."

"Don't call me stupid, Sherlock."

"Then don't be stupid!"

Mycroft sighed. "Mummy'll be mad if you hears you saying that. You know you aren't allowed to say it."

"Dad says it all the time," Sherlock retorted sulkily. "You say it."

"I'm older and allowed. And Dad's much older and definitely allowed."

"Dad doesn't follow rules much, does he?"

There had been a discussion not long ago now that had involved something about a girl and their father and Mummy had been terribly angry. Sherlock hadn't really understood, but when Dad had kissed that one woman on the cheek one day after school, Sherlock had wanted to know why and he had asked Mummy. Apparently, Dad's actions had been quite 'against the rules'... although Sherlock didn't know why it had prompted loud yelling from both Mummy and Dad. Was it against the rules to kiss someone? Was it against the rules to like someone? Both Mummy and Daddy had started out liking each other, but now they hardly spoke.

Sherlock figured that talking must not be too good, either, so he had taken it upon himself to not talk so much...

"Neither do you," Mycroft replied in an annoyed tone.

There were footsteps receding and Sherlock opened his eyes again to find Mycroft walking away.

"Where are you going...?" he mumbled sleepily.

Mycroft didn't look back. "I already told Mummy that I don't want to sleep with my gross brother. Besides," he muttered, "I couldn't sleep with your teeth chattering so much, anyway."

Mycroft left the room, closing the door behind him. Sherlock sighed quietly and pulled his blanket over his head, closing his eyes tightly.

His stomach still hurt, he didn't know what bug he had, and he hated it when Mycroft acted like he knew everything. He shivered again and willed the bug to go away...

... except if that bug happened to be a honeybee (because those were really quite cool).

Why am I writing Kid!lock? I have absolutely no idea. But... well, yes, mild Kid!lock. Hopefully it isn't too much rubbish.

Favourites and reviews would be lovely. As usual, I don't own Sherlock. (I also do not own Le Petit Prince/The Little Prince.) Thank you!