A/N: Forgive me if this fic is weird and random as my head is fuzzy from my fever and I'm too uncomfortable to sleep. I've realised that every time I'm sick, I like to write about the Sherlock characters getting sick too. This one is mostly AMCroft with a Sherlolly conclusion. It's weird, you've been warned. Props to you if you've decided to read it. x

Arrangements

The keys to his brother's home jingled in his pocket as Sherlock strode up the stairs to the large wooden doors. Security had let him into the estate. There were specific instructions from Mycroft never to refuse the consulting detective entry. Today, Sherlock was using it to his advantage, to indulge in a curiosity.

It had all begun when Sherlock made a call to his brother, urgently requesting some security clearance for a case when it was the personal aide who had answered.

"Where is my brother?" the detective asked, annoyed.
"I'm afraid he's been taken ill, sir." the aide replied calmly.
"Define ill." pressed the detective.
"He's…got a cold." There was a reluctance in his voice that did not go unnoticed by the detective.
"Has he now?" Sherlock said, before disconnecting.

There was something terribly odd about this. First of all, Mycroft never got sick. If he had so much as a bit of a headache or the slightest cold, he had his team of specialist medical personnel who, with a single injection, could clear of him of whatever ailment it was. The reason for such extreme behaviour was because Mycroft refused to have a day off. He simply could not. Not with the work he had to do. So why had he elected to be taken ill this time?

Sherlock probably had better things to do, but curiosity got the better of him. Besides, he could not proceed with the case without his brother's resources anyway. So a visit seemed the right thing to do. He found his way through the large house, going up and down staircases and unlocking all sorts of doors to get into Mycroft's private chambers. Finally, he was faced with his brother's bedroom door.

Instead of barging in as he had originally intended, Sherlock decided to try being courteous. First, he placed his ear against the wooden door, hoping to find out what his brother was up to. There was silence. Nothing seemed to stir, nothing seemed to be happening. The detective frowned. This was peculiar. Sherlock twisted the door knob and let himself in, only to be shushed by a tall, slim woman.

"Be quiet," she mouthed. She was holding a tray which had a bowl of ice water and a small towel.

Sherlock recognised her immediately. He had met her on a few cases and he knew his brother held her in very high regard. What Sherlock had not known was that Mycroft had held her in such…intimate regard as well. She hastily put the tray down and led Sherlock out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

"Your brother's asleep. What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I should be asking you that. Isn't your case over?" Sherlock asked, smirking.
"Yes, but obviously this has nothing to do with the case," she said, staring calmly at him. "Like you said, it's over."
"What's wrong with my brother?" Sherlock asked, "He's not dying, is he?"
"Don't be a fool. He's got a cold and a bit of a temperature. That's all," she answered, "Nothing that will kill him."
"So why are you here?" Sherlock asked, "He never lets himself get sick like that."

The woman laughed quietly to herself and crossed her arms. She stared up at the detective, who raised an eyebrow in response.

"It's not hard to deduce," she answered.
"No, it isn't. It's just a little hard to believe…" Sherlock remarked.
"You and I have never really got along, Sherlock," she said.
"Which is why my brother never sends for you unless the case desperately calls for it," said the detective,"Which, for the case we'd most recently concluded, it did and I am grateful for your assistance."
"You are welcome," she answered with a chuckle.
"So why are you still here?" he asked.
"Just because you and I don't get along, doesn't mean your brother and I have to do the same." she said, matter-of-factly.

Suddenly, there was a little beeping sound that came from her pocket. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her mobile phone, turning off the alarm she had set.

"It's time for his medicine now, if you'll excuse me," she said, opening the doors to Mycroft's bedroom. She strode right in, leaving the doors slightly ajar. Sherlock took a small step in and peered at the strange new arrangement in his brother's life. There she was, one of the top agents in a global secret service network, measuring out paracetamol for his brother who slowly sat up in his bed. Mycroft rubbed his temples and winced from his obviously terrible migraine, but smiled when he saw her walk towards him with a tray of his medication.

"This is a terrible ailment," Sherlock heard his brother say, "I should not like to endure this again anytime soon."
"I do not enjoy the fact that you're unwell either," she answered, as she handed him a glass of water, "But I like that it gave you a reason to let me stay."
"I still disapprove of you being here," Mycroft said, before coughing slightly.
"I have more utility back home, yes, you have said that countless times," she remarked with a laugh.
"And yet, you choose to be here,"
"I've always chosen to be here," she said, "You've just never let me."

Sherlock suddenly felt like he was intruding, especially when her last statement lingered in the air between his brother and herself.

"Well, I have this time, haven't I?" Mycroft answered, finally. The pair of them exchanged smiles and said not a word. Sherlock was not certain, but it looked like his brother had reached for her hand. That was Sherlock's cue to leave.

My brother is a terrible person to love, and yet she elects to do so, immersing herself in his affairs. Love is definitely a foolish thing, thought the detective. Yet, a smile appeared on his face as he recalled the knowing looks exchanged by two of the greatest in their line of work, his brother and her.

As he strode out of his brother's lavish abode, Sherlock decided that the case could wait. He would ask for the security clearance another day. His brother needed to get well and was obviously occupied. Sherlock thought carefully about his brother's new arrangement. To Sherlock, Mycroft was a terrible person to love, and yet, he had found it. Not only had he found it, he seemed fully capable of returning it. It amused the detective. Perhaps such arrangements were not as disadvantageous as his brother had warned him. Sherlock took his phone out and began to text, unable to stop the little smile playing on his lips. It seemed timely for him to make a few arrangements of his own.

Molly, would you like to have coffee? - SH

END