When John Watson opened the door late on a Sunday night to Mycroft Holmes sporting some goddamn itchy looking, old fashioned, woollen pyjamas he was shocked to say the least. This shock was then re-iterated in his mind by the sheer state of the man.
His eyelids hung heavy over dull orbs, dark bruise like bags dragging the lower lids south for the winter. The waistbands of several pairs of long-johns were visible over the rumpled edges of his nightwear and he was although he was already carrying two hot water bottles, another could be seen poking out from the collar of his shirt. His hair seemed to have had his fingers run through it several times, sweat and grease clung to the strands; so much so that it looked soaked through in the light of "their" streetlamp. (He had had several conversations with Sherlock over the fact that they did not own the streetlamp and he could not fiercely protect it by any means available)
Mycroft gave a rough, hacking cough and gazed up miserably at John. From a first look, he seemed to have a bad cold and John was about to turn him back around, tell him to go home, get some rest, drink some Lemsip and come back in the morning if he wasn't feeling any better. Well, that was until he removed his hand from his mouth and showed the small amount of blood that had gathered there.
Hurriedly ushering the invalid inside into the relative warmth of the hallway, John surreptitiously continued his inspection of the older man. Sweat was beading on his forehead and his skin was flushed a horrible, blotchy pink colour, yet Mycroft was shivering violently. He continually gathered his clothes to his body, rubbing his arms in an attempt to generate enough friction to garner a small amount of warmth in his body.
So it was 'flu most likely, then. Mycroft had probably been working himself to death whilst ignoring the ever increasing list of complaints his body was pitting against him.
Well that sure reminds me of someone else.
He half-pushed, half-carried Mycroft up the stairs and into the living room of the flat where a fire was roaring in the fireplace (for once it was in the right place) and Sherlock was curled up on the sofa with his nose buried in John's copy of "Gray's Anatomy". He glanced up at their visitor before going back to reading for a while.
After John seated Mycroft in the seat nearest the fire, left to find the thermometer, a tongue depressor and his stethoscope and finally returned, Sherlock put the book down and stared at his brother. Mycroft struggled violently against John as he tried to unbutton the front of his shirt to press the cold metal disk to his chest.
"Mycroft, will you just stop being such a baby?" Sherlock sniggered and Mycroft huffed before holding perfectly still. Sherlock didn't miss the grateful glance John shot in his direction, he simply didn't acknowledge it.
John finished his investigation and came to a diagnosis.
"Definitely the 'flu, Mr Holmes. The best that you can do right now is get into bed and take paracetamol and I'll run down to the pharmacy for some medication in the morning."
Mycroft just groaned and slumped his way upstairs into John's bedroom, snuggling down under the covers and collapsing into sleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
"Why have you let Fatcroft into your bed, John?" Sherlock whined and John smirked.
"Just because…"
"I do not want in your bed, John Watson, not for the reason that you're thinking of anyway. I just want to know why you allow my dreadfully ill and dripping and snivelling and interfering brother into your bed when you don't even allow me in it when I'm perfectly healthy and simply in need of some sleep from time to time." He sniffed and glared at his skull's grinning face, beaming at him from the fireplace.
"Well, it's because he's ill that I let him in." The shorter man reasoned and dragged his hand across his face. He was wondering whether he could mosey his way into Sherlock's bed instead of making do with the sofa as usual – the detective wouldn't be using it himself, anyway.
"What on Earth is the logic behind that? We'll both get ill ourselves now, he's contaminating us all! I can't afford to have you slowing me down when you're hacking your guts up all over a body-"
"And who says I can afford to have days off caring for you when you're 'hacking your guts up' as you so scientifically label it?" Anger started to rise in the pit of his stomach. This was so like Sherlock he had to remind himself of why he stayed.
"Of course you can. I'm going to go and kick him out. He can go home and recover!"
The younger Holmes actually started to thunder up the stairs to John's room, but had only managed five steps before the room's owner yanked him back.
"You dare disturb that man Sherlock Holmes. Then you'll see just what I can do. He is ill. I am a doctor. Get that through your thick skull." He hissed, rising up on his tiptoes so he was almost nose to nose with his flatmate.
"Are you implying what I think you are?" The look on Sherlock's face was that of a deer in headlights. Never before had he been called this – many, many other things but not -
"Yes I am. Fundamentally, Sherlock, you are incredibly stupid." Sherlock gasped and backed away. John whirled around and stalked into the kitchen to make a strong coffee. If he wasn't going to sneak into his colleague's bed he may as well stay awake.
Inside, he was seething. Only in Sherlock could being called stupid have brought out such a dramatic and traumatised reaction. To John, at that moment, it only reinforced the idiocy of the man. He failed to notice the slam of the door or the missing coat until three hours later when a drenched and shivering Sherlock thrust himself back into his line of vision.
"What the fuck have you been up to now?" John screamed. As if he didn't have enough to worry about with Mycroft and work and the cases, but now Sherlock had decided to take a stroll in the horrific, February downpour at four in the morning.
"I-I don't know."
"What do you mean?" You stupid imbecile, come here and take that coat off you're freezing and you're only making it worse by standing there dripping with that look on your face.
"You called me stupid and I went and now I'm here. I can't really remember doing anything whilst I was out of the flat, I'm presuming that I went for a wander around the park to think about the events precluding my departure and now I'm soaked through and you're standing between me and dry clothes. Not very doctor like of you is it?" Sherlock continued his speech, highlighting John's argument and the fact the he was the stupid one for letting him go out and Mycroft into the building in the first place, as John stripped him of his outer layers and shoved him towards the bathroom before fetching some dry clothes. He dropped them just inside the door as the shower started a whirr in the piping and then retreated to Sherlock's room to nab his bed.
When he awoke in the morning he was unusually perceptive. He was the first to notice Mycroft's absence. He also noticed rather quickly after waking that Sherlock had added blankets to the bed and curled up at his feet, almost like a cat, and the small damp patch where his wet hair had rested.
But the strangest, most bizarre and yet the most satisfying point that he noticed was the small marriage of their two professions on the fireplace, where the skull was wearing his stethoscope with a tongue depressor in his eye socket.