A/N: I got the idea for this from a headcanon I found that basically said that Sherlock got pneumonia ten times before he was an adult, and (he wasn't aware of this, but his brother was) he was never expected to survive to adulthood. R&R –JC
000
"I believe that you are the devil himself!"
–Dr. Leon Sterndale to Sherlock Holmes, The Adventure of the Devil's Foot
Mycroft
His temperature was 102 and rising.
My brother's breath was coming in gasps, as if there was an intangible weight pressing down on his chest. This morning he'd been complaining of a headache, and I knew immediately that it was only going to go downhill.
This was the ninth time Sherlock had caught pneumonia, and that fact alone terrified my mother. She tried to hide it, and he was usually too busy vomiting into the upstairs loo to take much notice, but I sure as heck saw it.
Mother rose from her post next to Sherlock's limp form on the couch, leading me into her room. She offered me a somewhat tight and completely plastic smile, but even as she did it, her eyes grew moist. "Mycroft-" She managed before giving up entirely, collapsing unto her bed, her shoulders shaking. I held her awkwardly as she cried herself dry, and I won't deny that I was relieved when the waterworks finally ceased. My mother buried her face in her hands, sighing. "I'm sorry, I just…he's so young, and his body can't take much more of this…"
I realized what she was implying, and my blood went cold. Of course I had considered the fact that one day he might not recover, but suddenly it seemed more likely than ever. I swallowed. "He'll be fine. He always is." My words sounded empty, even to me.
She squeezed my hand. "I hope you're right." She stood, starting to hurry back to my little brother, when the devil himself appeared in her bedroom doorway. Sherlock's skin was tinged yellow, though his expression was as indifferent as ever.
"I was wondering if you could take me to Scotland Yard. I'm awfully bored." He pushed back a stray curl from his face, looking at my mum imploringly. Over the past few years the chief of police had been letting him give his input on several cases that were apparently unsolvable. Sherlock had come to the solution to most of them within a two or three days.
Mother clearly didn't believe that he actually thought she was taking him anywhere like that. "Well…" she began, but was abruptly cut off by the sound of wet cough that sounded like it was tearing his throat raw. My brother went pale, and by the time it occurred to me he might faint, he had already started swaying on his feet. Mother caught him, and her voice suggested that she wasn't done crying. "Baby, I'm sorry, but you need to rest. When you're better we can go, alright?" He nodded, obviously uncomfortable, his face red with shame.
As they made their way back downstairs, I cursed myself silently. Years ago, I had done something horrible, something so utterly heartless my mother would probably die of shock if she knew of my sins, and here I was, still doing penance for it.
I had never thought that penance would be a real threat to my brother's life.
It had started as a sort of game where the only prize was revenge. Sherlock was only seven when he climbed to top of a playground tower and announced to the entire schoolyard that I fancied Gina Richer. I didn't, not terribly, but everyone blindly assumed it was the truth, and in that moment I hated him for it.
It was the easiest thing in the world to get a pneumonia virus from a local clinic. I simply told the nurse I needed it for a project, and here was my teacher's signature (which was acquired quickly as well), and the vial was in my hand. Perhaps I may have increased my chances by rearranging the clinic's schedule a few days' prior to make that particular nurse just a little more desperate for her shift to be over, but I was within the confines of the law for the majority of the time.
The hard part was infecting him. I decided to inject it when he was sleeping, and it almost backfired on me. It was pure luck that, because he had drained himself over an abnormally difficult case the day before, Sherlock was sleeping heavier than normal.
I didn't even regret it when he got so sick he was forced to stay home from school for a week. He deserved it in my book. Besides, school was h*ll for both of us, so technically I was letting him off easy.
But what I didn't expect was for the illness to come back. Again. And again, until he was so fragile whenever it hit him that he looked like he might break into a thousand pieces with one shove.
am going to be the death of my brother.
It would take me years to grasp just how accurate that thought really was.