A/N Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter to you, I've been handed essays to do like nobody's business. This week will be a bit packed for me so I have to find extra time to write, so there will probably be another couple of days before I can get the next chapter up.

I hope you enjoy this one either way!

Every time Sherlock tripped and scraped his knees (or more likely, plummeted from an unfortunately unstable tree branch), it was his nanny who patched him up afterwards. She would alternate between grumbling and fussing over him, whilst all the time Sherlock would be plotting his next adventure. A stinging antiseptic would often be applied, followed by a small bandage wrapped around the injured limb (Sherlock's parents had learnt the hard way that plasters never stayed on for longer than five minutes before Sherlock was picking it off to examine the wound underneath).

Every time Sherlock would get injured, his parents would see to it that he was patched up and dealt with accordingly. What they didn't see, was Sherlock's quiet retreat into his brother's room afterwards. Mycroft would take one cursory glance over him, before beckoning him over to sit on the foot of his bed whilst he fetched his own first-aid kit from one of his drawers. Usually, there was very little said between the brothers during this time, when Mycroft would take off the bandage, treat the wound to his own satisfaction, and tie the material back on (generally a lot looser than Sherlock's nanny did, meaning that his brother's arm or leg wouldn't actually drop off). Though sometimes, Mycroft would ask his little brother what he was doing before the accident took place, guiding Sherlock through it and encouraging a deeper level of analysis, and by the time Sherlock will have finished his tale, his injuries would have been seen to, leaving Mycroft to listen indulgently until Sherlock ran out of steam. Sherlock would always leave these sessions with a small smile, the one that he reserved solely for his brother, despite the irritating stinging sensation that he knew would stay with him for a few hours under the firmly secured bandage.

That's how it always was in the Holmes household; Sherlock getting himself into scrapes and Mycroft quietly cleaning up after him. So when Sherlock came into the house one miserable autumn evening, expecting to find his brother curled up with a good book in his habitual armchair, but instead found the room cold and empty, Sherlock felt his stomach drop. At the tender age of six years old, he had already seen his fair share of sickness; be it in films that he was much too young to see (but stole away to watch anyway) or in the hideously detailed text books that he was known to read. A whole barrage of different illnesses flashed through his mind at that point; one that was serious enough to necessitate Mycroft shifting from his much-loved routine, but not so serious as to warrant a hospital visit. Before he knew it, he'd raced up to the door to his brother's room, hand raised to turn the handle. He paused though, taking a deep breath. As long as he stayed this side of the door, he could still pretend that Mycroft was indestructible, untouchable his fearsome protector. Shaking the pointless thoughts aside, Sherlock drew himself up and opened the door, unsurprised to note that the only light in the room was coming from the lamp beside Mycroft's bed, the bed in which he was currently bundled in. As Sherlock got closer, he realised that he couldn't actually see anything of Mycroft apart from the tuft of dark hair sticking out in the top of the cocoon shape his brother had constructed out of his duvet.

A pained groan sounded from within the mass of sheets, and Sherlock hurried over to his brother's side, mindful not to make any noise for fear that he'd make him worse.

"'Lock, is that you?"

"Yes."

Sherlock didn't know what else to say, frightened by the fact that his brother couldn't immediately recognise that it was him in the room, Mycroft who knew the precise footfalls of everyone who lived on the estate, and who could tell everything and more about a person within seconds of meeting them. Yes, something was definitely wrong with his older brother.

"Don't come any closer, just go and get Mummy, alright?"

Mummy had been gone for two days on business and wouldn't be back until the following evening. Mycroft knew this. Sherlock didn't understand how Mycroft could forget something like that, so he reminded him.

"Yes, of course..." Mycroft trailed of, his voice sounding so painfully fragile.

Sherlock didn't know what to do. Should he fetch someone? No, Mycroft would be hugely disappointed in him when he recovered to find out that a multitude of people had seen him in such a state; it was probably bad enough that Sherlock had seen him like this. So he needed a plan. Sherlock looked around the dimly lit room for inspiration and his eyes were drawn to the densely packed bookshelf on the far wall. He shot a glance to the pile of sheets his brother was hiding under and then made his way over start his search, his hands immediately reaching for one of Mycroft's many medical journals. He flicked towards the back, the symptom checker, and began to read, his forehead creasing in concentration as he tried to translate the medical terminology into actual practical use. All the journals began by suggesting that a list of all the symptoms be made for ease of analysis, so Sherlock dragged the heavy book over to Mycroft and bent down next to his head. He reached a hand out to his brother's cheek, checking for any sign of an elevated temperature, and only gained a groan from Mycroft and a clammy hand swiping futilely at his face.

"Mycroft, stay still, I need to diagnose you." Sherlock admonished, reaching towards him again.

"What? 'Lock no, if you're so desperate to help-" a cough "-then why don't you go and make a hot lemon drink or something, hmm?"

Sherlock's face scrunched up in disgust (a look that Mycroft has repeatedly assured him is quite unbecoming of a young boy) remembering the unfortunate moment last year when their mother was playing nurse and thought it would be a splendid idea to make a honey and lemon infused drink to make him feel better. It very much did not; evidenced in the retching that immediately followed. Sherlock didn't understand everyone's continued campaign into convincing him that the drink would make him feel better, or that it tasted better the second time. Fools. Sherlock decided then and there to make it his mission that everyone knew his disdain for the drink by the end of the year. He smirked in thought before another weak cough drew his attention back to his brother.

"Or tea, tea would be just fine."

Sherlock frowned again and pulled the blankets away from Mycroft's head, exposing his sweat-beaded forehead and slightly glazed eyes which were struggling to stay open long enough to glare at him.

Sherlock mentally added these symptoms to the ever-growing list in his mind and proceeded to place the back of his hand on his brother's forehead, just to double-check his temperature.

"Sherlock."

"Yes, yes fine. Although I don't really think a hot drink will help you very much considering you have a fever."

"It will pass. Either bring me a drink or let me sleep."

Sherlock decided to forgo the tea but settled for gathering a jug of water and filling it with ice-cold water from the tap in Mycroft's en suite, placing it carefully in the middle of the bedside-table along with a clean glass. He was about to do exactly what his brother had suggested and just leave him there to wallow in his illness alone, but then he recalled the moments when Mycroft had re-bandaged his injuries or stayed up with him all night even after Mummy had long-since fallen asleep at his bed-side.

Decision made, Sherlock scrambled into the other side of the bed, making sure to jolt his brother as little as possible, resting his back against the sturdy headboard and stretching his already ridiculously long legs in front of him. Mycroft turned on his side to face him (with an unreasonable amount of effort too, Sherlock thought) and humphed in resignation, a flash of a smile gracing his tired features.

"Mummy will be ever so cross if you end up coming down with something, Sherlock."

He grinned.

"Mummy will be cross with me anyway, the chairs in the kitchen don't have legs anymore."

Mycroft thought that his brother looked stupidly proud of himself in that moment.

"Mm, you're probably right."

He was already beginning to drift off again, but he reasoned with himself that as long as Sherlock sat in bed beside him, he couldn't wreak havoc around the rest of the estate, which seemed the marginally safer option.

Sherlock tentatively placed his hand in the mess that was Mycroft's hair; sticking up in all directions and slightly damp with sweat. Carding his long fingers through the short strands, Sherlock heard his brother's breathing deepen and eventually even out in sleep, completely dead to the world. Gently reaching over the lump that was his older brother, Sherlock took hold of the medical journal and settled it down into his lap to read, his thumb tracing soothing circles into the side of Mycroft's skull. He thought it might be nice to sit in the quiet for a bit before Mummy came home and inevitably started shouting.

He smirked.