There were only a few times in his life when he remembered truly being sick. One of the worst times was just before his nineteenth birthday, in the fall of 1997.

It started out as a simple cold. A cough. Loss of appetite. Exhaustion that kept him in bed for days straight. Mycroft ordered him to stay inside, double his fluid intake, and left him alone while he went away on a "business trip".

By the time Mycroft came home he could hardly pick himself off the couch. He had remained there, two days straight, staring at the ceiling as he focused on his breathing.

He was freezing, but he didn't even have the energy to get up and find a blanket.

"Sherlock?"

He blinked when he heard his name.

Hallucinating, he thought.

His skin was so cold and clammy that he had gone numb. It seemed to take all his remaining energy to turn around to his brother's frantic voice.

"Christ!" Mycroft exclaimed. "You're still sick?"

Mycroft rushed towards him and fell to the floor beside him. Sherlock flinched as he felt his brother's warm hand against his forehead.

"You're burning up." Sherlock closed his eyes and looked away. Too much noise. "Have you been checking your temperature?"

Sherlock simply groaned.

"How long have you been on the couch?" Mycroft demanded. "Sherlock, answer me."

Swallowing, he attempted to find his voice, but his throat was far too dry. Trying to speak felt like moving his tongue against sandpaper.

Mycroft let out a dramatic sigh before turning toward the kitchen. Sherlock followed him with his eyes, taking note of how exhausted his brother looked. His tie hug loosely around his neck; the sleeves of his suit jacket were rolled up to his elbows. He looked like he had been sleeping in his clothes, probably while traveling.

Mycroft returned, carrying a glass of water.

"Drink," he ordered.

Sherlock took a sip, but as soon as the liquid hit his burning throat he coughed it up.

"All of it."

He nearly vomited at the attempt, but even coughing up the liquid was painful. His chest heaved up and down slowly, like something was sitting on him.

"Trouble breathing?" Mycroft asked.

He was surprised to hear the honest concern in his voice. He offered a feeble nod.

"Chest hurt?" Mycroft continued. Another nod. "That's it. Get dressed."

Eyes closed, Sherlock desperately shook his head.

"Sherlock, you have a fever. Chest pain. An awful cough. And if the stench of this flat is any indication, you've vomited at least once. You're going to a doctor."

"No," he mumbled.

"It's just a doctor, Sherlock."

Mycroft closed his eyes and lowered his head in his hands as he sat on the edge of the sofa.

"This could get serious, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "It could be pneumonia. You could end up in the hospital. Would you rather have that?"

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, embarrassed at the desperate, overwhelming emotion taking over.

"I can't go," he muttered. His mouth was so dry he could hardly hear himself. "Don't feel good."

"I can see that." Mycroft sighed once again. Sherlock only felt guilty; he knew this wasn't exactly what his brother wanted to come home to. "Can you sit up?"

"No. Dizzy. Chest hurts."

There was a hand on his forehead once again; Sherlock shivered at the touch. He felt something fall over him. As he shifted, he realized it was his brother's coat.

"It's too late for a trip to a clinic anyway," Mycroft said. "We have a medic on staff, I can see if he's up to a house call. Of course, after that mission I wouldn't be surprised if none of them want to speak to me ever again."

He muttered the last part to so quietly that Sherlock knew he wasn't meant to hear it. He didn't question it.

"Sleep," Mycroft ordered. "I'll wake you when the doctor gets here, but if the fever gets any worse we might have to go the hospital."

"No."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Fine. Die on my sofa. See what I care."

"Mycroft…" his brother turned around at the weak, desperate, plea. Sherlock could barely hold his eyes open, but he somehow felt the need to explain why he was being so difficult. "I just don't like hospitals, okay?"

His watery eyes met his brother's, and he knew Mycroft understood. His mother died in the hospital. He landed in the hospital after more than a couple of accidents in the years following her death. Hospitals were full of nothing but bad memories, and his medical history was littered with incidents he never wanted his brother to find out about.

Mycroft picked the empty glass off the floor and placed a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock shifted at the touch, but he found that at last he was able to feel someone comfortable, like might finally find sleep.

"Yeah?" Mycroft replied. "Well I don't like you being sick."

He closed his eyes as Mycroft turned away. Sinking into the couch, he tried to shut out the rest of the world and relax. As difficult as this proved to be, Sherlock couldn't help but to feel safe, somehow, now that he wasn't alone. Now that he realized that, for once, someone cared.