A.N.: This was based off of a headcanon on bbcsherlockheadcanon .tumblr .com (without spaces) which was: "Mycroft set up accounts with the London cab companies so that they would bill him for Sherlock's cab fares. This was done after Sherlock collapsed on the Tube from overstimulation."

Genre(s): Family/Hurt/Comfort

Warning: One mention of claustrophobia, one use of (medicinal) drugs.

Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock

The Tube

The crime scene was on the other side of London, which meant one thing and one thing only: he'd have to take the Tube. He supposed that he could have taken a cab, but cabs were expensive and he had been cut off from his rather impressive trust fund since his late teens. He was now cursing his past self for being so reckless with money in his past - why would a nineteen-year-old need a motorcycle anyway? - because if there was one mode of transport he despised more than any other, it was the Tube.

It wasn't that he was scared of the Underground, though he had known plenty of people with such severe claustrophobia that they were physically incapable of descending the escalator. It was more the atmosphere of the entire thing, which was somehow so different from the Overground. On the Overground there just seemed to be so much more space; on the Underground even the platforms were filled with people all hustling and bustling and just generally being in his way.

The Tube was louder, as well; something about being in such a cramped space made people want to shout, and argue, and just raise their voices to almost unbearable volumes. Or, perhaps the Underground was the same volume as the Overground, but the absence of the distant traffic noises drowned out the irritating conversations happening all over the platform.

"Everyone, stick together!"

Sherlock turned to glare at the woman attempting to control a gaggle of primary school-aged children all wearing a uniform of a garishly bright shade of blue - and if that wasn't enough to make them eye-wateringly visible, each of the little tykes had bright orange high-visibility jackets that clashed horribly with the uniform.

"Wait, Jack, don't go on the other side of the yellow line! Get back here!"

The teacher had a shrill voice, loud enough to cut through all the other already headache-inducing noise. Sherlock could feel every syllable as it hit him between the eyes like a red-hot poker. He longed to scream at the woman to shut up, but he also didn't want the child - Jack - to fall off the platform onto the lines; it would cause such a delay for the trains.

The boy mercifully made his way over to the teacher, a scowl fixed on his face. He was tired of being told what to do, because his father was pushing him to be a doctor despite his passion for cartography-

Oh, shut up! he shouted at the voice in his head, already making deductions when it should be fully focussed on the crime that he was heading to - the crime that he wouldn't be getting to if this train didn't arrive soon and get him off of this dystopian platform!

A train pulled into the station, but it wasn't going far enough; the electric sign hanging from the ceiling announced that he would need to catch the next one. The wheels screeched against the tracks, cutting through his mind like a knife. He glared at it; or, rather, he would, if the lights didn't blind his already uniform-offended eyes.

The noise on the platform seemed to triple, filled with the shouts and footsteps of prospective passengers heading towards the train. People shoved up against him in their rush, sparking a fresh wave of deductions in his head - silk, rich; cotton, soft, maybe sensitive skin? The noise in his head was almost as loud as the noise external to his brain, the two mixing together as he collected snippets of conversation from those around him. He was beginning to feel lightheaded, but stubbornly fought the feeling as best he could - which, he was finding, much to his annoyance, wasn't very well at all.

The final straw came when someone from down the other end of the platform - invisible to Sherlock through the crowds of people - attempted to lift a heavy suitcase onto the train. He knew the suitcase had to be heavy because the owner was having difficulty lifting it high enough off of the platform to get it on the train.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

The noise was probably only a minor background noise to the other, normal people on the platform, but to Sherlock it was the equivalent of letting off a series of fireworks one after the other in very close proximity.

His discomfort increased dramatically, his vision blurring slightly and the sounds around him becoming muffled. While on some level he relished the detachment from the outside world, he knew that this feeling was Not Good, especially as his transport began to take over.

He stumbled backwards through the crowds - several people voicing their indignation as he inadvertently collided with them - his body seeking the comfort of the bench set into the alcove in the wall. He collapsed onto the wooden surface - mahogany, polished six months ago, stain on the far side from a commuter's coffee last week - and prayed for escape. He needed to be out of his head, to be anywhere but on this platform. Even in this state, his torturous mind was still working, observing and coming to conclusions. He tried to combat it by closing his eyes, but the senses of smell and hearing opened up new avenues of deduction and the thoughts continued, each one louder than the last.

He slumped against the side of the alcove, fingers curling around the tiles tightly in an attempt to stop the pain; it didn't work, and he felt himself being drawn into unconsciousness.

The passenger on the other end of the platform still hadn't got their suitcase on the train, and the last thing he heard before the darkness washed over him was Thunk. Thunk.Thunk...

~{sh-headcanons}~

When he awoke, the sounds of the platform sounded awfully far away. Puzzled, he prized his eyes open and blinked away the fuzziness still present in his vision.

His senses returned gradually; the sounds of the platform became louder but still sounded far off, and as his vision cleared, his sense of touch came back. His head still pounded and, although dulled, the shouts and acclamations from the others on the platform still beat against his consciousness like a drum. It was still unbearable to be there, and he wanted to leave, but he knew that his knees were still too weak to support his weight. Yet as he pushed himself off of the side of the alcove - his head screaming in protest at the movement - and realised that there was a hand on his shoulder.

He turned to his left and saw another sitting on the bench beside him, his umbrella lying on the wooden surface.

"Hello, Mycroft," he drawled, his voice thick. The movement sent more waves of pain rushing through his head.

"Hello," his brother smiled sadly, lifting his hand off of his shoulder and curling his fingers around the handle of his umbrella.

Another wave of dizziness washed over him; he groaned softly and leaned against the tiled wall once more.

Mycroft watched his brother carefully. He was incredibly pale and his eyes squeezed themselves shut, against the pain of the outside world.

"Hey!" someone shouted on the other side of the platform. Sherlock flinched, his fingers gripping the wall more tightly.

Only half of the platform had been cordoned off; not even the British Government could take over an entire platform on the London Underground during rush hour purely because his little brother had passed out. So he had pulled the necessary strings and got the half of the platform in which his brother was slumped against the wall on an alcove bench roped off, while the commuters crowded together up the other end. It couldn't have been very comfortable for them, but then again, none of them were suffering a sensory overload. His brother was.

He knew that he needed to get Sherlock off of the platform. The noise was still too near and the surroundings would already be associated in his subconscious with that feeling of being overwhelmed. There was a car waiting for them outside, but he had to get the amateur detective up the escalator first.

"Sherlock?" he began gently, hoping that the sound of his voice wouldn't cause the fragile man any more discomfort.

"Hmm?" the detective murmured, shifting slightly and forcing his eyes open.

"We have to get out of here," Mycroft explained. "Do you think you can walk?"

Sherlock looked at his surroundings, dazed. His eyes still appeared a little glazed over, and the elder wondered if he had passed out again when he had closed his eyes.

"I, um..." the younger drawled, his voice thick and deeper than usual. "I may need some help," he concluded sheepishly. Mycroft nodded and stood, reaching for the noise-cancelling headphones on the bench beside him. Anthea was truly a Godsend.

His brother regarded them with confused eyes, before realisation dawned and he nodded - which was followed by a wince of pain. Mycroft reached forward and slipped the headphones over his brother's ears, and held out his hand to help him up.

He supposed he should have been worried with how complacent the young man was being. It was not often that Sherlock accepted help from anyone, let alone his older brother. Yet he prioritised and focused on getting off of the platform and into the car outside.

The detective stumbled slightly as he was pulled to his feet. Mycroft wrapped an arm around his waist to steady him and was rewarded with a grateful smile.

It was like this that the two of them made their way slowly out of the Tube station and into the sunlight beyond. Every so often the younger would groan in pain, and the older's grip would tighten around his waist. Their progress was slow, but sure, and eventually they made it out into the sunshine of the summer beyond.

Sherlock gasped at the brightness of the sunlight, and nearly fell again. Mycroft kept him upright.

The car was only a few yards away, but the walk nearly took a full two minutes. Sherlock had closed his eyes against the harsh light, but it was louder out here than it had been on the platform, and the new level of volume was taking its toll; not even the noise-cancelling headphones could block out all of the sounds of the living, breathing city.

Eventually they reached the car - the door being held open by the Godsend - and the two of them got inside. Mycroft gestured to Anthea to sit in the front. He placed Sherlock on the seat next to him, who promptly turned to jelly again and slumped to the side with his head in his brother's lap.

He was breathing quickly and deeply, the gasps loud and painful to watch. Mycroft felt his heart twinge, and placed his hand gently over his brother's eyes. Even with the lids protecting them, there would still be lights dancing before them; hopefully this little gesture would help.

"Sir?"

Mycroft looked up to his driver.

"Will you be needing this?" The driver was holding out a syringe filled with lorazepam. It had been brought on a strictly 'only if necessary' basis but, looking down at Sherlock and listening to his pained gasps, he had to admit that it was, indeed, necessary.

"Thank you," he smiled slightly and took the syringe from the driver. He tested it and, with a deep breath, plunged the needle into his brother's pale neck.

Sherlock gasped in surprise, unprepared for the sudden, sharp pain. He reached up to Mycroft's elbow and fidgeted with the material of his sleeve.

When the liquid in the syringe was gone, the older brother gave it back to the driver who disposed of it and began the journey.

"Myc," Sherlock murmured, losing consciousness quickly.

"Yes?" the older asked gently, forgetting momentarily that he wouldn't be able to hear.

"Thank you," he whispered. The hand dropped from his elbow and the breathing began to slow to a steady, peaceful rhythm.

Mycroft smiled, running the back of his finger along his brother's cheekbone.

Underneath his hand, he felt the eyelashes flutter one last time and slowly lifted his palm off of the now serene features. He carefully removed the headphones and sat back, looking out of the window.

~{sh-headcanons}~

Soft.

That was the first thing that he was aware of. Whatever he was lying on, it was incredibly soft.

Behind his still-closed eyelids, he could see dull light beyond, yellow painted across the black. The sunlight was warm and comforting, slowly drawing him back to consciousness.

Reluctantly he prized his eyes open, and was met by soft colours; whites and blues, and greens and beiges. There was nothing too harsh, not like the bright colours of the platform. His head still throbbed slightly, though he supposed that was an after-effect of the drug. There was a pinching feeling at his neck where the needle had punctured his skin, but he could live with that minute pain; it would go soon and he was grateful to Mycroft for giving him the option to be forced to sleep rather than have to deal with more overwhelming of the senses until it pushed him over the edge again.

Tentatively, he pushed himself up into a sitting position on what he now realised was a bed. The room was simple; there was a light-coloured carpet on the floor, and the walls were cream, light enough to be soft on the eyes but not the bright white that would seem to shine out. Beside him was a mahogany bedside table, complete with a simple lamp and a glass of water, next to which was a note from his brother:

For when you wake up. I haven't poisoned it.

Sherlock smirked at the light humour. It was also completely unnecessary; if Mycroft had wanted to poison him, he could simply have injected him with something obnoxious. In this moment, there wasn't anyone whom Sherlock thought he trusted more than his brother.

He reached out to the glass of water and took a sip, looking further around the room.

The entire wall to his left was a window, looking out to a forest so thick that from this angle, you could only see the first two lines of trees. The small slither of sky visible above the canopy of oaks revealed a setting sun. Based on its position and the time of year, Sherlock guessed that he had been out for about nine hours. It was probably the best sleep he had had for a while.

The view from the window also confirmed his location; he knew exactly where he was.

The Holmes family was incredibly wealthy; it had been rumoured that only the Royal Family had more money than them - in England, at least - though they had to admit that this wasn't quite true; after all, that Branson fellow was doing terribly well. Nevertheless, they were affluent enough to have secured more than one property throughout England.

There was the Manor, which had been the brothers' childhood home, in Berkshire; the numerous flats dotted around London; and this place: a lovely cottage in St Ives that was detached from... well, everything. It had been the go-to holiday home, and they had spent at least a week there every summer. It had been years since Sherlock had been there.

His head still throbbed slightly, yet he was itching to move. He slowly pushed himself up off of the bed and placed his bare feet on the ground. It was at this point that he realised that his clothes had been changed. He was now wearing light blue silk pyjamas - a softer colour than the ones he usually donned - and his previous clothes - suit and coat - were hanging off the back of the bedroom door, his shoes next to the bedside table. He swayed slightly as he stood, but quickly recovered. Taking the glass of water with him, he left the bedroom.

The corridor beyond was bright and airy, wide with a carpet similar to the one in the bedroom. The walls were a pea green, covered with Impressionist paintings in fancy frames, all originals and terribly expensive. It was a long corridor, doors every few yards that were all open wide leading into a variety of rooms; lounges, the kitchen, drawing room, more bedrooms and a number of bathrooms... Sounds were coming from the room on his right, the last room off of the corridor; voices. He headed towards the room, his feet noiseless on the soft carpet.

"He'll be alright, he just has to stay here for a day or two."

"Ha! Good luck convincing him of that."

"Oh, he'll do it. He owes me."

Sherlock reached the door and peered in. The room was a drawing room, small with a table in the very centre surrounded by six chairs. The walls of this room were yellow, and were also adorned with paintings. Two of the chairs had occupants: one, with his back to the door, was Mr Farringday, the man who house-sat the cottage while there was no one from the family staying there; the other, facing the door, was Mycroft.

The latter looked up when he saw that the younger man had arrived.

"Ah, you're up!" the politician smiled. Mr Farringday turned in his chair to face the new arrival. "How are you feeling?"

"Like my brain has been through a washing machine," Sherlock mumbled, plodding into the room and taking the seat next to his brother. He had never got on particularly well with Mr Farringday, especially not after he had used the man's shoes for an experiment when he had been twelve and the leather had never been the same again.

"I assume you heard our little conversation just now?"

Sherlock went to nod, but decided against it; he didn't really want to risk throwing up all over the table. "You want me to stay here for a while."

"Well, we thought it was only logical, considering your... episode," Mr Farringday explained. The detective glared at him over the top of his glass of water.

At that moment, the doorbell rang. Mr Farringday got up from his seat. "That'll be Mrs Fuller. I told her to call today about the begonias in the front garden. Excuse me."

Mr Farringday left the room for the front door, and the two brothers were alone.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that when two members of the Holmes family are in the same room, only one of two things can occur: either there will be an awkward silence that will persist until another enters or one of them leaves, or a bitch fight will ensue.

It would seem that today the universe forgot to acknowledge this truth.

"You're looking after yourself well," Mycroft commented - awkwardly. "You were heavier to carry inside than I expected."

"You sound surprised," Sherlock drawled, though it didn't have the same bite as it usually did. He sipped his water.

"Forgive me, but you do have form."

There was a pause after that, broken only by the ticking of the antique clock on the far wall.

"You will never have to take the Tube again," Mycroft said, finally.

"The Tube is cheaper than a cab and faster than walking. While I may be able to learn parkour-"

"Oh, no," Mycroft shook his head. "That won't be necessary. I will pay for you to use cabs."

Sherlock turned to his brother, ignoring the sharp pain in his temple as he did so. "What do you mean?"

"I believe I made myself perfectly clear." Mycroft shifted uncomfortably. "You scared me today," he mumbled, embarrassed.

"I only passed out," Sherlock murmured, hiding his words in his glass as he took another gulp of water.

"Passing out is not generally what people do," Mycroft retorted.

"I'm not weak."

"I never suggested that. But maybe it would be better if you were to make your journeys above ground from now on. You will not have to worry about the expense."

Sherlock took a thoughtful sip of water. "If I accept, will I still have to stay here for a few days?"

"Only tonight. It's far too late to be going back to London now."

"It's six o' clock."

"It's a four hour drive."

"I can drive."

"I am never getting in a car with you behind the wheel ever again."

"That was an accident."

"I don't believe you."

They chuckled, the most genuine laughs that they had shared for a long time. Once they lapsed back into silence, the younger turned to the older.

"Myc?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

A.N.2: Lorazepam is a benzodiazepine which sedates patients within a few minutes, and the effects last between six and twelve hours.

A.N.3: There is a Four Weddings and a Funeral reference in this chapter (which I do not own). Anyone who finds it gets hugs from any of the Sherlock characters.