Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and story from BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
"I'm sick," whined a nasal voice from deep within a layer of blankets and duvets piled high on the bed.
"I can see that, Sherlock," a man said from the foot of the bed.
"And you're choosing not to do anything about it, I see," Sherlock moaned.
"I'm finding this quite amusing, actually," answered the man.
"Here's something else you'll find interesting, Mycroft," Sherlock said as he coughed up some phlegm into a nearby tissue.
Mycroft wrinkled his nose in disgust. "It's a common cold, Sherlock. There's nothing I can do about it. Drink plenty of fluids, stay in bed."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, then winced in pain since it added to his headache. "No, I'm going to stop drinking water, and run a marathon. You're more useless than the lot at the hospital."
"No need to get hostile. I did come to visit, didn't I?"
"I didn't ask you to come."
"Don't I even get a 'Merry Christmas'?"
"Merry fu—" Sherlock sneezed mid-sentence.
"So, I take it that you picked up this ailment on a case of yours,"
"I had to jump into a lake to catch an escaping criminal. It's not my fault that it happened to be winter."
"Isn't that the policeman's job?"
"And let that useless lump have all the fun?" Sherlock sneezed again, and coughed up more phlegm. "While you're here, you might as well get me some soup."
"You still haven't grown out of your childish habits, I see."
"Soup."
"I think that was a yes."
"Well, unless you're planning to have me convert to cannibalism and eat you, I suggest you go fetch me some soup."
"It's nearly midnight. There's no place open, and I'm not willing to run around London finding a place that is."
"Then make me some soup," Sherlock stated flatly. He sneezed again.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Sherlock looked up at his brother with big watery eyes. "Please."
"You're awful," Mycroft said as he fled to the kitchen.
—
The first problem occurred when Mycroft couldn't find any ingredients. He peered around the cupboards and drawers. The cupboards were barren other than the occasional cobweb and dust bunny. The drawers were filled with nonsensical items. Where the forks were supposed to be, there were pairs of male underwear. In other drawers, there were jars of mysterious liquids, and even a single boot shoved precariously in. The fridge was no better. It was filled from bottom cabinet to butter storage with medical waste from St. Bart's Hospital.
Mycroft ended up with some meat that he thought was safe enough to pass off as chicken, water boiling in a kettle with a mysterious stain on the bottom, some stale noodles he miraculously found in a vase in the living room, and a lone carrot he found sitting on the counter.
The second problem occurred when Mycroft realized that he had never made soup in his life. Chicken noodle seemed simple enough. He had stumbled through meetings with politicians without agendas; he could manage one measly bowl of soup. It was traditional. Sherlock would be thanking him profusely.
Speaking of Sherlock, he was still miserable in the depths of his dark room. Coughing up a storm, and wiping snot from his red nose every few minutes. He shouted a few times for Mycroft to hurry up, but his cries were drowned out by his multiple pillows.
It took a half an hour for Mycroft to make a single bowl of soup.
—
"It took you long enough," Sherlock said when he saw Mycroft enter with a steaming bowl.
"Excuse me, but I think I should thanked. Have you seen the state of your kitchen?"
"I tried going to the hospital," Sherlock whined as he sat up, "but they wouldn't give me any medicine." Sherlock eagerly reached for the hot bowl, burning his fingers on the sides.
"Be careful," Mycroft scolded. "It's obviously not cold."
"Thank you for your incredible observation. Tell me some other obvious fact." Sherlock took a hesitant sip of his soup. "This is good," he said finally.
"Really?" Mycroft brightened up.
"Really. Try some." Sherlock offered the bowl to his brother.
Without hesitation, Mycroft took a big gulp. His eyes bulged and he ran to spit it out in the sink.
"You lied! This tastes awful!"
"You don't like your own cooking, Mycroft?" Sherlock said with a smarmy smirk.
"What the hell kind of meat was that?" Mycroft wiped his mouth.
"Meat?" Sherlock said with surprise, "I don't have any edible meat in my fla— oh, you cooked one of my experiments."
That caused Mycroft to gag even further.
"It's a shame," Sherlock said, setting the bowl of soup down on his night table. "That experiment was really coming along. Two weeks."
"That's disgusting, Sherlock!"
"Will you get me some real soup now?"
Mycroft looked incredulous. "You're still hungry?"
"You probably noticed that there was no food in my flat."
Mycroft grumbled as he slipped on his coat.
"Don't be scared to get me some juice either. Or those little cinnamon rolls they sell at that one place," Sherlock called.
"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," Mycroft called back as he slammed the door shut.
