For Spica Celeste(s) prompt... Hope you like it!

Sherlock: 16

Mycroft: 23

Sherlock was quite excited, his parents were going away for a week and he was going to be all by himself. Not even Sylvia would be there and Mycroft was busy with work; so he had free reign to do as he pleased. After his parents left, reminding him of the rules and not to burn the place down in their absence he roamed the house.

There was a nice calm about the place when it's completely empty, he roamed from room to room and investigated. Sherlock looked through everything, his parent's desks, cupboards, closets and even Mycroft's old room. He ended up in his bedroom looking for the next thing to occupy his time when he decided that since no one was around, clothing became completely optional.

He stripped down; grabbing his sheet for some form of modesty as there was no telling where he'd end up in the house later. The whole thing was quite liberating and he decided that he enjoyed the solitude of the empty house. Sherlock entertained himself for three days, following any whim he had with no retribution and it was glorious.

It was great until he his stomach began to hurt, thinking back he couldn't remember eating over the past three days. That was nothing too odd, but still a pretty big stretch for him to go without even a snack in there somewhere. Sherlock went off thinking it was probably just hunger making him feel bad and made himself a sandwich. The food did not have the desired effect however and he felt worse than before.

A wave of nausea hit and he made it just in time to expel the sandwich into the kitchen sink. Why did he have to get sick when he was finally allowed to be home alone, he thought to himself. Trudging up the stairs he figured sleep would do him good and curled up in his bed. Sleep eluded him, however, the pain in his abdomen becoming more acute.

He took a calming breath, trying to work past the pain and think clearly. As much as he didn't want to he knew his only option was to call his brother, or else worry his parents for no reason.

"Hello?" The familiar voice answers.

"Mycroft," Sherlock breathes, white knuckling the phone.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft sounds taken aback, "What is it?"

"I think I'm dying," he admits.

"As unlikely as that is, why do you think you're dying?" He prods, bored.

"My stomach hurts and…"

"You're probably just hungry," Mycroft cuts him off, "Eat something."

"I did," Sherlock snaps, "Then I was sick in the sink," he breathes, "I may have a fever… it hurts, 'Croft." He admits quietly.

"Where's Sylvia?" The elder asks, knowing full well that their parents are out of the country.

"She's visiting family."

The line is silent for a full minute, "I'll be there in about an hour, try to rest."

"Ok," Sherlock breathes.

"Oh, and you better not be faking this," Mycroft warns before ringing off.

Sherlock returns to his bed, trying to breathe through the pain in his abdomen and wishing it would just stop. Luckily he falls asleep, it's hardly restful, but the unconsciousness dulls the pain a bit. Mycroft races out of the office, he'd been working late and was thankful that his brother hadn't called during something important.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft calls through the dark house when he arrives, turning on the lights as he climbs the stairs to his brother's room. "Sherlock?" He calls again, knocking gently as he enters the room.

" 'Croft," Sherlock painfully replies.

"Feeling any better?" He asks, crossing the room and turning on the bed side lamp to get a better look at his brother. Sherlock is pale, with a fine sheen of sweat on his skin, and his face is pained.

"Told you I'm dying…"

"One moment," Mycroft tells him, heading off to procure the thermometer and checking his brother's temperature. Sherlock was never one to get fevers unless something was gravely wrong, so when the device beeped and 42 degrees Celsius it was definitely not good. "I had to inform Sherly," he begins, "But I think we need to take you to the A and E."

Sherlock closes his eyes tightly at the news; he'd always hated hospitals of any kind. "I'm fine…" he mumbles.

"Of course you are," the older boy placates him, as he helps him up from the bed.

Mycroft gets his brother into his shoes and bundles him up into the car. He drives as quickly as he can without attracting unwanted attention. Sherlock looks terrible and he can't stand seeing him like that. As soon as they arrive, he whisks the younger boy inside and demands he's seen to promptly.

An hour later, they're prepping Sherlock for surgery as the doctor informs Mycroft that it's severe appendicitis. While he waits anxiously he calls his parents and informs them of the emergency.

"Mycroft?" Madame Holmes answers, "What's going on?"

"Sherlock," he breathes, trying to organize his thoughts.

"What about him? What happened, cher?" She prompts trying to keep worry out of her tone. There's rustling on the other end as Mr. Holmes takes the phone.

"What's going on son?"

"It's appendicitis," his father's voice snaps him out of it enough to fill him in on the details. "Sherlock wasn't feeling well and I came out to check on him, they're operating now."

"Appendicitis?" Mr. Holmes clarifies.

"Yes, sir," Mycroft nods, "They said the symptoms seemed sudden due to how little he'd eaten the last couple days."

"It's only been three days," he sighs, "There's no way I can come back…your mother will be on the next flight home." Mr. Holmes informs him, "Keep us posted Mycroft, as soon as he's out."

"I will."

The call ends, Mycroft sitting anxiously in the waiting area with his hands under his chin. The whole ordeal seems to take ages. He sits there with his eyes closed, thinking every horrible though in the world and feeling completely helpless. Finally the doctor appears, Mycroft on his feet before the man's fully in the room.

"Mr. Holmes," the doctor begins , "It seems your brother is fine, he'll still be out for a while… but the procedure was routine, no hitches." He smiles warmly.

Mycroft releases a breath he didn't realize he had been holding, "Very good."

"He'll have to stay here for a couple days, its standard for such severe cases."

"Thank you doctor," he shakes the man's hand, the doctor taking his leave.

After a quick call to their parents he finds Sherlock's room and positions himself at his brother's bedside. Sherlock looked small for his 16 years, his dark hair the only contrast from the linens on the bed. It was a weird thing seeing all the tubes and monitors that where seemed more complicated than they really were. Mycroft stayed up the whole night, waiting for Sherlock to wake up. Finally around 4am the younger Holmes opened his eyes.

"'Croft?" he rasps.

"I'm here Sherlock, you're fine now," he tries to reassure him, "Appendicitis."

"Did you ask them to jar it?" Sherlock ask eagerly.

"Of course," Mycroft smirks, handing him the small jar.

"Brilliant," he hums, observing the removed organ.

"Quite the specimen…"

"Mhmm…" Sherlock's quiet for a beat, "Did you call them?" he asks quietly, knowing the answer.

"I had to Sherly," Mycroft informs him gently, "Mummy's on her way as we speak."

"But not father…"

"He had the summit; you know how it is…"

Sherlock idly fiddles with the jar, his eyes down cast as he takes in the information. "He'll never let me stay by myself again."

"That's not true," Mycroft admonishes, "You handled this very well Sherlock, don't forget that."

"No I didn't," he mumbles, "I had to call you."

"There's nothing wrong with asking for help."

Sherlock falls quiet once again a frown still upon his features; leaving Mycroft no idea how to remedy it.

AN: Thank you for the prompts etc! Please keep it up, chances are I'll use it... any and all ideas are welcomed for the brothers, vague or detailed (doesn't matter).

Just don't forget to mention ages and such, since this is random bits of the brothers relationship. (keep in mind they are 7 years apart.)

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