Mycroft carefully closed the door and headed back to his study, sinking down into his desk chair and putting his head into his hands. This was exactly what he needed- a sick little brother with no one to take care of him except Mycroft.
"I'll go look in on him in a bit," Mycroft decided, pulling a large book out of a shelf and propping it open on his desk. Maybe a bit of reading would calm him down.
He had been immersed in the book for some time when he heard something. It was a soft, plaintive noise, one he wouldn't normally have bothered with otherwise, but something about it told him to put down his book and move- out of the study and down the hall.
Mycroft opened the door. From the bed, Sherlock looked over to him hopefully, eyes glittering with fever.
"Can I have a drink of water?" he whispered. "I was calling and calling and-"
"Are you getting worse?" Mycroft interrupted incredulously, pacing quickly toward the bed and laying a hand on his brother's forehead. "I swear you've gotten warmer since-"
"Can I have some water?" Sherlock managed again, more hoarsely than before. Mycroft nodded distractedly, reaching for the water glass on the bedside table. Sherlock took a few gulps, spilling water onto his pajama shirt. Mycroft chose to ignore this, and picked up the thermometer again.
"No," Sherlock moaned. "Mycroft, I hate thermometers…"
Mycroft only response was to stick the hated device under his little brother's tongue. "Look, Sherlock, I know you don't like it, but I need to check your temperature."
Too weak to argue, Sherlock waited until Mycroft pulled the thermometer out of his mouth. The small numbers read: 102.2.