Mycroft felt the small body relax against him as he pushed open the door to his study. It was furnished elegantly, with an antique desk, chair, rugs, bookshelves, and a couch for late-night working. It was upon the last that he laid Sherlock down onto, and then draped the heavy blanket over him and slid the pillow underneath his head.
"Try to rest," Mycroft instructed, tucking the blanket underneath Sherlock's chin. Sherlock nodded weakly. "It you need another drink, let me know. I'll be right over there."
He indicated the desk and chair, and then helped his little brother take a few sips of water. Sherlock drank about half of the water, handed Mycroft the glass, wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, and closed his eyes, going limp underneath the thick blanket.
Mycroft went to his desk to put the glass down, then bent and carefully shifted the dark curls off his little brother's forehead. Sherlock convulsed a bit at the touch, but relaxed almost instantly. Mycroft frowned.
"You're getting warmer, brother mine," he told his supine patient. "I'm taking your temperature again."
Expecting a protest but getting none, Mycroft poked the thermometer between Sherlock's lips. He waited. A beep sounded. Mycroft pulled the device out and consulted it.
"103.2," he noted, a bite of worry in his voice. "Are you feeling dizzy or light-headed at all, Sherlock?"
Sherlock didn't answer.
"Sherlock?"
No answer.
"Sherlock!"
No answer.