"Sherlock!" Mycroft declaimed firmly, trying very hard to keep the tremor out of his voice. "Answer me!"
"Mmmmuughh…" Sherlock groaned.
"Sherlock!" A whirlwind of relief momentarily wiped out any other thought in Mycroft's brain. "All you all right?"
"I wan'a drink of water," the seven-year-old managed, cracking open an eye and looking at his older brother pleadingly. "Please?"
Mycroft grabbed for the water glass, nearly spilling it onto the carpet in his haste. Sherlock drank eagerly. Mycroft refilled the glass.
"I'll go and get a cold cloth for your head. You stay here."
Sherlock swallowed the last of the water and nodded, eyelids drooping. Mycroft ruffled his hair reassuringly and left, returning quickly with a wet washcloth. He gently shifted Sherlock's curls out of the way, then carefully laid the washcloth over his forehead.
"Mycroft?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
Mycroft couldn't remember the last time Sherlock had said that to him. He smiled, wondering vaguely whether he was turning into a sentimental fool, and then decided he didn't care.
He picked up the book from his desk and sat down on the sofa beside Sherlock, finding his page and starting to read again, periodically adjusting the washcloth. Sherlock settled into the blankets, his lips partway open, breathing slowly and softly.
Sherlock could be rather lovable when he wasn't being irritating, Mycroft thought. Odd.