A few minutes of silence, and there was a soft knocking at the door.
"Mycroft?" came a rather worried voice. "Are you in there?"
Mycroft stood and went to the door. His mother was standing there, still in her traveling coat and looking frantic.
"Oh, hello, Mother. What's the matter?"
"Have you seen Sherlock?" she demanded. "He's not in his room, and he's not downstairs, and he-"
Mycroft put a finger to his lips and led his mother into his study. There, lying peacefully on the couch in all his flushed, wayward-curly glory was Sherlock, fast asleep and perfectly innocent-looking.
"Oh, thank goodness!" Mrs. Holmes whispered. "Doesn't he look sweet- but why is he in here?"
"He wasn't feeling well," Mycroft replied. "Nothing serious- just a touch of fever."
"And you took care of him? All by yourself?" Mrs. Holmes folded her oldest into a hug. "That was very responsible of you."
Mycroft squirmed, and his mother let go, still smiling proudly. "Thank you, Mycroft. Would you like me to take it from here?"
Mycroft turned to look at his little brother. Sherlock's eyes had opened just a tiny bit, and he was watching the scene, evidently curious as to his reply. He caught Mycroft's eye, and quickly looked away.
"I can do it." Mycroft turned back to his mother. "He does tend to grow on you."
Behind him, Sherlock let out a soft, contented breath.
Mrs. Holmes left the room, still beaming, and Mycroft sat back down on the sofa beside his little brother.
"This doesn't leave this room, Sherlock," he said warningly. Sherlock smiled drowsily and snuggled deeper into his shell of blankets, asleep once more and perfectly contented.
Mycroft smiled too.