(SEVERAL YEARS LATER)

. . . . . . .

.`.`.`.`.`.

John, what does one do in the event of a headache and other minor symptoms?

-M H

Mycroft slipped his phone back into his pocket, massaging his forehead. He had a splitting headache and felt as though his breathing passages had been filled with several yards of cotton wool. It could have been overwork, but Mycroft did not overwork.

Ever.

Or so he thought.

He groaned as he imagined what his day was going to look like. He never skipped work- no matter how bad his ailments were- but today was going to be impossible.

His phone chimed.

I'll be right over, dear brother. Stay put.

Mycroft stared at the phone screen.

"Sherlock," he muttered, "this had better not be you."

And with that, he shoved his phone back into his pocket and staggered into the kitchen to make some coffee.

. . . . . . .

.`.`.`.`.`.

He didn't get to drink it, though.

"Mycroft," called a voice from the foyer, as he was entering his bedroom. "Are you here?"

"No," Mycroft replied sourly as he set the cup down on his bedside table. "I am currently lying in the crater of Mt. Vesuvius and hoping that it blows me to kingdom come before I have to see you."

"Good morning to you, too," Sherlock said cheerfully, coming into the room. "I hear you're suffering from overwork?"

"I do not overwork, Sherlock," Mycroft said curtly. "Furthermore, I would like to know why you received a text that I sent to John Watson."

"I commandeered John's mobile," Sherlock explained. "I needed it for something. I'm still not entirely sure he knows I have it, bless him. And thus I found your text. It's overwork. Go and lie down. I'll make tea," he decided, heading for the small kitchen. "And when I come back, you are going to drink it."

"You are enjoying this far too much," Mycroft mumbled. Sherlock, poised at the door, turned.

"Yes, I am indeed," he agreed cheerily, without a trace of shame in his voice. "Now lie down."

Sighing, Mycroft did as he was told. Sherlock left the room, returning a few minutes later with a cup of amber liquid.

"Drink," he ordered.

Mycroft accepted the cup and took a sip. It was hot and sweet, slipping easily down his throat and leaving an odd, though not unpleasant, sensation lingering there. He drank again, feeling the liquid glide down and the odd sensation increased.

The room seemed to slip in and out of focus as Mycroft swallowed the last bit of tea. Sherlock moved forward and accepted the cup from him.

"How do you feel?" he inquired.

"Exhausted," Mycroft yawned. Sherlock's expression changed abruptly to satisfaction. Mycroft frowned.

"What did you put in that tea?" he demanded, even as wave after soft, subtle wave of drowsiness began to creep over him.

Sherlock's smile became more pronounced. "Just a little compound I've been playing with," he replied. "A sleep-inducer. To be honest, I wasn't sure whether it would actually work."

"You used me as a guinea pig?" Mycroft would have leapt out of bed and readily strangled his brother on the spot, but the soft, drowsy waves had begun to thicken, and his limbs felt like they had lead weights attached to them. "You could have poisoned me!"

"I would never poison you, Mycroft," Sherlock assured him, sitting down in his brother's desk chair and watching him as if he were a rather interesting show. "There was no poisonous material in my compound. But I figured if you were sick anyway, and you could use the extra sleep..."

"As soon as this dratted compound of yours wears off I'm going to kill you," Mycroft managed. His head felt like a bowling ball, and he could hardly keep his eyes open. "I can't believe you would use your own brother as a test subject for your experiments."

He paused bitterly. "Oh, wait; this is you we're talking about. How silly of me."

"You'll feel better after you've gotten a proper rest," Sherlock replied quietly. "There was no way you'd let yourself sleep in the middle of the day, sick or not. So, when I heard you were ill, I figured I'd come and test my compound and give you a chance you rest at the same time."

Mycroft's vision began to go dark. He felt himself sinking into the mattress, the weight of the blanket he'd pushed aside descending over him as Sherlock bent over the bed and pulled the blanket up to his chin. There was the sound of soft footsteps, a whispered "Sleep well, brother mine", a door closing, and then the soft dark washed over his whole body and carried him off to sleep.