Sherlock stumbles down the dark street at one fourteen in the morning. Tonight's stake-out has proven to be pointless, his suspect hadn't shown up, only his migraine had two hours ago, rendering him useless after one hour and thirty-six minutes despite taking the medication the moment he felt it coming, it's almost a good thing his suspect hadn't shown up, he isn't too sure he would have been able to stop the suspect before it's too late. The orange glow from the a street light shines in Sherlock's eyes and he groans, he wishes a taxi would show up, he doesn't want to walk around for much longer, not with how he feels.
Sherlock places a trembling hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Who could he contact? As much as he would hate to admit it, he does require help getting home, with the dizziness getting worse, he's not going to be able to stand for much longer let alone the forty-five minute walk home. His thumb hovers over the call button on John's name, but it soon presses the back button and puts his phone away. It's unlikely John will answer and if he does he will be given a very harsh lecture, Lestrade will likely do the same, and he isn't contacting Mycroft for help.
Sherlock wraps his coat tighter around him, the cold chill of the night and cold flush of the migraine getting to him. He feels himself tremble harder and stumbles once more, the vertigo really beginning to take its toll on him; it's becoming increasingly harder to walk properly. Sherlock stops and closes his eyes to ease the pain in them, the light radiating from the street lights only made them sting and burn, he doesn't want to keep his eyes open with those around. He knows he needs to keep walking, he knows he can't continue with his eyes shut, instead, he raises a shaking hand to shield them, he opens his eyes slowly and squints through the darkness, he feels the sweat on his hand, it certainly isn't pleasant, and continues walking.
Sherlock groans in pain and forces himself to focus on the failed stake-out. The suspect hadn't shown like he had expected them to, which means they were doing something else or Sherlock had gotten it wrong. It's likely to be the former option as he will rarely ever admit to being wrong, he wonders briefly if there will be another murder by morning, he certainly hopes there isn't, not with his migraine making its appearance. He feels something trickle down his face, unsure if it is sweat or tears from the pain and the light, but it is soon forgotten about as his stomach churns horribly. He pauses in his steps and hunches over, an arm going around his midsection, he doesn't have anything to vomit up, he's on a case, he never eats while on a case, he'll only vomit up bile. The hand shielding his eyes now covers his mouth and he is soon gagging, the movement and sound jars his agonising head only making him feel worse. He moves the hand away from his mouth as bile slithers its way up his throat, it doesn't come out of his mouth though, it slithers its way up before sliding back down, it only makes Sherlock want to vomit more but he can't find the energy to continue with it.
Sherlock remains still, breathing heavily through his nose as he waits for the right moment to continue walking. He's so tired now, so very tired, the case being physically draining, the migraine being both physically and mentally exhausting. It's using a lot of his energy to remain standing but he still has a long way to go before he reaches home. He waits, wrapping his arms around himself despite the fact of that he is now starting to feel really hot, and soon he is moving once more. To his surprise (or not), he is walking slower than he was before he almost vomited. The vertigo only feels to be getting worse and he's briefly aware of walking into someone's parked car, it needs cleaning, hasn't been cleaned in two months, the owner certainly needs to clean it at some point.
A strangled moan escapes him as his head and eyes suddenly gets worse, he wants to scream at the person driving down the street with the headlights shining so bright. A hand moves from his body and shields his eyes from the offending headlights, he forces himself to continue, stumbling in his steps as the pain grows worse and his whole body trembles harder. The headlights don't vanish, the vehicle seems to have stopped and if he intends on not being in the glare of the headlights then he needs to get moving himself quicker. There's the sound of a door being opened and quick footsteps, his mind telling him that the footsteps sound familiar but the pain is too much for Sherlock to focus on whose footsteps they are. There's a hand on his shoulder, another one on his arm, and he flinches at the touch, trying to pull away from the hands, it burns and it hurts and it's making him feel worse.
"Sherlock." The voice says quietly.
With a small burst of energy, Sherlock moves back and out of the hands that stop him. He doesn't want him to help him; he's fine with John or Lestrade or even Molly but not him. The hand on his arm remains in place, only the hand on his shoulder moves, he feels relieved when the pain lessens, but it's quickly placed on his own hand and tries to move it from shielding his eyes. A moan escapes him and he tries to step back, he has no intention of removing his hand until the headlights are gone, it hurts far too much if they remain. Except the hand on his is stronger than him right now, Sherlock is very soon looking into the... concerned? Does he actually look concerned? Sherlock would make an insult now if he could, Mycroft Holmes actually looking concerned.
"Come on, Sherlock; get into the car with me." He whispers softly.
Sherlock doesn't hide his flinch from the voice, "No."
"Don't be stubborn, Sherlock." Mycroft says, as stern as he can be while whispering.
Sherlock tries to shrug off Mycroft's hand from his arm, he curses himself when he fails to do so, and Mycroft's grip only tightens as he leads him to the car with the offending headlights. Sherlock tries to pull his arm away, it hurts and it burns and he desperately wants Mycroft to let go of him. Why can't Mycroft see that his grip hurts him? Surely Mycroft must be able to notice that.
Mycroft's grip is the only thing stopping Sherlock from stumbling as he leads him into the car. He's gently lowered into the car; his eyes are closed once more, the pain growing every moment he keeps them open. He squirms in his seat, he feels so dizzy, but he doesn't want to lean back and rest against the seat because it will only hurt and burn and he doesn't want to experience any extra pain. He feels Mycroft climb in beside him and the car starts moving, he moans at the movement as it makes his stomach churn and he's almost certain he'll vomit this time.
Sherlock buries his head into his hands as he waits for the pain to stop. He can feel Mycroft's eyes on him, his brother is likely to be sitting there, watching him carefully, unsure of what to do. He feels himself swaying; hands quickly take hold of his shoulders and force him to sit back. He lets out a strangled moan, it burns and it stings and it hurts so very much. Sherlock places his hands on top of Mycroft's and tries to get them off, it hurts and it burns and he wants it all to stop, but Mycroft's hands remain in place, they remain in place as Mycroft shifts closer towards him. Mycroft's left hand leaves his shoulder and is gently guiding his head down; he feels fabric against his cheek. A five-hundred pound suit, that's risky for Mycroft considering he's likely to vomit all over him at any moment. A hand is running through his curls and Mycroft is shushing him. He doesn't recall making noises; only the moan earlier from the movement of the car, Mycroft wouldn't be shushing him if he isn't making a sound. He must have been making some sort of sound, people have told him before that he regularly makes little moans and whimpers without realising, he must be doing it again.
If there is ever a time he hates his transport for going against him, it's now. He never hates his transport as much as he does until his migraines return. He hates how a simple headache can lead to such immense pain and a host of other problems. He hates that simply being around horrendously bright lights can cause him to experience one, he hates that sudden temperature changes in the weather can cause him to experience torturous ones, he hates how he has to stop everything once the pain becomes too much and has to wait for it to stop. He could be out catching a suspect but he's nursing a migraine instead, he could be completing an experiment but he's too busy throwing up bile and waiting for the pain to stop, he could be doing anything important but he's too busy waiting for his transport to stop its betrayal and start working with him!
He trembles hard against Mycroft and curls up in his seat.
Mycroft threads his hand through his little brother's sweaty curls slowly, he told the driver earlier to take them to Baker Street, he'd rather take Sherlock back to his home, but he knows how much Sherlock will hate it if he isn't back at Baker Street. He feels his suit jacket dampen and he doesn't need to look down to know what's causing it. Instead, he threads his hand through Sherlock's curls a little quicker and more firm than before hoping it will calm him down, it has done so many times before, now should be no different.
He hears Sherlock groan, it hurts him but he won't let anyone see that it does. It hurts knowing his little brother is in pain, it hurts knowing that his little brother is in agony and he can't do much to help him. He starts to whisper to Sherlock, shushing him, reminding him that everything will be okay, and that it is all fine. He isn't too sure what else he could say, it seems like something John would say, and he knows that John is good at calming his Sherlock down. He almost wishes he paid more attention to Nanny when they were younger, she always used to do something that helped calm Sherlock down, but he was too busy with his education and job to pay much attention to his annoying little brother. Why would he? Becoming a part of the Government was far more interesting and important than watching his babysitter care for his little brother.
He wasn't lying when he told John that he has been handling Sherlock's migraines for many years, it's that he's never entirely sure how to act when Sherlock's experiencing one. He hates being uncertain, especially when Sherlock's health is concerned. He reacts so differently to them many times, that Mycroft never quite knows his place, especially when Sherlock's aware of those around him and his acid tongue comes into place and he wants Mycroft out. Unlike right now, where Sherlock had a slight struggle earlier but has given in and is now curled up against him older brother.
The car hits a bump in the road; Mycroft feels Sherlock tense and start to gag. He moves Sherlock from him, he never did like vomit and he'd rather not get vomit all over his suit. The car hits another bump in the road and Sherlock is soon vomiting. Sweat forms on his upper lip as bile comes shooting from his mouth, Mycroft is almost pleased with himself that he managed to move Sherlock away from him, he doesn't want bile all over his suit. Once Sherlock finally stops, Mycroft notices more sweat has formed, the tremble has grown worse, and more noises are being made. Mycroft sighs silently and pulls his brother towards him, trying to ignore the flinch Sherlock makes at the touch and movement.
Mycroft fishes the keys from Sherlock's pocket, they're going to be arriving at Baker Street soon and he would rather not have to knock on the door and wait for someone to awaken.
The short journey to Baker Street passes in almost complete silence, the only sound coming from Sherlock when he makes a noise from pain. Once they arrive at Baker Street, Mycroft unlocks and opens the door before he helps Sherlock walk out of the car. The journey from the car to Sherlock's bedroom is agonisingly slow, what with Sherlock not wanting to cause himself more pain and needing to gag every few steps, and Mycroft not being used to handling so much weight, let alone someone who weighs as much as Sherlock, who is surprisingly heavy despite his thin frame. Mycroft tries his best to ignore Sherlock pained breaths, knowing that it's his little brother that's hurting and he can't do a thing about it. Really, now, it's been twenty-three years since Sherlock's first attack, Mycroft should be able to handle this without feeling those worthless sentimental emotions. Caring isn't an advantage, but sometimes, Mycroft really can't help it, especially when he can hear Sherlock's groans of pain, see and feel him flinch.
By the time they make it to Sherlock's bedroom, Mycroft is sweating and out of breath, and Sherlock is sweating buckets and gasping pained breaths. Mycroft lowers Sherlock onto the bed, immediately helping Sherlock remove his coat straight after. He doesn't need to look at Sherlock's face to see how he's feeling – Sherlock's face is pale, his eyes are clenched shut tightly, sweat dribbles down it, his hair is matted down to his forehead, and he'll be foolishly biting his lip to prevent himself from crying out. Mycroft's witnessed it more than enough times in his life, he doesn't wish nor does he need to see it again.
Mycroft hangs Sherlock's coat up on the hanger on the door; he turns back to Sherlock to see Sherlock's trembling fingers unsuccessfully try to undo the buttons on his shirt. Mycroft walks towards him slowly and takes over, feeling disheartened when Sherlock lets him without protesting. This is all very wrong, Mycroft just wants his little brother back, he doesn't want this one, this isn't Sherlock, this is as if someone's taken over, it's his body but not his mind. Mycroft hates seeing his brother so weak and in pain, there isn't much fight in him, he needs someone for support (though Sherlock will never admit to it), there's no arrogance or stubbornness, there's just this vulnerable person that needs someone to help him. And it hurts Mycroft to see him like that. Every time it happens. It hurts Mycroft. Sherlock shouldn't be the one in pain, yet he is. And there's nothing he can do to help him.
Mycroft sighs silently and pushes Sherlock's shirt off the younger man's shoulders. Sherlock's so sensitive right now that even the slightest brush of his hand across the younger man's shoulder caused him to flinch. Sherlock removes his shoes, socks, and trousers himself, leaving him in only his underwear. As Sherlock lowers himself onto the bed and curls himself up as much as he can without causing himself much more pain (which isn't much), Mycroft looks around the room, there's a chair in the far corner of the room, but he's unsure as to if he should bring it over, Sherlock has stated many times before that he has no desire for Mycroft to be around him, and John is upstairs, all he shall need to do is wake the other man up and he shall come. But will Sherlock still wish for him to leave? Mycroft looks back at his younger brother and then makes his way towards the chair, regardless of Sherlock's wishes; Mycroft will be staying, if only to assure himself that Sherlock will be fine. Sherlock needs his older brother, and Mycroft shall be there for him, if only for the reassurance of one of them, or both. When he brings the chair over and sits down, Sherlock is looking at him, his eyes pained filled and pleading, Mycroft can tell he isn't pleading for him to leave, more to stay. Mycroft reaches a hand out; he goes to take Sherlock's hand but soon stops, moving it from the direction of Sherlock's hand to his sweat filled curls. He gently threads his fingers through the hair once more, ignoring how much he hates the feeling of it as he watches Sherlock's eyes shut and Sherlock relax ever so slightly.
"It's time to sleep, Sherlock." Mycroft whispers softly.
A soft expression passes over Sherlock's face. Mycroft continues the motion until he's certain Sherlock's asleep, even though his pained expression still remains. Mycroft sits back in the chair and watches Sherlock sleep. These are the moments that rarely happen – the ones where there are no insults, no arrogance, no arguments, no childish feud, nothing at all – and moments like these are the ones Mycroft treasures the most, if only they didn't happen under such dire circumstances.
By the time morning arrives, Sherlock had woken multiple times; Mycroft had been there each time, wiping the sweat from his face, encouraging him to drink, handing him the bin when he vomited it back up, rubbing a thumb across his shoulder as soon as he was no longer touch sensitive, threading his fingers through his curls to help him back to sleep. Mycroft stands to make his leave; he looks back at his sleeping brother once more before walking out of the room. John is in the kitchen, filling the kettle up with water, a confused expression crosses his face when he sees Mycroft and Mycroft smirks at the expression. John opens his mouth to say something but Mycroft quickly cuts him off.
"Do take care of my little brother, Doctor Watson." He says quickly exiting the room as soon as he finished the sentence and leaving behind a bemused Watson.
AN: Please don't hate me for this chapter. Mycroft knows how to take care of his little brother. Yeah, sorry, having trouble with the Anderson and Donovan's chapter, ended up writing this one instead.
So, I was looking at this story from start to now, and it amazes me how much my writing has changed all because I struggled to write one chapter. One chapter. Wow.
I hope you enjoyed this, have a nice day :)
~Steffii