An Apple A Day

"Can we move this along?" Sherlock asked irritably, pressing his fingertips together beneath his chin.

He would have been perfectly content to stay curled up on the sofa all day, free of John's doctoring for once in his illness count, had it not been for his brother ringing him. His brother, of all people, asking him for his help on some probable mind-numbingly boring case for the government, or something as equally as tedious. But it had been the promise of a case, and since John and Mary were out of town, it was one time that he couldn't be nagged at for working while sick. And so, Sherlock had gone to Mycroft's frankly alarmingly elaborate penthouse.

Now, with the throbbing in his head and the churning in his stomach, he was very much regretting it.

"Seeing as how you've managed to fall ill in the one week that Dr and Mrs Watson are out of town, I'm not sure how to move this along, as you say. The legwork involved wouldn't be kind on your illness."

"It's a small bug that's going around, not the end of the world." Sherlock dropped his hands into his lap, shifting his weight the tiniest amount. "And you could tell that I was sick by talking to me on the phone."

"I wasn't aware of the extent."

"There is no extent," Sherlock said. "But I'll solve the problem for you. You now do not want me to take the case. I do not want to take the case." He prepared to stand, and planned to march out and get his cab home. "So, I'll take my leave instead-" He broke off as he stood, and the vertigo assailed his senses. His fingers landed lightly on the armrest of the chair he'd been sitting in.

... Well, maybe he'd sit just for a moment longer.

His throat was aching on top of all of this, and he sank back into the chair unhappily, resting his arm on his stomach.

"Is tea going to help, or harm?" Mycroft mused, gesturing to the teapot sitting on the small table nearby.

Sherlock wasn't sure himself, but the promise of a warm beverage against his aching throat was too good to pass up. "I'll take some," he replied.

"Where did you catch this 'bug' from this time, brother mine?" Mycroft asked, pouring the tea.

"Oh, I don't know," Sherlock said, taking the mug and swallowing a large gulp. He wanted to leave it at that, to get up and flounce out of the flat and return to his own, silent flat, but the tea was perfectly brewed and the right temperature for his aching throat. He took another, less hasty, sip and closed his eyes. "The masses of people that swarm the town as they snivel over everything they touch."

"Yes," Mycroft said slowly. "Society."

Sherlock sighed softly, watching as his breath rippled the surface of the tea. "Disgusting."

"Degrading."

He chuckled airily. "Indeed." He sipped at his tea again. "But I got it from somewhere. Perhaps you'll be next." He glanced up at Mycroft, raising an eyebrow.

"Doubtful, little brother," Mycroft replied. "I rarely got ill when you were sick when we were children."

"Mmm. True. Hated that." Sherlock lowered his mug and sank a little lower in the chair. "I should have ignored your call. I was content to stay in bed before you called me here."

"That is something for the record books."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You could stay here," Mycroft commented, after a few minutes of surprisingly companionable silence.

Sherlock was halfway through his tea and nearly choked on the drink he was taking. "What?"

"Your bed is made up. The high-quality sheets and the feather-down duvet must be simply calling your name now."

Knowing that Mycroft was trying to lure him into a yawn with words like 'feather-down' and 'high-quality', Sherlock took another drink of his tea for a distraction. "Regardless of the state of comfort within these walls, why on earth would I want to stay?"

"I have no shortage of tea or medicine. Not to mention the fact that rest is only a few minutes down the hall. I think there even may be some of your clothes in the dresser."

"Hm." He'd stayed here before, on multiple occasions. Mycroft had had this flat since he had turned thirty, and Sherlock's teenage through twenties had been gruelling. He'd ended up here on more than one occasion, and none of them were ever particularly good or willing. Breaking that streak almost seemed taboo.

Mycroft's pleasant smile was unchanging. "Well?"

Time to run the pros and cons, then.

His stomach was protesting. He was beginning to think that the tea had been a bad idea. Given the sudden swell in it and the intensity of it in question, he estimated he had ten minutes before he needed to be somewhere that it could be acceptable to vomit. In ten minutes, he could be out of here and in the cab, but not home yet. Not an acceptable place to throw up (not that he hadn't, but desperate times). At least Mycroft's penthouse had a bathroom or a wastepaper bin.

Pro.

He hadn't stayed with Mycroft for any good reason. And any time that he had stayed here, hadn't been good. No contempt, never contempt. But the look that was always in Mycroft's eyes... made Sherlock's stomach turn. Now, he expected, might not be any different, even if this wasn't illness by his own making.

Con.

But sheets more comfortable than Sherlock was ever going to buy for himself and just the thought of a bed in general sounded so good. His head was throbbing, and the pillow sounded like heaven. And since it was not Baker Street, it wasn't quite as busy, so less daytime traffic and noise.

... Pro.

He was wasting valuable time.

"Say that I do stay here," he said slowly. "What will I be expected to owe you?"

"Nothing more than a thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock scowled. "Now's not really the time for sentimentality. I may be ill, but family bonding? I'd rather bite off my own tongue."

"No, you wouldn't," Mycroft said pleasantly. "You couldn't hear yourself talk, then."

"Bleeding out would be most likely in that scenario."

"However, I'd think taking night-time cold medicine and catching a few hours of sleep probably sounds a lot better to you..." Mycroft trailed off. "Come to think of it, it probably doesn't."

Sherlock sighed, although it was shaky. The nausea was eating away at him, and he would hate to be caught short in the lounge with Mycroft as witness. That being said, locking himself in his bedroom here at the penthouse, the one with the en-suite bathroom, sounded much better.

"Fine," Sherlock relented, slowing pushing himself to his feet. Vertigo again accompanied the movement and, again, the world tilted at the strangest angle. Mycroft's hand hovered a few inches away instinctively, probably, and just as instinctively, Sherlock stepped away. "I am fine," he said brusquely, although still hanging onto the chair.

"You should take better care of yourself, Sherlock."

"I take enough care of myself," Sherlock replied flippantly, treading carefully for the sitting room door. "Funny enough, I've learned that an apple a day does not keep the doctor away. John used to buy them all the time and he stuck around."

"It's not meant to be taken quite so literally, brother."

"Literal or not, everything else is transport. As I've many times told you."

"As you have just as many times been proven wrong. Now, for instance, as you are forced to take some down time to recuperate."

Sherlock waved in dismissal, trudging out of the room. He found his way to his bedroom, closed the door, and walked into the bathroom. It took all of three and a half minutes for the vomiting to start and all of five minutes and eleven seconds for it to stop.

When he stood to wash his hands, he was shaking and exhausted. The idea of leaving the penthouse now seem foreign and forgotten, much less the idea of getting back to Baker Street. Night-time cold medicine and sleep sounded wonderful... although admitting that to Mycroft would be worse than biting his own tongue off.

He quickly found his pyjamas and changed, leaving his clothes strewn across the bedroom floor. He pushed the duvet back and crawled between the blankets, sighing softly as the fabric glossed over his skin. He drew the blankets close and tucked his pillow close, letting the soft plush draw him increasingly closer to something that was the semblance of relaxation.

Until Mycroft's voice filtered through the bedroom door. "Medication and hydration, Sherlock."

"Sleep," Sherlock retaliated, drawing the blankets close.

"In a moment," Mycroft said, louder now, as he entered the room. "But, first, paracetamol, at the very least. There's more tea if you want, too."

Despite how Sherlock didn't want anything else from his brother, he had to admit that the promise of... he sniffed slightly, was it Earl Grey or Darjeeling? He couldn't tell. Hot tea definitely sounded better than the lingering taste of vomit on his tongue, though.

"Fine," Sherlock conceded, for the second time, pushing himself into a sitting position. "Give me."

Mycroft handed them over and Sherlock placed the pills on his tongue, holding out his hand for the mug of tea. "Now, go away."

"As you wish, brother."

Sherlock took a drink of his tea to chase down the medication as Mycroft left the room. It was Darjeeling. Sherlock ran his tongue over his lips and huddled down in the blankets, yawning slightly. It was warm tucked away in his bed sheets, far more quiet than Baker Street could ever be, and the familiar taste of tea on his tastebuds was lulling him into a false sense of security. He took another drink of his tea, closing his eyes. He shoved the pillow back and settled against it comfortably, a larger yawn breaking the restraints of his lips.

Medication and sleep, he had told Mycroft. With the addition of tea overlaying the medication, falling asleep was the only thing left to do.

A/N: Wow I started this story a long time ago, but with Series 3 and TAB further exemplifying the bond between the Holmes Brothers, I was able to get some inspiration for it! So I edited and here we go! Sickfic + Holmes Brothers. Probably gonna be 4 or 5 chapters, nothing too long. I love their brotherhood, sure, but they are hard to write getting along. x'D.

I do not own Sherlock. Thank for reading, and stay tuned!