Author's Note: I adore Mycroft and Sherlock's relationship, (even if it is dysfunctional) and I honestly don't really know where this came from. Its a sick fic, because I'm sick and miserable so Sherlock will be too. XD

Anyway, thank you so much for your interest! I would love to hear what you thought about the story. :)

Rated for: Rudeness, nothing inappropriate and language is all K.

Summary: Sherlock is ill, John is busy, and Lestrade calls him in for a case...and it doesn't end well causing Sherlock to need a drive home. AKA: The one time Mycroft saw how Donovan and Anderson treat his sibling and was 1274950% not okay with that.

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

Sorry for any grammar/spelling errors! :)

Just a person note, if you could refrain from using cussing/strong language if you comment (no offense to how you speak! Promise! =) It just makes me uncomfortable) I would greatly appreciate that. ;)

For your information, this story is cross posted on A03 under the pen name of "GalaxyThreads".

Words Hurt Too, You Know

"I feel wretched."

"I know."

"Ill."

"I know."

"I'm dying, John."

"You're fine, Sherlock."

"My brain is melting."

"Right."

"Do you have to leave?"

"It's just a few hours, Sherlock, you aren't going to die." John insists from his position in the kitchen where he's splattering strawberry jam onto a pour piece of bread (that he likely hopes to drown out the burned taste on with the surgery goop), and lifts one brow up, unimpressed. Sherlock resists the urge to let out a loud moan in response and flings his arm over his eyes to block out the light instead, hoping if he focuses on his hand enough the faint residue of John's burned toast will lose its effect. However intense John's reassurance may be, Sherlock has his doubts.

It's not fair that John can work at the clinic, deal with ill people for most of the day (unless Sherlock drags him out for a case), and then return to Baker Street carrying a virus that only Sherlock will catch. This isn't the first time it has happened, and won't be the last; the ex-military man could carry the Black Plague and be unaffected, but exhale fifteen feet from Sherlock who then would promptly pass out from his immune system's patheticness. Which is just plain stupid on so many levels; his brother never struggled with this when they were children and neither did his parents. His transport has never been awfully good at staying hale and in his youth he was often bedridden for days at a time.

It was annoying and not something he ever grew out of, just learned to ignore it and grew too bored to remain in bed for very long. It isn't until he has literally passed out that he often remembers that he is sick.

He doesn't know exactly what he caught this time, but he's been wading through a agonizing headache, sore throat, nausea and aching muscles for three days now, and it doesn't appear to be stopping any time soon. He hasn't mentioned it to John except once offhandedly before this morning and he can tell that his blogger isn't taking him very seriously-which is just furthering his frustration. Yes, he can on occasion (twice! It was twice!) completely fake illnesses to prevent John from leaving from sympathy, but he isn't fibbing, and he wants John to stay here so he can make it go away-Sherlock cuts the line of thought abruptly, sickened.

This is ridiculous.

He's not five.

"John." Sherlock groans in distress, his voice rattling around his throat and not helping its aching any. John ignores him with practiced ease, slipping around the kitchen to finish preparations for the day before heading out to the clinic. John will not be stopping at the moment. Ergh. This is just great.

Sherlock releases a loud sigh, before rolling onto his side and tucking his arm under his throbbing head in an effort to prop it (his neck aching is not anything he wants to add to the ever growing pile of misery) and he feels the slightly skeptical look that John shoots in his direction at this movement.

John, (apparently deciding to stick with his originally theory) states a moment later: "I really don't have time for this today, Sherlock."

Really? Couldn't tell. Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes and casually digs a finger into his temple in an effort to shove the headache from his brain. It's affecting his thinking process in an annoying manner than he can't work around. "I know." He confirms. John isn't exactly running late, but he did promise his boss (that Sherlock doesn't bother to remember the name of) that he'd come in early so he could work some extra shifts. Two of the women who work on the staff are on maternity leave and the clinic is struggling to pull the weight of their absence. John, being the ever good bloke that he is volunteered for overtime.

John sighs with further irritation and Sherlock can almost see him running his hand through his blond hair in that way he only does when he's truly agitated. Apparently, Sherlock's illness is an inconvenience to him. "Text me if you feel worse," John offers, "but I really do need to leave. Don't do anything stupid, and Mrs. Hudson asked you not to put anything with decaying skin in the fridge for at least a week. I'll be back around dinner."

Sherlock doesn't bother to muster up a response, but John doesn't need one. He finishes gathering his things and swings his jacket around his shoulder before exiting their flat and Sherlock hears the door for 221B closing after John's steps echo down the stairs.

Sherlock remains on the sofa and refuses to move, perfectly content to lay here for the rest of his miserable existence.

000o000

He isn't aware he fell asleep until he hears a low buzzing on the coffee table behind him. His headache is worse than when he went to sleep, and now he can feel every breath being dragged through his throat. There are few times he can compare being this miserable to and none of them are exactly pleasant. Sherlock grinds his teeth together, quite determined to go back to sleep and hope that John notices his corpse upon return, but the buzzing is continuing.

It's annoying.

What is it?

Sherlock forces his muddled brain into function beyond its strong whisperings of sleep in an attempt to find the source of the annoying buzz, smash it then return back to bed. The vibration is behind him and rattling across the coffee table, but it's not an alarm because Sherlock doesn't have one and John's sounds different. Is it a bomb? A buzzing bomb? Do bombs buzz? He doesn't know and is too tired to search for an answer. It would just be easier to roll over and look, but he's never felt more comfortable in his life and has little desire to move.

The buzzing stops, mercifully and Sherlock exhales quietly. If it is a bomb, at least he will die contently warm. His brain is beginning to slip back to sleep when it begins anew and is somehow louder, as if angry at Sherlock's ignorance.

Annoyance builds in him until all desire to sleep is overruled by it and he forces himself to roll over, biting at his tongue to keep himself grounded at how badly the world is spinning. Next time John complains about there being an outbreak of the flu at his dull work, Sherlock is going to avoid him.

His eyes struggle to adjust, but he picks out his phone laying amongst whatever junk is present on the small table (books, a laptop (probably John's), and dozens of stacks of papers varying in height) where it is buzzing cheerfully, the sound amplified by the wood.

Calling. Someone is calling him.

Why?

Sherlock shoves himself into a sitting position with a great deal of effort, his pajama shirt sticking to him with sweat and lifts a hand out to grasp the small device from amongst the junk and stare at it. The letters blur and refuse to focus so Sherlock gives up and presses answer and lifts the phone to his ear.

"Sh'lck Holmes." His voice sounds terrible, Sherlock notes distantly, almost as if watching from afar.

"Finally!" Lestrade's impatient, loud voice announces into his ear. Sherlock barely withholds a wince, and his teeth latch onto his tongue as he pulls the phone back from his ear, wary that Lestrade is going to shout again.

Finally what?

How long as Lestrade been calling? Lestrade usually comes in person or texts him, he doesn't call unless it's necessary. Did something happen? Is John alright?

"I've been calling for three minutes, Sherlock. Three! What were you bloody doing? Another case!?" Lestrade demands. It takes Sherlock a little more time than he cares to admit to fully understand the question is in fact in English, not German and he should reply in English as well.

"No."

He wasn't, yes?

Yes, he was sleeping.

"You know what, I don't have time to do this. The Yard was attacked, some bloke walked and started shooting at everything and then walked out. We can't find him anywhere and I need you to come look at the scene and see if you can find anything."

Oh.

Wait.

The Yard? The Yard was attacked?

Sherlock forces himself to his feet, a surge of something he can't finger in his chest, "Any caulsites?" He demands, forcing his aching body to move across the flat and find some presentable clothing. His vision is blurring horribly and he finds his way to his bedroom more by memory of the steps than actual sight.

"Five injured, and three in critical condition." Lestrade answers promptly. Sherlock nods to himself and regrets the decision immediately as he sways. He slams into the doorframe of his bedroom and grits his teeth to withhold a groan and muffle the sharp cry of pain. He squeezes his eyes shut and forces his breathing to move through his dry, heated throat.

Apparently his muffle wasn't as good as he hoped because Lestrade pauses, "Are you alright?"

Sherlock doesn't open his eyes. No, he wants to admit, no I'm not, but the Yard was attacked and he's going to grab the person who did this and rattle them back and forth until they're as dizzy as he is for it. He doesn't have time for his transport's complaints or his aching joints, he needs to get to the Yard before the incompetent idiots that Lestrade calls his best team destroys the evidence that will help him find the attacker.

"Fine." Sherlock answers briskly, attempting to keep his voice from slipping into a whisper to ease the pain. "I'll be there shortly." He assures without giving Lestrade time to come up with a response, "Do try to keep your officers from destroying anything helpful before I arrive." Sherlock requests and pulls the phone down then ends the call.

He forces his eyes open and regrets it as the light does nothing to aid his head.

Just a transport, he reminds himself staggering forward to the dresser.

Transport.

000o000

One cab ride huddled in the back attempting not to vomit later, Sherlock is standing at the doors for New Scotland Yard trying desperately not to pass out.

Move, Sherlock commands his feet, who do nothing. Sherlock lifts his his gaze up to the sky and forces out a heavy breath of frustration before shoving himself forward with a greater deal of effort than should be necessary and swinging open the door to the Yard before crossing underneath yellow tape.

Lestrade spots him before Sherlock locates him first and suddenly materializes out of nowhere beside him. "Sherlock!" He greets, relief evident on his voice, "Thank you for coming, the crime scene is this way." He begins to move away from the direction Sherlock was heading and he scrambles to keep up with Lestrade's pace.

His head is pulsing behind his skull and Sherlock wishes he could grab a hefty stick and give it a good whack to stop it from doing so. Lestrade looks back at him and looks confused, but Sherlock isn't certain because his vision is blurring so much. "Where's John?" Lestrade asks.

Not here.

Sherlock didn't bother to call him because he couldn't locate his phone after he set it down and he knows that John will take one look at him and send him home, but he needs to solve this case. Besides, he seemed quite adamant on going to work this morning.

"Busy." Sherlock murmurs, "Work."

Lestrade nods, distractedly, "Ah."

Lestrade comes to a halt and it takes a great deal of effort on Sherlock's part to not simply go plowing into the man from behind. He stops, and squints, staring. The room they're in is in disarray, papers everywhere, the desks are shoved out of place, there's clearly been a scramble of movement, and multiple bullet holes are everywhere. Glass is shattered and there are little smears of red dotting some areas. The room isn't void of people and Sherlock spots a few officers he recognizes, as well as Donovan and Anderson carefully marking evidence down or talking quietly.

"If you can just tell us where he went, I'll be happy," Lestrade says, he's still speaking too loudly, "one moment he was shooting at everyone, the next we turn our backs and he's gone. We've got no footage 'cause he made quick work of the cameras. We're stumped."

"Clearly." Sherlock jibes half heartedly and he sees Lestrade give him another look. Lestrade's gaze has been flicking back to him the whole time he's been here and Sherlock has put forth a great deal of effort in ignoring that fact.

Sherlock shuffles forward attempting not to fall flat on his face and wraps his belstaff around himself staring at it all. Everything clearly states that there was major chaos only recently, but Sherlock ignores that and instead focuses on the calm aspects of the room. The attacker clearly had plans to cause a scene, but why? Was there something in the room that they wanted? Sherlock compares from the last time he was here and notices that one of the desks has been left in exactly the same place even though the others have shifted or been tipped over.

He carefully balances his feet to walk softly across the ground to not aggravate his head further and moves to the desk. Something was taken from this desk and the attacker obviously wanted to keep the Yard away from it, so distracted them with the injured; but what did they want?

Sherlock reaches the desk and runs a finger on it the smooth metal of the desk that is cool against his touch. The outline of very faint dust indicates the object that was here isn't exactly massive, but sitting there for sometime untouched.

Perhaps a container of some sort?

But what would be in it that would be so important to revoke this reaction to retrieve this? Money? Jewelry? A favorite pair of boots?-the space is not large enough for the latter, however.

Whose desk is this anyway?

Sherlock whips his head up and sways slightly latching his teeth onto his tongue to keep himself grounded. The world blurs.

"Find something?" Lestrade questions, shifting towards him.

Sherlock resists the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. Transport. Just a transport.

"Possibly." Sherlock assures and waves a finger towards the desk, "Whose is this?"

Lestrade pauses, thinking, "Officer Parkinson, why?"

Oh. Parkinson.

Sherlock doesn't bother to answer and flips to stare at the dust pattern in a new light, but doesn't reach his full spin. His vision tumbles before his body does and his feet give out. Sherlock's head smacks against the edge of the desk during his tumble and suddenly he's resting on his side on the ground, mouth open with breathless pain.

That did not help his headache.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelps and kneels beside him.

Sherlock can't muster out any answer beyond a low groan of pain.

He needs John.

John is a doctor, he can fix this.

Where is John?

John's not here.

He needs John.

"Jo'n." Sherlock murmurs, burying himself under his coat as a pulse of cold shoots through him.

Lestrade curses quietly before his cold hand slams against Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock barely withholds a jump of surprise, but looks up at the man, confused.

That was rather rude to hit him.

Lestrade pulls his hand back and is frowning, "You have a fever. Why didn't you tell me you were sick?"

Because no one believes him?

Sherlock waves a tired hand and struggles to string a coherent sentence together, "Where's John?" His voice is soft, almost barely audible.

Lestrade is still frowning, "He's not here right now, Sherlock. Do you want me to call him?"

No. John is busy, he won't want to be interrupted by Sherlock's stupid fainting spell. He's nauseous. He doesn't understand why.

Lestrade grips his upper arm suddenly and Sherlock looks up before Lestrade slowly pulls him into a sitting position. He sways, nearly tipping again, but Lestrade keeps him upright. "How long has this been going on?" Lestrade demands.

Today is...Thursday? no it's Monday. Wednesday? "A few days." Sherlock admits.

This prompts another curse from the inspector, "That's it, I'm calling John." He announces, fumbling to grab his mobile.

No! John is busy, he doesn't want to deal with him!

Sherlock shoots his arm forward and grabs Lestrade's wrist, "Don't."

"Sherlock…"

"He's busy." Sherlock argues, "Work." There. The subject that no adult will bend around: jobs. He doesn't want to make John and more irritated with him than he is. It isn't even anything serious. He'll be fine in a few hours. There is no reason to make such a fuss!

"Fine." Lestrade agrees, "But I'm calling someone to come and get you. Who?"

The tone of Lestrade's voice assures him that there is no talking or wiggling his way out of this. Great. Mrs. Hudson's car is in for maintenance, and Molly is also busy and doesn't own a vehicle. That means the only person left is...Mycroft. Splendid. He's never going to live this down. It will probably be brought up at a later date when Mycroft needs him to do some sort of ill legwork. He doesn't want to call Mycroft anymore than willingly submit his toes to be severed off. But he can't stand another second under all of these piercing eyes, it's making something gasp in his chest that he doesn't understand.

He needs out of this gaze.

He feels like an insect trapped beneath a magnifying glass.

Mycroft. Mycroft can send someone to pick him up and take him out of here.

Probably Anthea. She speeds, so she'll get here quickly, which is a plus. He doesn't know how many more spins his stomach can make around his midsection before discovering that up is a direction it can head to as well. He wishes John was here. Why did he have to lose his bloody phone? He can't even remember where it is in the flat now, and that was scarcely an hour ago.

"-lock." Lestrade presses. Sherlock forces his gaze to flick up towards him, confused. What? Did he ask something? Lestrade's face is pinched in a manner Sherlock doesn't understand. "Who am I calling?"

Oh.

Yes.
Right.

Sherlock blinks at him, then forces Mycroft's name out of his lips so Lestrade can find and dial it before pressing talk. Sherlock presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, forcing himself to focus on breathing. His head has never felt closing to splitting in two, even when he's been threatened by criminals with the necessary tools wielded to create such a senro. Why are they all staring. Can't they stop!?

"Yeah." Lestrade agrees, drawing Sherlock from his thoughts, "No, he's not dying or anything, I just wanted-yes, that should be fine. No, don't-you know what, never mind, fine, yes, you're more than welcome." An exaggerated hand movement of annoyance follows this statement. "Yeah. Ta, bye." Lestrade ends the call and looks at him.

"He'll be here in about twenty minutes." Lestrade states.

He?

Who is he?

He...the assailant was male and looking for the box because...because why? Parkinson isn't married and never has been, but she does have a brother who-Parkinson's mother just passed on...three? four months ago. A will! He was looking for a will because-because...probably money. Everyone is always fighting over money. So he took the will and then-

"Stairs!" Sherlock blurts suddenly, jerking forward with a jolt. Lestrade looks confused and a bit irritated, a expression he often wears when Sherlock is speaking; that or complete annoyance. "Stairs." Sherlock repeats, then smacks a hand against his forehead. "Oh, stupid. Obvious. The attempted-killer never left the building, Lestrade," Sherlock announces, grabbing the detective's shoulders, "He's in the basement."

Lestrade's eyes widen. "He's what?"

Did he miss everything Sherlock just stated?

Sherlock leaps to his feet with the familiar thrill of putting things together settling into his stomach-and his muscles promptly give out. Sherlock tumbles forward, and prepares himself for both the humiliation of falling flat on his face as well as the pain, but Lestrade, equally enthused and also on his feet, grabs his arms to steady him.

Sherlock pants, struggling for breath that isn't coming. Why can't he breathe? What is wrong with his throat? His lungs are tight in his chest and his muscles are no more useful to him than idiocy.

Lestrade frowns. Sherlock can't see it, given his position, but he can sense it all the same. After a moment, he assists Sherlock into a semi-upright position and his lips thin unhappily. Sherlock attempts to tug out of his grip, fully aware that every eye in the room is on him, but Lestrade's fingers might've well have been made from iron. "You're not coming with," he decides as Sherlock stops the futile escape attempts. "You can wait in my office until this blows over."

What?

"Lestrade-" Sherlock begins in protest.

"Sherlock." Lestrade says firmly, "No; you can't even walk in a straight line." He waves a hand out slightly, despite the useless protests that are beginning to escape Sherlock's lips. He doesn't understand half of what he's saying, and he's not even entirely sure if it's in English. "Donovan!" Lestrade calls.

Sherlock's stomach sinks.

Surely he wouldn't-Oh, stupid. He doesn't need a handler. He's not five anymore. And for the love of-does it have to be Donovan? Why can it not be literally any other officer in the room? Donovan is Lestrade's right hand, if they're going criminal with a machine gun hunting, shouldn't he drag her along?

Donovan appears next to them suddenly, a slight sneer across her lips. He's not certain he's ever seen her with a different expression, how exhausting is it to be in such a foul mood all the time? "Lestrade," Donovan addresses, pointedly not looking at him.

Sherlock presses his lips together to hold back a biting comment because he's fairly certain all that's going to come out is a heave of coughs. His head is swimming and it's so hard to focus.

"I need you to look after Sherlock while we go find the assailant and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid until his brother gets here." Lestrade announces. Sherlock merely grinds his teeth together, having already put this together, but Donovan's jaw slides open and she flicks her gaze to him with disgust.

"What!? No!"

"Sally. Please." Lestrade presses, his grip on Sherlock's arm tightening. Whether is subconscious or not, Sherlock can't determine. It's painful nonetheless.

Donovan shakes her head slightly, "He's got a brother?" She jerks a thumb out towards him.

"Yes." Lestrade answers. Sherlock is admittedly grateful that Lestrade has decided him mute as well as ill. He doesn't think he can get a coherent sentence out at the moment. This is humiliating. Why did he not stay home and text John until he came and forced the proper medicine down his throat.

Donovan's jaw clenches, "How long?"

"Twenty minutes tops." Lestrade assures.

Actually, closer to about seventeen now if Anthea is driving and Mycroft had had her stationed to go pick up the paperwork he was kvetching about a few days ago. Donovan's fingers tap with agitation, but ultimately decides against continuing her childish fit.

"Fine." Donovan shifts forward and takes Sherlock's weight with a grunt. Sherlock attempts to bury a rousing prod of embarrassment at the realization that he can't stand without her assistance. His transport is trying to kill him. Donovan puts a little contact as she can manage from her helping position and begins to drag him forward, ignoring Lestrade's murmur of thanks behind her. "C'mon, Freak."

000o000

When they reach Lestrade's office about two minutes later, Donovan all but dumps Sherlock onto one of the uncomfortable padded chairs and strides to the other side of the room to sit on another. Sherlock has never thought of Lestrade's office as small before, but suddenly it feels unbelievably cramped. Donovan releases an annoyed sigh and sits back in the chair, arms crossed over her chest and looks by all rights like she's been sentenced to death.

Sherlock tips his head back to lean against the wall to avoid staring at Donovan.

He has never wanted Anthea to appear faster in his life. His brother's PA may be annoying and has an aggravating habit of thinking to loudly, but she gets her job done.

And quickly.

What is taking her so long?

Did she finally get pulled over?

Donovan loses her patience some three minutes later, (his brain is so foggy it's honestly hard to tell-and its stupid, why can't John work anywhere else beyond central virus of the UK?) and tugs her phone out beginning to text someone. Sherlock is too tired to deduce (her sister, though one of her petty friends is more likely) and honestly doesn't care, so he remains quiet and lets her text in silence. The absence of his phone is suddenly stark and he remembers vaugally John joking that his phone is basically a part of his arm.

The headache is throbbing underneath his veins, pulsing through his skull like it might simply crawl out and join the living. If that were to happen, it would be quite bloody.

After another minute or so, Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and pushes the palms of his hands against them. The headache is not helping anything and every bit of light is not assisting. Why is everything so bright? His muscles refuse to remain in this position, even if it is aiding his headache a infinitesimal amount.

The door opens suddenly and Sherlock jerks his head up in surprise. That was fast, Anthea speeds, but she only speeds to the point of not being caught, unlike Mrs. Hudson. The noise however, wasn't created by his brother's obnoxious assistant, but rather Anderson, looking just as piqued as ever, his lips pinched and eyebrows set. In his left hand is a glass of water and his right has something clenched in it. Sherlock's brain is filled with cotton, it's impossible to reason out what it is. He could be holding nothing and Sherlock wouldn't be able to tell.

"What are you doing?" Donovan demands, looking flustered and lowers her phone to stare up at the man. Her voice splits across his skull like a hot knife through butter and he struggles to resist the urge to close his eyes at the pain.

Anderson's frown deepens as he shifts his gaze from Donovan to him, "Lestrade sent me." He explains, sounding anything from jocund about it. "Gifts for our defective detective." He adds and strides across the room towards him; he stops and shoves the glass out in his direction and opens his palm revealing two pills. The last thing on the face of this planet he wants to do right now is accept pills from Anderson, even if they originally came from Lestrade. He'd rather have tea with Moriarty. Sherlock stares at the man's calloused hands, confused. Everything is tilted, or maybe it's just him.

It's just him.

Sherlock rights his head; admittedly, he wasn't aware it had tipped in the first place.

Frustration pours through him at Anderson's comment. He doesn't often come into the Yard when he's under the weather, and made an extreme effort towards it in the first few years because Lestrade thought he was using again. They, unlike John, have not seen his transport fail him often. Especially not them.

Sherlock's lips part, but his voice fails his suddenly. Every insulting word and anything beyond a basic vocabulary in French and Russian has escaped him. Stupid virus!

Sherlock slams his mouth shut then says quietly: "Not defective." It's pathetic, stupid, as well as childish and as soon as it has left him, Sherlock wishes he could drag the sound back into his throat and keep it there. Anderson and Donovan are staring at him with peculiar looks and aggravation slips through his veins at it.

He reaches a shaking hand to take the pills and cup of water from Anderson, and his head pulses at the light. He ends up dumping a portion of the liquid down the front of his shirt and barely manages to get the pills down his swollen throat without coughing. As the water dribbles down his clothing, Donovan and Anderson both share a look of amusement. Did Lestrade have to leave him with these two bumbling idiots? Did he do something wrong? He came to help with the bloody case and he hasn't thrown up, even though his stupid transport thought it necessary.

He wishes John were here, or had made him stay at 221B. Or Mrs. Hudson. Why did he believe it wise? Idiot.

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

Sherlock flips his gaze up from the shaking water in his hand to the two of them, thinning his lips. "Do you have little else to do beyond gawk?" He questions, forcing his voice to remain steady.

Anderson immediately averts his gaze, as if embarrassed to have been caught, but Donovan sneers, "I've been put on babysitting duty, so no, not really."

Please.

"Hardly." Sherlock retorts.

Anderson lifts his eyebrows as if challenged, "Is that so?"

Sherlock sighs and tilts his head back. He's too exhausted to verbally spar with them. If they wants to yell at something, the wall is as good a listener as anything else. He releases a breath and plays with the cup in his hands, until he hears a notification sound. "Donovan, your friend has texted you back, likely to tell you that the date of her wedding has changed and she isn't able to invite you anymore, terribly sorry. You have my condolences." He announces. He's not entirely certain where the information came from, but he knows that Donovan has been asking what acceptable wedding gifts are recently and her friend was just engaged...it must be centered around that. His mind is a mess. He hates being ill. He prefers when it's functioning without the cotton stuffed between his ears, ta.

Donovan flips her phone up and opens it, scanning the text and her eyes grow angered. Ah, so he's correct then. She holds her phone in her hand for a second before looking up at him, "Yeah, well at least I have them. You? You're just a phycopath-"

"Sociopath."

"-whose wandering around being followed by people who pity your sorry butt. And why wouldn't they do that? You're a freak, some sort of strange demented mess of a human being. It's so easy to see why people commiseration you, freak, psychopath, drug addict."

Anxiety is swirling in his stomach, rapidly.

She's wrong, she has to be wrong because John doesn't-he wouldn't-

"John-" He starts to defend, but she waves a hand, the longer she speaks the less control of her tongue she seems to grasp.

"Please. John isn't your friend, I've seen him, he only stays because of pity. You're sick now and where is he? Well?" She challenges. Not here because Sherlock didn't tell him, " He doesn't care, Freak. I can't blame him, you're-"

"I believe that is quite enough, Ms. Donovan."

Sherlock's head whips up, his vision blurring and dizziness threatening to repeat his previous gravity test. Two figures are standing in the doorway, and though he was expecting one of them, the other he was not. What on the-?

Mycroft!?

What is his brother doing here? Mycroft hates leg work and unless Sherlock is dead or dying, Mycroft would never come personally. Why would he? Sherlock is neither dead nor dying, so he doesn't understand what drove his brother to come himself.

Sherlock's gaze flits across his older sibling for a moment, trying to make sure he's not hallucinating. He's not. Mycroft is here.

Why?

Has he come to taunt Sherlock personally for getting ill? Another project or assignment? If that is the case, he's never going to get back to sleep. A groan threatens to escape him, but stops when he realizes that Donovan is quite speechless, her jaw hanging lax. A rare feet indeed. It would be almost amusing if he didn't feel so terrible.

Anthea is standing behind Mycroft, her hands surprisingly empty and gaze cold. His elder sibling looks like the perfect picture of calm and collected, but Sherlock knows him well enough to see past it. His eyes are tight, stance shifted, umbrella clenched a little too tightly and his jaw is set.

Angry.

How...how long were they standing there?

This is humiliating. Donovan and Anderson pick at him often, but never in front of anyone who will actually do anything about it. They're careful to keep it minimal around John after John did get after them (honestly, he's not six, he can look out for himself and Donovan and Anderson simply aren't worth the effort).

Donovan is suddenly on her feet, Anderson beside her and Sherlock releases a quiet moan into his hands. This is just swell.

"Who are you?-You don't have authority to be in here, Sir." Donovan states coldly, "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

He did not believe her intellect possible of slipping lower.

He was wrong.

Mycroft smiles, but it's venomous. His grip around his umbrella shifts slightly, "I assure you, Sergeant, that I permitted to be in here. It is you I wonder for."

Donovan gawks.

"Excuse me?" Anderson demands, "She's on her way to Inspector, Sir."

Mycroft hums conversationally. Sherlock stares up at his sibling like he's grown a second head, but Mycroft isn't looking at him, gaze focused on the two. What on earth is Mycroft doing?

"I beg your pardon?" Donovan demands once she's regained her voice.

Mycroft shifts his weight and tilts his head a little causing Sherlock to briefly entertain the thought that the next murder Lestrade will be calling him in for is going to be Donovan's."You heard me perfectly well, Ms. Donovan." Mycroft answers, something vaguely threatening in his voice.

"I'll have you know that I am-" the woman starts, outraged.

Mycroft waves a lazy hand, "I am aware of your position, no need to rattle it off once more, yes?"

Mycroft turns and stares at Sherlock, sweeping his gaze across him in a single fluid movement and his lips thin slightly. Sherlock attempts not to shrink under the stare, but fails. Mycroft releases a quiet breath and glances back at Anthea who returns his gaze. He hands the umbrella to her before striding across the room and leaning down slightly to rest his palm against Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock makes a noise of protest at the action, but Mycroft's hand is cold and is pleasant against his fevered skin. His hands are currently occupied by the glass of water or he's would have made more of a physical attempt to shove Mycroft off of him. At the moment, he can't do much more than mewl with his dislike of it.

Anderson's eyes widen slightly at the action and he shifts forward, to do what, Sherlock's not entirely certain, his mouth open and tongue flopping: "Hey! We're waiting for the Freak's brother to arrive, let him wallow in his misery in peace." He commands, gesturing vaguely towards Sherlock's general form. Mycroft's fingers still across his forehead before being peeled back gently, his expression darkening as he turns to face the two officers.

"What did you just call my brother?"

Donovan and Anderson pale, sharing a look. "Oh," Donovan stutters.

"I-ugh-I-" Anderson starts, "I-we didn't realize you were the brother."

"Clearly." Mycroft's voice is cold.

"We just-"Andersen rushes to explain, "it's more like a nickname, or a term of endearment, right Sherlock-"

"Of that I highly doubt." Mycroft interrupts, rising to his full height. Sherlock suddenly feels small and pathetic behind him, but also strangely...relieved? He doesn't have to be under their scrutiny anymore. He can breathe. ""Endearment"." Mycroft scoffs, then stares at the two of them, Sherlock can see him rapidly making deductions and his lip curls slightly when he finishes, "Childish, but then again, I don't expect much more. You are but adolescents running around hoping for regantion that will never come and tear others apart in the process. It disgusts me. Anthea,"

"Yes, Sir?" Anthea asks, lifting the umbrella out to him.

He takes it and briefly makes eye contact with his PA, "Ready the car."

"Of course, Sir." She addresses and backs out of the room, disappearing from view. Donovan and Anderson share another look, Anderson mouthing "sir?" to the woman.

Mycroft snorts quietly and turns, taking the glass from Sherlock's hands and resting it on Lestrade's desk. Sherlock stares at him for a long moment, then with a quiet sigh lifts his hand out in a plea for assistance. He can't walk by himself, loathe he is to admit it. Mycroft takes his hand without a word and swings it around his shoulder, helping Sherlock to his feet. He staggers and his head swirls. Mycroft presses his hand against Sherlock's chest to steady him and he briefly feels the pressure of the end of his umbrella.

Sherlock barely represses a groan and Mycroft waits a moment before taking a step forward. Sherlock is dragged with him, and forces his feet to work properly rather than tangling like they would much rather do. When they reach the doorway, Anderson, in a fit of either bravery or stupidity calls out, "Safe journeys, Psychopath."

Sherlock feels Mycroft's spine go rigid and there's a moment where he can see his brother attempting to gather his temper, fails, then spins, dragging Sherlock with him and flicks his umbrella up, pressing it under Anderson's chin. "Do you have a death wish?" He demands.

Anderson's hands raise of their own choice and he stares at Mycroft, than Sherlock with wide eyes. "No." There's a moment of hesitation before he adds, "Sir." It's sneered and Sherlock wants to give him a firm whack over the head because he has little idea how much Mycroft deserves the title.

Mycroft nods slightly, "Then I suggest you do not repeat this action. If I ever hear you speaking ill will of my brother again and I will-well, there are many empty seats on planes to Alaska in need of filling."

Mycroft pull his umbrella away from Anderson's chin causing him to sputter, but his older brother ignores him. He readjusts Sherlock's arm across his shoulders then turns striding from the office, Sherlock stumbling beside him, leaving the bewildered gawking officers behind them.

The reach the car in under five minutes, quickly working around the police and other emergency personnel. Sherlock briefly spots Lestrade shoving a handcuffed man forward and assumes the attacker has been apprehended. Anthea is waiting for them, a pleasant smile on her face and opens the door as they approach.

Mycroft helps Sherlock stagger into the car, before following himself and closing the door. Anthea slips into the driver's seat-something she doesn't often take when Mycroft is present-and starts the vehicle. Mycroft turns to stare at him, his expression strange.

"I'll arrange for Dr. Watson to be released early." He assures, and relief floods through Sherlock at the statement. John will make this go away. Mycroft remains quiet another moment, almost as if puzzled, "Are you alright?" Mycroft's voice is gentle and Sherlock lifts his head up towards him, squinting as he tries to focus.

He's quiet for a second before answering, "Yes." I am now. He pauses, the words stuck on his throat and not wanting to be released quite right but Sherlock adds, quietly: "Thank you."

Mycroft gives a slight nod in answer, almost as if bored, but his voice in sincere: "Of course, Brother Mine, of course."