The sound of coughing coming from the kitchen distracted Sherlock from the rat he was dissecting, causing his hand to slip and the sharp knife to slice into his finger. He hissed, scowling at the blood welling from the small cut. Leaving the rat lying on the table, he stomped into the kitchen, searching for a band-aid. He was seven now, old enough to take care of his own cuts!
He noted Mycroft's presence, deducing he must have been the one coughing before dismissing him in search of the band-aids. A hand coming down from above distracted him from his search, especially when it was holding exactly the box he was looking for.
"Looking for these?" Mycroft inquired, voice hoarse from coughing but still undoubtedly pleased.
Sherlock snatched the box out of his hand, scowling up at his teenage brother. "No."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Such an obvious lie-" A deep cough interrupted him. Looking annoyed, he reached down, attempting to grab the box away from Sherlock.
Sherlock resisted, holding the box close to his chest. "I can do it! Go away!"
Mycroft smirked at him. "Really, Sherlock, isn't that rather childish?"
Sherlock stuck his tongue out at him, then scowled when Mycroft's smirk widened, realising he had just proved Mycroft's point. Still, he refused to give up the band-aids. Even as Mycroft moved towards the sink, filling up a glass of water, Sherlock refused to move, holding onto the box of band-aids and watching his brother suspiciously. Despite this careful observation, he failed to notice that Mycroft, normally with a notorious sweet tooth, didn't even look at the cupcakes arranged on the countertop.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, darling, you've got to get up."
Sherlock's eyes blearily opened to the sight of his mother leaning over him, her attempt at a smile not hiding the worry in her eyes.
"Mummy?"
"Yes, 'Lock. Get up now."
Sherlock sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Why?" He looked her over, deductions rushing through his mind and out his mouth. "In pyjamas, so something woke you up, not something expected. No smoke or alarms, so not a fire, no one else in the house or you'd tell me to be quiet, so something's happened to someone. If it was Daddy, you would have stayed with him and Mycroft would be waking me..." He felt his eyes go wide as he realised where his words led. "Something happened to Mycroft?"
His mother's eyes softened. "Yes, darling, but don't worry. Daddy and Mycroft are going to the hospital, we'll meet them there."
Eyes still wide with surprise and trepidation, Sherlock nodded, getting out of bed and following his mother out of his room to the garage. He didn't say a word for the entire journey.
Mycroft's lax figure lay in the bed, eyes closed in exhausted sleep. However big he normally looked to Sherlock's seven-year-old eyes, in the hospital bed he looked small, childish, unlike the adult he usually acted. Sherlock didn't like it. Mycroft was supposed to be tall and clever and annoying, not this wan creature in the hospital bed, an oxygen cannula under his nose. It was wrong.
"Sherlock," Mycroft hoarsely whispered, eyes still closed. "Stop thinking so loudly." He held one arm out. Sherlock crept closer, keeping a watchful eye on the door. Mummy had told him not to disturb Mycroft, but she and Daddy were outside talking to the doctor, and anyway, it wasn't disturbing if Mycroft told him to!
Up close, Mycroft's illness was apparent. Deep shadows under his eyes betrayed many sleepless nights, and his brow was pinched with pain. Sherlock faltered, disturbed by such a look on his invincible big brother, and came to a stop beside the bed.
Mycroft peered at him through eyes half opened. Pointing a lazy hand at his bedside table, he let his eyes drift closed again. "Pour me some water."
Sherlock crossed his arms. "No."
"Sherlock," Mycroft said warningly. Despite that, it was not his tone but the series of harsh coughs that followed it that prompted Sherlock to pour out a glass of water for his brother.
"Why are we still here?" Sherlock asked his mother disgruntledly.
She gave him a tired smile, the best she could summon after the trials of the last few days. "The machines are treating Mycroft's breathing, Sherlock. Be patient."
"Breathing's boring," Sherlock grumbled. He bent his head over his maths book again, frustratedly pushing his darks curls out of his vision. "Nearly as boring as maths," he continued to himself, frowning at an especially difficult problem.
His mother drew a breath to rebuke him, and the machines went haywire. Loud beeping and wailing filled the air, a cacophony of sound that was joined by his mother screaming for a nurse. Staff rushed in, Sherlock was pushed out, his mother's eyes wide and frightened and glued to the hospital bed, where Mycroft was gasping for air, blue in his lips and terror in his eyes.
Sherlock slumped to the ground on the hallway outside, desperately ignoring the commotion in the room behind him. Stupid Mycroft, he thought spitefully, tremors shaking his small frame. I don't care what happens to you, I don't! He screwed up his face and clenched his fists, determined not to cry for his brother. Nothing was going to happen anyway. Mycroft would be fine, because Mycroft was always fine. He was going to be terrible and annoying and always proving he was smarter than Sherlock, even when he wasn't, because he was stupid.
"Mycroft?" Sherlock slipped into his brother's darkened hospital room, carefully closing the door behind him. His mother had already told him children weren't allowed in here unsupervised, and he didn't want her to catch him and order him out now, even if that rule was for boring, ordinary children, not one like him. Creeping closer to the bed, he repeated, "Mycroft?"
Mycroft didn't respond.
The sound of shallow breathing filled the room, not quite right but mercifully different from the breathless gasping that Sherlock couldn't help but remember. He shivered, and told himself it was the cool atmosphere of the hospital.
Sherlock gently tapped the side of Mycroft's face. Finally, this garnered a response.
Mycroft tuned his head away from Sherlock's hand, mumbling something indistinct.
Sherlock prodded him harder, hissing, "Mycroft! Wake up!"
"Go back to bed, Sherlock," Mycroft muttered, more asleep than awake.
Sherlock crossed his arms. "I can't go to bed, my bed's at home."
"Stop being difficult, Sherlock."
"I'm not!" Sherlock hastily glanced at the door to check if he had alerted someone. He repeated it more quietly. "I'm not being difficult!"
Mycroft grimaced, eyes still closed. "Fine, Sherlock. Just sleep in here, then."
Sherlock glanced sulkily at the bed. "There's no room. You're taking up all of it."
With the long groan of a put upon older sibling, Mycroft edged over to one side of the bed, leaving just enough room for a child sized body to slip in beside him. Sherlock happily did so, curling up beside his brother in a way he'd deny if Mycroft was awake enough to notice. Listening to his brother breathe beside him, freeing him of the worries that had been hanging overhead since they arrived, Sherlock's eyes drifted shut,and he joined his brother in sleep.
It was only a few minutes later that Mrs Holmes opened the door, ready to angrily call Sherlock out of the room, but was stopped short at the sight of the two brothers. A smile came to her face unbidden. At least one good thing had come out of all this, she thought to herself.