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Congratulations, you have reached Mycroft Holmes. Leave a message. Beeeeeep.
Sherlock blinked down at his phone, trying to comprehend what had just happened. Mycroft’s…voicemail? He hadn’t even known Mycroft had a voicemail-
“Sherlock, you alright mate?” At John’s concerned voice, Sherlock looked up, a look of shock still glued to his face. “Did Mycroft have any leads for us?”
“He-” Sherlock suddenly stood up, startling John into standing as well. “I have to go.” He turned on his heel and took off, coat swirling behind him.
“Sherlock!” John called, exasperated. “The fuck!”
“Explain later,” he shouted behind him and then, turning a corner, disappeared from sight.
Sherlock’s mind was scrambling. Mycroft always answered his phone, even when the brothers were fighting. He had answered every single one without fail, ever since Mycroft had missed a call from when the younger needed him most: Sherlock’s first overdose. Something must be terribly wrong for him to not pick up now. A thousand different horrible scenarios were flashing through Sherlock’s head, and he picked up the pace, shoving a few angry pedestrians out of his way.
By the time he reached his brother’s house, he was out of breath and dangerously close to a panic attack. Not stopping to catch his breath, Sherlock jumped up the porch stairs and hurriedly typed the passcode into the door handle.
Errr.
The incorrect buzz the device gave him had Sherlock banging his head against the door a couple times. After a moment, he took a deep breath to steady himself and re-entered the code, more calmly this time. He was rewarded with a chiming noise and a click as the door unlocked. He wasted no time in throwing the door open and looking around the room frantically, searching for any signs of his brother. Not finding any, he shook a hand while the other ran through his hair in an attempt to soothe himself.
“He’s fine he’s fine he’s fine he's definitely probably fine,” was the muttered mantra. Giving the floor one last sweeping glance, Sherlock rushed up the stairs, almost tripping several times on the way up.
Sherlock walked down the hallway, basically kicking in every door he came across to stick his head inside for a quick glance around. When he came to the last door, he threw it open with the same vigor as the others, only this time he was met with a gun to the head- and Mycroft’s determined expression.
The brothers stared at each other for a few seconds, shock evident on both their faces. Sherlock was the first to move, disregarding the gun completely and latching onto his brother, taking big galloping breaths.
“Sherlock- what the hell ?” Mycroft whisper-shouted. He lowered his arm and dropped the gun safely to the ground before putting his arms around his brother, returning the hug.
It took Sherlock a few more seconds to get his breath back, but once he did he was whisper-shouting right back.
“Why the hell didn’t you answer your fucking phone? I thought- I thought you had been betrayed and something horrible had happened that you had been taken to be tortured or killed-”
Mycroft cut him off, shushing him gently and lowering them to the floor. “Shh, I understand now, Sherly. I’m right here it’s okay-” he stopped talking suddenly, dissolving into a coughing fit. Sherlock froze. He leaned back from the hug to examine his brother’s face.
“Are you…ill?”
Mycroft smiled slightly, amused at Sherlock’s disbelieving expression, and cleared his throat.
“Yes, brother mine. It appears that way.” He held a hand out, an invitation. After Sherlock hesitantly placed his own hand in his brother’s grasp, he tiredly continued. “I apologize for worrying you, Sherly. I was trying to sleep off the symptoms when you burst through my door and ransacked my house.” He said the last bit teasingly, not really meaning it. Sherlock pouted anyway, defending himself immediately.
“I did not ransack anything. I was merely concerned for your health, that’s all. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes, humoring the younger. “What would I do without you, dearest brother.”
Sherlock stuck his tongue out, but sobered rather quickly, looking at Mycroft strangely.
“What is it, Sherly?”
“I think,” he started out. “I think you’re supposed to go back to bed.” He stood up, looking down at Mycroft, who stared bemusedly back.
Sherlock offered his hand. “Cmon Myc, rest is essential to make a full recovery.”
“You would know all about that, wouldn’t you.”
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock waved his hand in front of his brother’s face insistently. “ Cmon Myc.”
Laughing softly, Mycroft took the offered hand and pulled himself up with an oomf .
“Yeah yeah, you’re a real comedic genius,” Sherlock said wryly as he ushered Mycroft back to his bed.
After the elder was settled, Sherlock studied him for a moment, thinking. “Next comes…soup? I believe that is the next step. I will go make some.” Sherlock turned to leave, but Mycroft stopped him, sitting up.
“No no no. Absolutely not. You will be doing nothing of the sort. Especially not in my kitchen.”
“I’m sorry, did I say I would make it? I misspoke.” Sherlock smiled at his brother, a rare, genuine smile. “I meant to say I would have John make you some.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes, but returned a small smile. He laid back down, relaxed. “If he’s alright with that, I suppose soup wouldn’t hurt.”
Sherlock hummed, eyebrows furrowed as he pulled out his phone. “Of course he’ll be fine with it.”
Mycroft watched him quietly for a moment, before getting his attention once more. “Sherly, you were very upset earlier,” he started carefully. “How are you feeling?”
Sherlock stilled, gripping the phone tightly. “I feel,” he began after a moment. “I feel the need to stay with you for a while,” he continued in a hushed voice. “To make sure you’re okay.”
Sherlock felt his cheeks burning, but there was nothing to be done about it. He glanced up at Mycroft and saw him looking fondly back. He huffed in mock irritation and went back to phoning John. Mycroft’s response came after the phone call was finished (Sherlock had explained everything; after sharing his surprise that the British government could fall ill, John agreed to come over immediately). Sherlock was so busy pretending to ignore his brother that he almost missed it, but right before Mycroft’s eyes closed in sleep, he heard him murmur-
“You can stay as long as you like, brother mine."