Archive of Our Own ^beta

The late evening sun glowed a gentle pink trough the large hall window as Mycroft pushed open the door to his little brother’s bedroom. The room was darkened inside, the lights turned off and the barely-open dark blue curtains letting in only a slither of the same pink light which basked the hall. The room itself was large, like all rooms in their house, and cluttered with a mess of children’s chemistry equipment and ‘experiments’, clothes and books. A path had been cleared in the middle of the room between the door and the bed, Sherlock’s belongings pushed to the sides despite his angry protests. Normally Sherlock would have just moved his things back, or just not allowed the movement in the first place but their mother had insisted, telling him that she didn’t want him to trip if he needed anything in the night. There was very little furniture in the room, only a bed pushed up against the far wall with a blue duvet to match the curtains, a cluttered desk with a cramped bookshelf balanced on top, a chest of draws, and a wardrobe. The draws of the chest, normally pulled out as if the room had been ransacked by a particularly messy burglar, were shut from the night before when Sherlock had woken everyone up, short of breath and yelling as his exhausted brain played trick on the dark.

A choked cough echoed from the ruffled duvet on the bed followed by another, and Mycroft grimaced sympathetically, crossing the room and gently removed the covers from his brother’s head whilst the small body underneath continued to shake. Sherlock’s eyes were already open and staring, wide from fear and panic as he tried to draw breaths between his coughs. His skin was pale despite having been under the covers but his cheeks were flushed an unhealthy pink. Not knowing what else to do Mycroft helped his brother into a sitting position and held him there, sliding a pillow behind his back as he waited for the coughing to stop. Once upright Sherlock’s coughing slowed, and eventually his breathing deepened to a nearly normal rhythm and his eyes drifted shut in exhaustion. He flopped back against his pillows, still propped up by the headboard and brushed a hand across his head, dislodging the curls that had stuck themselves to his sweaty skin.

“Go ‘way, Myc,” demanded Sherlock faintly as he caught his breath enough to speak, his eyes fighting open to focus on his brother. He was exhausted, both from the illness itself and the lack of sleep it was allowing him to get. It had only been a cold at first, worsened because Sherlock decided that he didn’t need a coat when spending a day in the woods at the bottom of their garden during the winter. Their mother had protested of course but Sherlock hadn’t listened, listening was something he just wouldn’t do. It had been a bitter year too, the cold weather coming early in November and lasting all through December, January, and long into February. It wasn’t showing any signs of warming up soon either. Sherlock’s coughing had escalated over the next few days until it left him breathless and wheezing and with scarcely enough energy so stand.

“Mycroft, just go away,” he repeated, sounding stronger and more annoyed this time than he had before. He held his eyes open properly too, somehow finding enough energy to gather them into a pretty impressive glare. Mycroft smiled and sat down on the bed despite his little brother’s objections, actually sitting on his little brothers feet when Sherlock stubbornly refused to move them. Sherlock wiggled uncomfortable as though trying to kick himself free and grunted in protest but Mycroft could see the smile he was trying so hard to hide.

“Alright, alright, I’ll move them,” he huffed eventually, crossing his legs under the duvet when his brother stood. Mycroft sat down again, reaching over to the bedside table and picking up the book that had been left open there. It was The Hobbit, Mycroft recognised it was his own copy that he had given Sherlock only two days before when their mother had been trying to convince the energetic boy to rest. Sherlock had been enjoying it, judging by how far into the book he already was.

“You shouldn’t leave books like this; It ruins the spines,” he scolded, running his ringers down the well-creased spine of his book. Sherlock shrugged and muttered “It’s not my book,” before shutting his eyes again and allowing himself to fall further into his pillows, his legs still somehow crossed. Mycroft sighed and looked back down at the book, skimming the page it had been left open at. It was a good bit, one he remembered fondly, reading way past his bedtime with excitement the first time he had read it. Sherlock must have been feeling dreadful to stop reading when he had.

“Shall I read some to you?” Mycroft asked quietly, wondering after he had spoken if Sherlock was falling back to sleep. I moment later he opened his eyes again and nodded, before a short cough shook his tiny shoulders. Mycroft read through the rest of the chapter and into the next, trying to ignore the wheeze that rattled his brother’s chest with every breath and pausing only for Sherlock’s ever lengthening coughing fits. They were tiring him quickly too, and after the last he rolled over onto his side, his legs curing up to his chest as he fought for breath. Mycroft put the book down on the unit, the pages split and the spine facing the ceiling. He waited whilst Sherlock calmed himself down although he breathing remained rushed and shallow. His eyes stayed shut too, squeezed so tightly ridges appeared at the side of them.

“It hurts, Myc,” He admitted quietly, his voice scratched from coughing and weak from exhaustion.

“Coughing?”

Sherlock’s head rolled slightly on the pillow. “Breathing,” he whispered finally, his voice breathy. He didn’t sound panicked but his tone was still strained as he tried to get a substantial amount of oxygen into his battered lungs. Mycroft didn’t reply, watching as his brother fought for breath, the tendons in his neck straining with the effort it took. He coughed weakly into his pillow then grimaced and curled up tighter, drawing his hands into his chest.

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” Mycroft asked eventually. He knew he sounded worried, he could hear it himself, yet somehow Sherlock didn’t appear to notice, only nodding in reply, his head barely moving on the pillow. Seconds later his lips parted slightly, his breath whistling as it passed in and out. He was wheezing more now, each breath crackling in his chest.

“Mummy’s worried about you,” he said eventually, his voice soft but still seaming loud in the silence. Sherlock forced open his eyes and focused them on his brother between long tired blinks. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, his mind running so much slower than its usual lightning fast rate. A few seconds later he sighed as much as he could and closed his eyes again.

“I don’t want to go,” he muttered, his weakened voice strangely pleading, and for a second thoughts of Sherlock accepting death flickered Mycroft’s mind.

“Where?” he asked stiffly, forcing calm into his voice. Sherlock must have seen through his attempt at controlling his voice though as his eyes struggled open and surveyed his brother’s expression. He looked confused and tired, his eyelids hanging just open in exhaustion.

“Hospital,” he whispered, his eyes shutting again barely a second after he had spoken. Mycroft swallowed, carefully watching his brother’s pale face as he heaved in breaths through his blue-tinted lips. Slowly he leaned forwards and brushed the sweaty curls from his brother’s eyes, noticing only then the faintest of tremors that were running through his own hands. Sherlock opened his eyes again, his eyebrows coming together in worry as he silently begged for his brother’s promise.

“Oh,” said Mycroft softly, and in all honesty, it was all he could say.