This is for my dear sister, chestry007. Happy Birthday, B!

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock, I'm just visiting around with them

He had been there so long, that the sounds of the hospital had started to blend together in a type of nauseating symphony in his head. Sighing tiredly, Mycroft leaned against his soft pillows and closed his eyes against the loud bangs and ever persistent beeps that seemed to permeate every corner of his private room.

Today was his last day. He was officially 'cancer free,' as the overly cheerful nurse who had brought his disgusting breakfast, loudly declared. Mycroft had just given her a fake smile to make her go away as fast as possible. He wasn't happy as much as he was relieved that he didn't have to face the horrible radiation treatments anymore and he wouldn't have to be sick over the toilet everyday. There were days that even Anthea couldn't do very much for him besides letting him rest his aching head on her lap while she read the Daily Telegraph to him.

He desperately wished that she was beside him now; she was the only thing that could steady his medicated and fog filled mind. She had promised she would only be away for half an hour and she had only been gone ten minutes. It felt like when she left, she took all the feeling of warmth with her. If he had been more himself he would have noticed and deduced what the quick smile on her face was all about, as she checked her watch before leaving the room.

An awkward amount of shuffling sound came from the door way, making Mycroft reluctantly open his eyes and to his surprise, he saw Sherlock leaning against the door-frame. Mycroft raised a curious eyebrow as the young man had his arms wrapped around his torso; his body tense as he hugged himself in a strange and uncomfortable way.

The two brothers silently looked at each other for a few moments, struggling to think of something to say; to find some type of smart excuse or proclamation as to why each of them were there, but words failed them and for the first time they could find nothing to say.

In that moment as they looked each over other, they were compelled to surrender into a fracture of sentiment. It was a tiny relief to drink in the sight of one of the few persons in this world whom they had known for all of their life even though they sometimes wished they didn't.

As the ticking of the wall clock grew deafening, slicing the stillness between them, Sherlock finally broke the silence first, shifting his weight slightly and clearing his throat. "You know,' he quipped, "the one good thing about all of this, is that you don't need to worry about dieting anymore. You are almost as small as Not-Anthea."

The consulting detective suddenly flinched, and stifled a gasp as something moved and squeaked underneath his coat. Sherlock gently patted his left side in an awkward, comforting motion and tried to put on an air of innocence and tried to look inconspicuous.

Dizzy but determined, Mycroft dragged himself into a sitting position and smiled weakly. Sherlock would come see him on the last day of treatment. Why was he not surprised?

"So true, brother dear," he replied dryly. "With all the faux formalities aside, what brings you to see me today, and what on earth have you got in your coat?"

Sherlock grinned mischievously which made Mycroft grow wary but excited, all at the same time. He hadn't realised how much he missed his younger brother during the last few months until that moment. Sherlock's quick mind and acerbic wit was always both a blessing and a curse, but the sight of the young man stalking past him in a high dungeon about whatever, with that ridiculous head of childish curls never failed to make him fight a smile.

Mycroft schooled his features into a bland look, as he watched silently as Sherlock twirled around and comically stuck his head outside of the room, looking for any signs of nosy hospital staff. Finding the coast quite clear, Sherlock none too gently shut the door. As he walked up to Mycroft's bed, he pulled out a small, squeaking ball of fur and before Mycoft could move or say a word, Sherlock dropped the roly poly four legged creature upon his lap.

Mycroft and the thing stared at each other in shock. Its bright blue eyes searched Mycroft's face and it gave its tiny tail a happy wag as it shakily began to walk up Mycroft's chest. Mycroft, before he realised what he was doing, instantly reached out a cold hand and cupped its back, so it could make its journey safely. The puppy's chubby, golden and white body was the softest and warmest thing he had felt in a very long time.

"What is it?" he asked in a shocked whisper, not daring to move; his eyes shifting to Sherlock's grinning face.

"It's a puppy of course," Sherlock replied with a snort and roll of his expressive eyes.

"Of course it's a puppy. I know that," Mycroft retorted sharply as the thing started to lick his chin in earnest. Mycroft reach up with thin, pale hands and picked it up to inspect the creature more closely. It squeaked in protest and yawned; startling Mycroft slightly.

"It's a collie puppy, Sherlock said, trying not to laugh at his brothers facial expressions. "I...well; I thought you could use one."

Mycroft replaced the puppy in his lap where it promptly lost its balance and fell over with a plop and a tiny hiccup.

Trying to push aside his amusement of the unique 'I'm-sorry-that-I-haven't been-around-much-here-take-this' gift, Mycroft adopted a cold look of displeasure.

"What on earth would I do with a puppy?" he said sternly, 'I never had a dog before in my life. You were the one who got the dog."

Sherlock shifted his shoulders awkwardly and ran the back of his hand across his mouth with a slight sniff. Mycroft looked away; finding himself unable to look his brother in the eyes. He knew that despite his little brother's normal bravado, the image of his elder brother, sitting thin and pale in a hospital bed was not something he was enjoying.

"Well," Sherlock said softly, gathering his courage and failing miserably, "that's why I came today; I came to give you something that I think you need. Something, you gave to me once but you never had..."

Absentmindedly, Mycroft gently stroked the puppy thing, which had begun to lick his hand and snuffle around searching for the warmest spot in the bed clothes. Sherlock, taking Mycroft's silence as a sign to continue, focused his eyes on the puppy and kept talking.

"I hate hospitals, well, not all of them, I rather like Molly's place, but I hate all of this," he babbled with a wave of his hand toward the room and Mycroft's bed. "That's why I never visited until now. You're not supposed to be here, you know. You're supposed to be at your office, driving me insane, kidnapping John, eating cake, playing crossword puzzles with your Anthea or doing whatever it is that you do..."

"Sit down, Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted him gently. All of the annoyance now replaced with genuine interest and sincerity of what his brother was trying to say.

Sherlock promptly collapsed into the green hospital chair, and stared down into his hands. Both men chose to ignore that the hands were trembling slightly. Mycroft could see the struggle of emotions that connected to the words Sherlock was trying to not to say.

The young man sighed, "Remember when I was ten and went camping in the garden without a proper tent in the rain? It was a failed experiment which resulted in contracting pneumonia."

Mycroft nodded. "You had and still have many of those."

Sherlock scowled at his brother in displeasure before continuing, "Everyone thought I was going to die it was such a serious case, and that's the night you brought me Redbeard. He was so tiny. I...I remember you placing him on my chest and you whispered that I couldn't die because you had brought me something to live for; something that needed me to take care of and that I couldn't die because someone needed me."

Memories flooded through Mycroft's mind of Sherlock and that insane Irish Setter puppy. It had worked though, the bribe had worked. Where Sherlock in his delirious fever could not hear the pleas of his family, he heard and responded to the warmth and the tiny squeaks of a ginger haired puppy.

"I remember," Mycroft whispered as the image of a little curly-haired boy wearing a pirate hat, and an angelic, devil puppy wearing a green bandanna dashed through the fog of his memories.

Sherlock shifted restlessly in the uncomfortable hospital chair. "What Redbeard gave to me before he died was something I will never forget and I think everyone should have; especially you, Mycroft." Sherlock said the last sentence pointedly and Mycroft choose to ignore the verbal jab. He wasn't always the ice man incapable of love and feeling.

Sherlock took a breath and continued. Mycroft could tell he was losing his nerve or John's prompts that he had given him were turning out better in theory rather than in practice. Mycroft felt secretly grateful to John Watson for many things. Without him, Sherlock would not be sitting here right now; with notes in black ink scribbled on the back of his hand in doctor scrawl.

"So, I'm just returning the favour in case..."

Mycroft raised his head, hearing the slight waver in Sherlock's voice. "In case of what?"

Sherlock paused for a moment before he replied, "Just in case you decide to be stupid and sleep out in the rain without your tent again."

Mycroft nodded slowly; the true meaning of Sherlock words washing over him. He fought against the tight feeling that started to blossom in his chest and make its way up to his throat.

"Thank you, Sherlock," Mycroft whispered as he gently stroked the puppy's soft fur. "I believe that this is the best bribe for living anyone has ever given me."