This little story exists because of a prompt from Catie501, who hasn't heard from me in ages and who probably started thinking I had forgotten her and her story ideas. (I haven't, even if I'm terrible at proving it.) This is for you, Catie.

So here you go: brotherly schmoop and brotherly love.

I don't own anything (or -one) recognisable.

Enjoy.

Oh Brother Mine

-o-

The cool breeze of the night was a relief after the staleness that clung to the air inside of the hospital. Everything was laced with the smell of disease, death and desperation, and if there was anything Mycroft Holmes did not wish to deal with at the moment, it was the threat of loss and the weight of human, ordinary, commonplace emotions that were tangible everywhere, swelling through corridors and hospital rooms.

With a deep breath, he straightened his shoulders, grasped the handle of his umbrella and stepped away from the entrance. Shaking, he took note without surprise, his hands were shaking ever so slightly as he fumbled for a pack of cigarettes and his lighter in his coat pockets, grabbed one cigarette and lit it. Of course they were. No matter how old he got, it seemed he would never outgrow his inability to keep his composure, to remain detached from all-too human sentiment whenever his little brother was concerned.

Two lungfuls of cigarette smoke – low-tar, naturally, but this time, it wasn't enough – did nothing to ease the sensation of tightness in his chest, the feeling of a hand of ice clenched around his heart. Mycroft took another drag and gave in to the temptation of closing his eyes for a moment. Sherlock would be fine, he had to remind himself. He had been asleep when Mycroft had left, asleep and feverish and in pain, but he would be fine. Eventually. He exhaled a puff of smoke. Eventually, with a high mathematical certainty and, as Mycroft had two separate doctors reassure him on two different occasions, with a likelihood of no complications or permanent damage. Which was, of course, not nearly good enough.

Mycroft inhaled another lungful of cigarette smoke and studied his trembling fingers for a moment. Yes, this was what caring, what sentiment, did to you.

He contemplated his half-smoked cigarette for a few seconds, but, as expected, images appeared, of Sherlock in a hospital bed, now and all those months ago when his brother's best friend's wife had almost killed him with a well placed bullet, and of Sherlock, years ago, a curly-headed toddler, staring up at Mycroft with wobbly lips and fever-bright eyes and with infinite trust written all over his face.

Well, Mycroft mused and dropped his cigarette, all cravings for more pushed to the back of his mind, he had resigned himself to this particular weakness of his all these years ago, too. And therefore, of course, some doctor's reassurances and pointing out of probabilities weren't good enough, not when it was his brother's very life that was in danger.

-o-

When he returned to Sherlock's room, his brother was still asleep, owing to a certainly potent combination of a high temperature, exhaustion and a light sedative, but did not in the least appear to be resting.

Mycroft hesitated in the doorway for a few heartbeats, let that familiar sting of fear wash over him and took in his brother's appearance. It was ridiculous, he assumed, because his little brother was a grown man, an adult, but sometimes when he looked at Sherlock, all he could see was the toddler he had once been, always moving and giggling and demanding too much – all of – Mycroft's attention.

Focus, he told himself and, almost hesitantly tearing his gaze away from his brother, turned his attention to his personal assistant who had been, during his brief absence, seated in the chair next to the bed. "Any change?" he wanted to know, stepping fully into the private hospital room.

"Stable, sir," Anthea informed him and got to her feet.

Stable. Not dying. That was, the rational part of his brain told him, good, very good, especially considering that it had yet to be figured out which poisonous substance exactly Sherlock had been dosed with. Of course, another part of him, the part that did not want him to take his eyes off of his brother, that kept seeing the annoying toddler in the sometimes equally annoying adult in front of him and that was acutely aware of the persistent icy tightness in his chest, disagreed vehemently, kept, instead, coming back to the terrifying possibility that this might have been the day he lost his little brother.

Human error, Mycroft reflected, a weakness he had always been oh so susceptible to when it came to Sherlock. With a slow breath, he straightened and returned his gaze – which had, predictably, predictably, drifted to Sherlock once more – to his personal assistant. "That will be all; thank you," he dismissed her.

He remained where he was for a few more seconds after Anthea had left, his gaze lingering on his brother – pallid, ravaging fever, obviously, abdominal cramps, nausea – before shaking his head once.

"Oh brother dear," he mumbled as he took a seat in the chair his personal assistant had occupied during his absence, but of course, Sherlock did not answer him. Well, Mycroft mused while scanning his little brother again, the dark curls matted with sweat, the faint creases of pain around his eyes and on his forehead, his curled up position, nothing new there – Sherlock always did love to ignore him.

It was ridiculous, Mycroft told himself again, but he was, as he found, incapable of not remembering the child his brother had once been, of not remembering the way his little brother used to cling to him whenever he was running a temperature, pudgy arms refusing to let go of Mycroft's neck and tiny chin resting on his shoulder. He had to swallow against the irritating lump that had formed in his throat. No point in dwelling in ancient memories, he reminded himself, nor was it of any use to dwell in rootless fears that always forced their way through the iron wall of his self-composure as soon as Sherlock was concerned.

His brother chose this moment to let out a low sound, half moan, half whimper.

Mycroft's attention was back on Sherlock almost immediately, but his brother's eyes remained closed and he did not appear to wake. Of course not, Mycroft reproached himself mentally, of course not. Merely the abdominal pain his brother was quite obviously enduring piercing through his fevered sleep, nothing more. Nothing more.

His brother would, in all likelihood, be fine once the effects of the poison had worn off, as the doctors had stated and Mycroft's mind, calculating, analysing, had confirmed. Whatever poison Sherlock had managed to ingest, it had not been enough to kill him so far, and was therefore – balance of probability – unlikely to be a serious threat to his brother's life now, estimatedly more than two dozen hours after the initial consumption. Of course, his brother was being constantly monitored, but, as Anthea had reaffirmed and Mycroft himself made sure every few minutes, there had been no change for the worse so far, which meant, in conclusion, that there was no sound reason for worry at all.

Sherlock gave another faint moan and shifted ever so slightly, his brow furrowed, and before Mycroft knew it, his right hand had somehow found its way to Sherlock's forehead, smoothing away his brother's clammy curls.

For a second, he froze, did not move – but Sherlock did not shoot upright, did not scoff at his unprompted, sentimental, transparent display of affection, did not mock him for not adhering to his own standards and giving in to something as mundane, as arbitrary as sentiment.

But then – and Mycroft would rather swallow his own tongue than ever admit that to anyone, least of all to Sherlock – Sherlock was his little brother, and he had loved said little brother since he had first laid eyes on him.

And then Sherlock groaned again, twisted his hands into the thin duvet and Mycroft remembered how to pull himself together. He longed, he found suddenly, for another cigarette, lungfuls of smoke to calm his decidedly frayed nerves, but how could he? Normally, normally, he would leave the anxious hovering at his brother's bedside to John Watson, would retreat to the privacy of his office or the Diogenes Club himself, receive regular updates on his brother's condition that would yet do nothing to alleviate his ever-present worry and would then, once he had collected himself sufficiently in order not to demonstrate his all too obvious concern all too openly, pay his brother and his brother's dear and faithful doctor a visit, just to make sure, with his own eyes, that his brother was indeed fine. This time, however, John Watson was on a conference in the United States of America, and so it was Mycroft who had, once again, found himself in his little brother's hospital room while John Watson was, via private jet, on his way back to London.

When Sherlock didn't relax after a few moments, but remained tense, his breathing coming in sharp pants, Mycroft had to clear his throat. "Ssh, ssh," he made eventually, removing his hand from his brother's forehead.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered ever so softly and then, barely, opened. "My... croft," he mumbled, only to tense again immediately. "Didn't...," he went on, interrupted by another moan, "didn't take..."

Delirious, Mycroft's brain told him, his brother was delirious with the high temperature he was running, did clearly not know what he was saying.

"My...," Sherlock muttered again. He blinked, slowly, as if he could barely keep his eyes open, and yet did his best to attempt to raise his head. Mycroft wanted to huff at his brother's foolish endeavour, wanted to scold him and tell him to stay exactly where he was, but for some reason, no words would make it past his throat.

"Didn't take... 'nything," Sherlock repeated, but whatever else he had been about to say was lost as he gave another feeble groan and obviously tried to curl up even more tightly.

Then his brother let out another pained whimped, and suddenly, Mycroft found, it was his own hand Sherlock was clinging to, no longer the bed spread, while his other had somehow found its way back to Sherlock's forehead, and he himself was muttering utter nonsense under his breath.

Delirious, his mind told him again, delirious. Sherlock didn't know what he was saying and doing, would certainly not remember what Mycroft was saying and doing.

"Ssh," was what he was mumbling and what Sherlock would, of course, thankfully, not remember later, "ssh. I know you didn't take anything. I know. I'm not angry. Ssh."

His brother seemed to relax ever so slightly as the worst of the pain passed – for now, as the all too human part of Mycroft reminded him again – but when Mycroft removed his hand from Sherlock's clammy curls and moved to lean back in his chair again, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open once more.

"Didn't... take anything," he slurred, still clinging to Mycroft's right hand. "Didn't. … promise..."

Mycroft had to swallow. Had to close his eyes for a few seconds. "I know you didn't," he reassured his brother. Sherlock blinked at him, and of course, of course, the fever-bright gaze was still the same, still looked exactly like the tiny, pudgy toddler's glassy stare whenever said toddler had been running a temperature, and still caused Mycroft's heart to twinge and a lump appear in his throat. He gave his little brother's hand a curt squeeze and settled into his chair without letting go. "Try to go to sleep," he told his brother and had to notice, almost to his own surprise, that his voice sounded hoarse. "I'm here."

Sherlock sighed and his eyes finally dropped closed. His grip on Mycroft's hand did not loosen, but tightened briefly as he tensed with another wave of pain that elicited another low moan from him.

"Ssh," Mycroft made again, and then, after a moment of hesitation, added: "It's all right, brother mine. John will be here soon."

It did not, to Mycroft's relief, take long for Sherlock to slip back into an uneasy and restless sleep. Sherlock would be just fine, he had to remind himself again when he found it impossible to tear away his gaze from his little brother. Sherlock would just be fine.

There were reports to leaf through, Mycroft forced himself to recall, reports Anthea had prepared for him and that needed to be dealt with without delay; there were mails to send and undercover agents to coordinate, and most importantly, there was the one to identify, locate, question and then dispose of – personally, if at all possible – who was responsible for his brother's current predicament, his current suffering, and yet, and yet... Mycroft could still not bring himself to let go of the contact to his little brother, not when said little brother was clinging to his hand even in his light sleep, not when said little brother so very clearly needed someone here with him. Not him, of course, these days were long since over, and Mycroft, for all his tendency towards sentimentality when his little brother's life was in danger, was not about to fool himself into believing that it was him Sherlock wanted around, but, for lack of Doctor Watson or any other passable substitute for his brother's beloved doctor, he would have to do, he assumed. Well then, he mused as he scanned his little brother once again, his flushed cheeks, the faints lines of pain that not even sleep managed to smooth out, the way his hair was plastered to his forehead, just like it used to be so many, many years ago. Everything else, he decided, would just have to wait.

-o-

Thank you for reading. If you're in the mood for sharing them, I'd be happy to read your thoughts.