Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Hi everyone! So I'm counting down the days till I leave for England for the summer =) But until then, I'm just passing time. I have no idea where this idea came from but it was cute in my mind … whether or not it's probably? You decide. Enjoy!

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," a woman's voice carried down the hall. "But you're stilling running a low grade fever."

Mycroft Holmes peaked around the corner into his brother's bedroom. Five year old Sherlock had been home sick with a nasty bout of flu for the past three days and was anxious to return to school. He was currently pouting at their mother, who was holding a thermometer.

"What if we don't tell them?" Sherlock suggested, not moving as his mother tried to tuck the blanket around him again. Mrs. Holmes laughed softly and kissed Sherlock's forehead.

"I'm sorry, Sweetheart," she said. "It doesn't work like that."

Mycroft left the doorframe and retreated to his room, ducking into his bathroom. He studied himself in the mirror, knowing he looked awful and felt awful but was still hoping to conceal it. He couldn't afford to miss a day of his studies, much less the three that Sherlock had missed.

"Mycroft?" Mrs. Holmes called through the closed bedroom door. "Are you almost ready for breakfast?"

"I'll be there in a minute, Mother," he called, hoping his voice didn't sound too hoarse. He heard the footsteps walking away and left his bathroom, putting on his usual arrogant smile and praying the façade wouldn't break.

"Good morning, Mycroft," his mother greeted him, serving him pancakes. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you."

It was a lie but he had to go to school. He caught his mother's eye and looked away quickly lest she ask questions.

"Father, may I read the business section when you're through?" Mycroft asked Mr. Holmes, who was sitting at the other end of the table. The question always pleased the business man and he slid the newspaper across the table for Mycroft.

"Thank you."

Even though Mycroft loved reading about the world of commerce – London had some very interesting transactions – he couldn't get into it this morning. Still, he flipped the pages like he did every morning and ate as much of his breakfast as he could, stalling so his mother couldn't question him before he had to dash off.

"Mycroft, you're going to be late," Mrs. Holmes said, checking her watch. That was his cue and Mycroft jumped up from the table in a pretend rush to grab his things.

"I'll see you after school," he said, opening the front door.

"Mycroft, your lunch!" Mrs. Holmes cried, rushing to meet him. Mycroft paused and accepted the perfectly folded paper bag.

"Thank you."

Mrs. Holmes studied her eldest son.

"Are you feeling alright?" she asked. "You're very pale."

"I'm fine."

Mrs. Holmes studied the boy for a moment longer before sighing.

"Have a good day, Love."

Mycroft ran off before his mother could change her mind.

School, while normally one of Mycroft's favourite things, was not enjoyable today. Still, he lasted the entire day and when he came home, he did his homework quickly, not caring about the mistakes.

"How is Sherlock?" Mr. Holmes asked his wife at supper. Mycroft was picking through his salad, looking only for the cucumber bits and mildly perked his ears.

"Fever is still there," she said. "It went up a bit this afternoon. He won't be able to go to school tomorrow."

"Do you think it may be time to telephone the doctor?"

"I think he's getting over it," Mrs. Holmes replied. "I'll give it one more day. Sherlock hates the doctor."

Mr. Holmes laughed.

"May I be excused?" Mycroft asked and again, Mrs. Holmes looked at him.

"Are you feeling alright?"

"I have a test in a few days that I need to study for." Mycroft said, realizing it didn't exactly answer his mother's question. "May I?"

"Of course," Mr. Holmes said, who always agreed when it came to Mycroft's study time. Mycroft left gratefully and instead of studying, took a shower and fell into bed.

Mycroft did not sleep very well that night. He kept tossing and turning, aware that he was covered in sweat. Great, he was running a temperature.

When his alarm went off, Mycroft dutifully ignored it until his mother knocked on the door.

"Mycroft, are you awake?"

"Yes," he mumbled, knowing the tone of his voice would invite his mother in. The door opened and his mum appeared at the side of his bed.

"Oh dear," she murmured, placing her hand on his forehead. "I knew something was bothering you yesterday. It seems you've caught Sherlock's flu."

Mycroft nodded.

"Stay put, I'll be right back."

She returned, sliding the thermometer into Mycroft's mouth and the boy closed his eyes. He was more concerned about missing school than he was with what his temperature was. In fact, that was the first thing out of his mouth once the thermometer was removed.

"What about my lessons?"

"You'll manage," Mrs. Holmes said, measuring out medicine into a spoon. "I'll telephone the school and ask your teachers to set aside the work you cover today. You're intelligent, you'll have no problems."

Mrs. Holmes handed him the spoon.

"It's important you rest, Sweetheart."

Mycroft took the medicine, gagging as it went down, and handed back the spoon.

"Do you want some breaky?"

"Can I just have some tea?" Mycroft whispered – his throat hurt – and his mother nodded.

"What's wrong with Mycroft?" a child's voice asked and Mycroft cringed. Sherlock was now the one peaking around the corner and Mrs. Holmes shooed him into the hall, closing the door behind her.

"He caught your flu," she said. "I'm going to make him some tea."

"Oh, can I help take care of him?" Sherlock asked, following his mother into the kitchen. "We studied flu in school and I want to try to cure it."

Mrs. Holmes smiled as she boiled the kettle.

"There is no cure for flu, Love. It's a viral infection, it's in the air."

"That's what they told us in school, too," Sherlock said, munching on a piece of toast. "But I bet I can find a cure."

"We'll see how Mycroft is feeling later on," Mrs. Holmes said. "And maybe you can visit him."

Sherlock frowned as Mummy went upstairs again. He finished his toast and ran to his room – Mummy said his temperature was almost normal so he didn't have to stay in bed anymore – and dug through his toy chest, unearthing his doctor's kit.

He waited patiently for Mummy to go downstairs again before going to Mycroft's closed door. He opened it and went to Mycroft's bed.

"Mummy told me you caught flu," Sherlock said, setting the bag on the bed. "And I am here to cure you."

Mycroft groaned and pulled the blanket over his head.

"Sherlock, go away. I'm ill."

"I know," Sherlock said, climbing up on the bed. "Didn't you hear me? I said I was here to cure you."

"You can't cure me," Mycroft grumbled. "There is no cure, just rest."

Sherlock ignored his brother and dug through his doctor's bag, pulling out a stethoscope. Mycroft cracked his eyes open when he felt Sherlock's toy touching his chest.

"Sherlock," Mycroft complained, although he paused. "Where did you get a real stethoscope?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Stop talking, I'm listening."

Mycroft rolled his eyes but didn't say anything – more because his throat hurt rather than because Sherlock had told him to.

"Now what are you doing?" Mycroft asked after Sherlock had listened to his breathing. His brother was feeling his neck with his small hands.

"This is what the doctor does when I'm ill," Sherlock said. "So it must be important."

Mycroft sighed.

"You don't even know what you're doing," he mumbled. "Doctors do that to feel if your glands are swollen."

"Oh." Sherlock said, removing his hands. "Well, you're always swollen so there's no point in that."

Mycroft – again – rolled his eyes.

"Why are you still here?" he grumbled. "Just let me drink my tea and go to sleep."

"In a minute," Sherlock said, enjoying himself. "I'm not done."

Sherlock reached over Mycroft – kneeling on his hand in the process – to get the thermometer.

"Mother just took my temperature, Sherlock."

"I don't care." Sherlock said stubbornly. "She's not the doctor."

Sherlock jabbed the thermometer into Mycroft's mouth.

"Ow!" he exclaimed. "Neither are you."

Sherlock stared at his brother.

"No talking."

Mycroft just closed his eyes, wondering why he hadn't called for his mother to take Sherlock back to his room. It was incredibly uncharacteristic of him … maybe it was because he wanted company? No, Mycroft never wanted Sherlock's company. Was it enjoyable to actually see how much his brother cared? Maybe. Mycroft knew that Sherlock, at age five, looked up to him and maybe it was rather sweet he wanted to "take care" of his brother. Maybe.

Ugh, the sentiment was getting to him, Mycroft realized as Sherlock removed the thermometer.

"What's it say?"

"Sherlock, you know your numbers," Mycroft said. Sherlock studied the display.

"Three eight nine."

"Thirty eight point nine." Mycroft corrected. "There's a period between the eight and nine."

"Oh. Is that good?"

"No." Mycroft said. "Normal body temperature is thirty seven degrees."

Sherlock sighed.

"You have a fever, then," he said. "Don't move."

Mycroft smiled to himself – he would blame the fever for all of this – as he watched Sherlock run to the bathroom. He sat up and took a sip of tea, leaning against the pillow. Sherlock came running back with a dripping wet facecloth.

"Sherlock, you have to wring it out," Mycroft said, moving his legs to avoid being dripped on. Sherlock ran back to the bathroom and wrung out the cloth, returning to Mycroft's side.

"Here," Sherlock said. "Mummy puts one on my forehead whenever I have a fever."

"Yes, but I am drinking my tea right now. Just leave it there and I'll put it on when I lay down."

"Promise?"

"Yes, I promise." Mycroft said with a sigh. "Run along, Sherlock."

Sherlock gathered his things.

"I'll be back later with something to cure you," he said. "But you need to go to sleep."

"Yes, Doctor," Mycroft said, watching his brother leave the room.

Sherlock was at his desk, looking through his books about going to the doctor. He wasn't big enough to read the Encyclopedia Britannica, although it would certainly help, so he had to settle for looking through picture books.

He sighed, closing the last one. None of them said anything about a cure for flu … what to do, what to do?

"Sherlock?" his mother peaked her head into the room. "Are you ready for lunch?"

"Yes. What are we having?"

He really hoped it wasn't soup or grilled cheese – he'd had enough of that for a while.

"I made you a sandwich," Mrs. Holmes said. "It's on the table with some chocolate milk."

Sherlock ran downstairs, eating his sandwich very systematically and blowing bubbles in his chocolate milk.

"Penny for your thoughts," Mrs. Holmes said, coming into the kitchen with Mycroft's empty tea mug.

"I'm trying to cure flu," Sherlock said, deep in thought.

"Well," Mrs. Holmes said, sitting down with a smile. "When I was a little girl, my mum made me a pot of soup with a special ingredient that always made me feel better."

Sherlock perked up.

"What was it?"

"She always said her soup was special because it was made with love."

Sherlock frowned.

"No, that won't cure anything."

Mrs. Holmes laughed softly.

"It just means that having someone around who cares about you should make you feel better when you're ill."

Sherlock was still frowning.

"But how does that work? The books said nothing about having someone around who cares."

"You'd be surprised what a little TLC can do." Mrs. Holmes said.

"What does that stand for?"

"Tender loving care. For example, you always feel better when Daddy or Mycroft or I read to you when you feel ill."

"So I should read to Mycroft?"

"I'm sure he would like that."

Mrs. Holmes wasn't entirely sure Mycroft would actually enjoy that but she had been listening for a few minutes while Sherlock "checked on" Mycroft earlier that morning. Mycroft was being very tolerant – probably because he felt ill enough not to put up a fuss, a behaviour that would change within a day she was sure.

"Thanks, Mummy!" Sherlock said, running off. He went to his bedroom and picked out a couple of books before going to Mycroft's room.

Mycroft was lying on his side and wishing for the headache to go away when he heard his door open. Sherlock climbed up on the bed and Mycroft rolled the other way.

"Oh, come on, Mycroft," Sherlock complained. "I'm just going to read to you. I picked the most boring books I have for you. You always like boring things."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Yes. Mummy said that TLV makes anyone feel better when they're ill but I know that's silly. Love doesn't matter. Still, whenever someone reads me a story, I feel better so I'm going to read you a story."

"It's TLC, Sherlock." Mycroft mumbled. "And fine, just keep your voice down."

Sherlock nodded and opened up the first book, beginning to read. When Mrs. Holmes checked on them twenty minutes later, she smiled.

She came to the bed and gently pulled the book from Sherlock's hands and tucked the blankets around both of her sleeping sons, closing the door quietly behind her.

So, yes. Kid Mycroft is actually rather difficult to write but I wanted to try it. Appreciate any thoughts! Thanks =)