Seven year old Sherlock had, over the last two days, decided that he hated being sick. He was in his room, half-buried under a pile of blankets and cushions, with only his pale face poking out from under a mess of dark, tangled curls. He ached, all over in fact, and though normally he'd voice his discomfort Mummy had instructed him not to speak in such stern tones that even he dared not disobey.

The worst of it was that this weekend was one of Mycroft's few weekends away from boarding school – the exeats treasured above all else – and Sherlock had no opportunity to fulfil his normal routine. On any other weekend he'd meet Mycroft at the gate under a pretence of reluctance, claiming that Mummy made him go. This done he'd relate all of his latest experiments to his brother on the way to the house, where he'd retreat for a while; Mummy and Father would want to talk to Mycroft about school business – lessons, tutors, trivialities that Sherlock had no interest in. But later….oh, Sherlock would irritate Mycroft to the best of his ability because he God forbid he showed that he cared, but would follow the fifteen year old around the house purely for his company which he got to enjoy so little nowadays.

But not this weekend. This weekend Sherlock was sick, and that was – he wracked his brains for the right word, something Mycroft would say – ah, intolerable. Sherlock sniffed (partly from irritation and partly because his nose was running), and buried himself further into the cushions. He was still feeling sorry for himself half an hour later, wondering absently if he could scorch the ceiling with a large enough explosion when the door opened and Mycroft walked in, dressed in school uniform with his umbrella at his side.

Mycroft was fifteen now, still slender though (as Sherlock never failed to point out), he could no longer acquit the slightly roundness of his cheeks and softness of his figure to baby fat, but instead to his fondness of cakes and puddings. His hair was more closely cut than that of Sherlock (who abhorred the idea of letting someone with a blade near his head willingly, and found the whole debacle unnecessary anyway), and though as ever his face was composed and near impassive, Sherlock could tell that he was happy to be home and (surprisingly), concerned.

"Hello, Sherlock." He greeted calmly, approaching the bed and leaning forwards slightly to see past the mound of blankets that nearly obscured his little brother. Sherlock looked back up at Mycroft, eyes fever-bright and irritable, but eager to drink in any detail of Mycroft's face as he had long-since committed to memory each minute detail of the bedroom he'd been confined in for the duration of his illness. Mycroft smiled, reaching down to ruffle Sherlock's hair and frowning at the heat of the boy's skin. "I thought you were dead – you didn't meet me at the gate." He continued with mock-reproach.

Sherlock simply scowled at Mycroft, his expression suggesting that if the older boy didn't watch himself then, sickness or not, Sherlock would ensure that one of his messier experiments found its way into Mycroft's bed. Mycroft smirked, seating himself on a chair next to the bed and placing his elbows on his knees, chin on his hands.

"No hello for me, Sherly?" He asked lightly, and Sherlock let out a huff of frustration. Of course Mycroft knew that he wasn't allowed to talk; the fact that he hadn't said anything yet was clue enough. Now he was just being mean. But how to reprove him? Sherlock leaned his burning head back against the cool wood of the headboard, and all too suddenly an idea struck. He reached up a hand, knocking on the wood and relishing Mycroft's look of faint confusion. A moment passed before his brother's eyes lit up in realisation and he started to pay attention.

A few years ago Mycroft had taught Sherlock Morse Code, only as a means of getting him to be quiet and stay out of the way for an afternoon. Sherlock had been intrigued, quickly committing the dots and dashes to memory. Thank goodness he had though, as now it was coming in useful.

Dash dash, dash dot dash dash, dash dot dash dot, dot dash dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dash dot, dash.

--  -.--  -.-.  .-.  ---  ..-. -

There, his name. Sherlock continued, picking up the pace as he went, and slowly Mycroft deciphered his message.  

Mycroft, stop being mean. The seven year old commanded, glowering at his brother. Mycroft snorted, shaking his head.

"Who, me? Never. I suppose Mummy has forbidden you, from speaking, then."

Sherlock nodded, tapping out a new message as fast as he thought Mycroft could keep up with.

Obviously. I haven't spoken in two days! I'm so bored, Mycroft…

"I know, I know. But at least you don't have Latin verbs to conjugate, hm? Irregular ones as well – Mr Drummidge is a tyrant." Mycroft sighed. Sherlock blinked, momentarily thrown off by the statement.

You're working? But it's an exeat, you're not meant to work. He tapped out after a few seconds of silence, ignoring the growing ache in his knuckles in favour of the communication he'd been deprived of.

"O-Levels, Sherlock." Mycroft replied ruefully, shrugging. "I don't have a choice." Sherlock's face fell. Now not only could he not do anything with his brother, he couldn't even talk to him! No doubt he'd be working all weekend, in another room of the house, and that way it may as well not be an exeat at all. He sniffed, lowering his hand from the headboard, and pouted, eyes cast downwards. That wasn't fair at all. Mycroft rolled his eyes, letting out a sigh of exasperation, but lifted his umbrella, using it to push aside a few of the pillows to reveal Sherlock's face. The seven year old scowled, thoroughly put out, and Mycroft couldn't help but smile.

"Oh, come now, don't be like that. I don't want to work either, but I have to. That's what growing up is."

Then I don't ever want to grow up. Sherlock's hand flew up as he tapped out his new message.

"No? Never ever?"

Never. Like Peter Pan.

Mycroft chuckled, bestowing a faintly indulgent smile on his obstinate brother. It was at about that moment that a call came from downstairs.

"Mycroft? Come down, dear, and say hello to Father." Mycroft lifted himself dutifully from his chair, brushing himself down and heading towards the door, but was stopped by a sound from behind him. Sherlock, correctly ascertaining that Morse Code would take too long, had decided to test out his vocal cords. He regretted it as soon as his voice emerged into the air, pain searing in dry waves down his throat, but not before he'd croaked out Mycroft's name. Mycoft turned, one eyebrow raised, to see Sherlock sitting up a little, eyes wide and imploring.

"Don't go." The boy begged hoarsely, and Mycroft sighed heavily, approaching the bed to draw Sherlock into a quick embrace. He was sick, it was permissible. He stroked the tangled mess of Sherlock's curls that was presented to him when Sherlock pressed his head into his brother's chest, sniffing and sticking his lower lip out.

"I'll be back soon, Sherlock." He promise gently, dropping a kiss on top of the boy's head. "But you need rest or you won't get better – now, go to sleep."

A muffled noise that sounded suspiciously like "Boring" emerged from Mycroft's chest, and he laughed. Even when he was sick Sherlock was insufferably stubborn.

"Yes, yes. But the sooner you go to sleep the sooner you'll get better. And maybe then I'll have time to play with you, alright?"

Mycroft was sure he'd regret those words later, but it seemed to work – Sherlock nodded reluctantly and leaned back into the pillow, grimacing at the fresh pain in his larynx. With an approving look Mycroft drew away, pulling the blankets up to cover his little brother.

"Good boy. Sleep well, Sherlock."

There was no reply, but Mycroft. could have sworn he swore a handful of soft taps against the headboard. Probably a half-hearted retort. He shook his head good-naturedly, leaving the room and heading downstairs. Yes, in a day or two Sherlock would be better – causing trouble and getting on the nerves of everybody in the house. But for now….for now Mycroft would allow himself to recognise the affection that he knew was reciprocated. After all, regardless of their different ages and personalities, the Holmes brothers were just that – brothers. No matter what the world threw at the two boys singled out to be different, they had each other, no matter how reluctantly. Always