Fever

caring

"Sherlock!" Mycroft barked through the phone.
"Yeah???"
Silence again for a moment.
Then he heard Mycroft, struggling to calm himself down:
"Have you got enough chicken soup to spare for Lestrade?"
Sherlock smiled.
"Needless to say, brother dear. I'm sure dear Mrs Hudson will make us some more any day now."
"Good. I'll pop round and fill up a little pot. Now put John on."
Sherlock smiled and passed his phone to John.
"John? Listen. I'm just about to pop into DI Lestrade's, drop some stuff off. Some groceries. Would you be prepared to write me a prescription for the most important cold medicines, which I can then get him from the pharmacy, and if possible a sick note for the next few days? I know, normally you would have to see him for that, but since you are under the westher yourself ... and when you have a cold you just need rest ... Thank you, John."
And before john could even speak, he hung up.

"And what's up with that now?", John asked in amazement.
"Well, my brother will finally step out of his shadow and take the first step."
"Sherlock, what first step? Oh... oh, you mean... Mycroft and Lestrade? You mean they ...?!"
Sherlock nodded and sneezed violently.
John's jaw was a bit near his navel.
"You're serious? Those two? Really???"

About an hour later, Mycroft turned up, got some soup, got the prescription and the sick note.
He thanked John politely, gave Sherlock a scowling look ("Hey, I think you should thank me too, Mycroft!") and left.

...

So it happened that the doorbell went off at Greg Lestrade's in the early afternoon. He had just made himself a thermos of tea, borrowed the tea bags from his old, friendly neighbour, and then retired to his sofa with a thick fleece blanket. He had briefly considered turning on the TV, but had to realize that he was too exhausted to concentrate and had simply closed his eyes for a nap.
But before he could even sink into sleep, the bell rang.

With difficulty Greg pulled himself up.
Who could that be? Maybe the postman?
Sniffing, he trotted to the door and opened it.
And to his amazement, Mycroft Holmes stood before him in the hallway. Mycroft Holmes, carrying a large wicker basket on each arm.
"Can I come in?"
Greg was far too limp to do anything but nod his head.
"To the kitchen?" Holmes asked.
Greg showed the way, then trotted after the other, who now marched single-mindedly to his kitchen.
Without quite understanding what was going on, he watched as Mycroft Holmes placed the two baskets on his table.
"Mir Holmes, what... ..uh..."
"DI Lestrade, I understand you've been taken ill. And as my brother and Dr Watson are no better, they are unable to help you. Knowing your work-related stress, knowing that you are hardly ever at home, I have taken the liberty of getting you the most basic necessities."
And he started to unpack.
Bread. cheese. Tomatoes. Sandwich cream.
All kinds of fruit, oranges to squeeze.
Eggs, ham, milk.
Tea.
Noodles and ready-made pasta sauce.
From the second basket he took a pot,
"Mrs Hudson's chicken soup."
and a bag marked "Pharmacy".
"... and some medicines. and the pharmacist has written down exactly how you should use and take it."
Finally, he pulled an envelope from his coat pocket.
"Inside here is a sick note for the rest of the week. Dr. Watson..."
Mycroft put the paper down on the kitchen shelf.

"Have you had anything to eat today, DI?"
Greg shook his head.
"Well, it's about time. Would you like me to fix you some chicken soup, or would you prefer a sandwich?
"Sandwich," Greg croaked. He didn't feel able to resist the somewhat assaultive care of the other.
Hang on, did he just think the word "care" in a sentence with Mycroft Holmes? He had to grin. Mycroft Holmes, the caring Iceman. Greg couldn't help himself and started giggling.
Holmes looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
"You all right, DI?"
Greg nodded.
"Sorry," he said, "the fever..."

A few minutes later he found himself sitting at his kitchen table, eating a sandwich that Mr. Holmes had prepared for him.
He would have found the situation most astonishing. But his mind was clouded with fever and it made it easier for him to accept the whole thing as it was.
And as Sherlock's brother put a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice down in front of him and then put the used dishes in the dishwasher, tidied up the kitchen and then said goodbye, "I'll be back to check on you tomorrow, Gregory," he realized that he was beginning to enjoy this care.
Yes, it was nice to have someone looking after him.
And yes, it was even nicer that that someone was Mycroft Holmes, of all people.