Gimme (Mycroft, Casual)

[MYCROFT HOLMES]

It was surprising that Sherlock did not make a fuss when Mycroft asked him to grab another gown. He watched as his brother swiftly left the room and returned with a gown. Mycroft had barely moved another foot by the time he was back. It was almost as if Sherlock was afraid of the door being locked once he was out of the room, and considering how he was behaving, Mycroft wasn't too far off thinking that.

He nodded and grabbed the gown from Sherlock, taking his other hand off the IV stand. He was steady enough that he wouldn't fall if he just didn't move his feet. Mycroft awkwardly worked so he pulled the gown on backwards, covering his bare back. Once it was secured, he felt a considerable amount better. It was easy to say Mycroft was self conscious; if he wasn't, he wouldn't be in the hospital at that moment.

"You're really boring when you have nearly died."

Mycroft snorted a small laugh, looking at Sherlock.

"Excuse my lack of snarky remarks. Give me until I can feel my stomach again, and then you can come back for some verbal abuse if you so wish." He rolled his eyes, taking a hold on the IV stand again.

Mycroft shuffled slowly toward the window, intending to draw back the curtains and let in some light, but he stopped half-way there, clutching his stomach. He gave a sneer and a quiet, pained noise.

"I did a number on myself this time," he said quietly, not really to Sherlock. He knew Sherlock didn't care, but it was nice to be able to talk to someone else instead of talking to the empty room like he so often did. Mycroft took a long breath, straightening from where he doubled in on himself a bit. "What did my chart say? Inner stomach lining eaten away? Sure feels like it."

He began his slow shuffle to the window again, determined to make it this time.

--

OOC: Sorry! I traveled to Arizona for college and got caught up in stuff.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

When Mycroft laughed at his comment, Sherlock found himself blinking blankly at the reaction. He hadn't meant to be funny. He didn't even realise that was he said was a joke.
"Excuse my lack of snarky remarks. Give me until I can feel my stomach again, and then you can come back for some verbal abuse if you so wish."
The younger Holmes shrugged his shoulders, watching with an almost childlike, wide-eyed curiosity as his brother struggled his way to the window.

"I did a number on myself this time,"
Sherlock's eyebrows drew together a few millimetres. He... What? Oh, right, it was one of those sayings.

"What did my chart say? Inner stomach lining eaten away? Sure feels like it."
The Consulting Detective hummed quietly.
"Something like that," he agreed absentmindedly.
The younger man stood, rooted to the ground like a tree to earth, as he watched the other man with open fascination. It was both unnerving and captivating to see his brother in such a state of weakness.
Because it was weak. And Holmeses simply didn't do weakness, meaning the sight was as morbidly enchanting as watching a car crash. And, in the same way as watching such an accident, Sherlock felt as though there was absolutely nothing he was capable of doing to make any difference.

So he just watched.

"I think it may be a family thing, you know." He stated conversationally, tearing his gaze away to glance around the room somewhat disapprovingly. He did, after all, always hate Hospitals. They were always related to the most unpleasant of events. Why some people chose to spend their working days there never ceased to puzzle him.
"Perhaps I should do a few experiments on it."

[MYCROFT HOLMES]

It took him a while, but Mycroft managed to shuffle his way to the window and tug the blinds back, letting more light in to the room. He was out of energy, however, once he finished that task. Mycroft leaned heavily on the IV for a few moments until he could lower himself down to sit on the windowsill. He adjusted his gown a little once he was sitting. At least the sun felt good on his back.

Sherlock offered no help, and honestly, he was glad. Having people offer to help him was just embarrassing. Mycroft didn't like to ask for help in any circumstance. It showed weakness and he wouldn't have any of that as long as he could still walk a few feet at a time. Sherlock also didn't move. The younger Holmes stayed planted in one spot and just stared at Mycroft like it was the most fascinating thing in the world at that particular moment.

Then, Sherlock said something that made Mycroft sneer. "I think it may be a family thing, you know. Perhaps I should do a few experiments on it."

"Excuse me?" Mycroft asked tightly. "What did you just say? Did you just say that what's wrong with me might be a 'family thing'? What, like, genetic? Like a disease?" He rubbed the bridge of his nose between the pads of his fingers, trying to keep from blowing up. "Sorry, Sherlock. Eating disorders are not genetic. They happen to be, you know, psychological. But I guess you didn't know that."

He popped the knuckles on his right hand and chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment.

"Oh, and no. You aren't performing any experiments concerning my eating disorder."

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

"Excuse me?"
Oh dear. Sherlock just about stopped himself Fromm rolling his eyes at Mycroft's obvious emotion.
"What did you just say? Did you just say that what's wrong with me might be a 'family thing'? What, like, genetic? Like a disease?"
And... No, he couldn't stop from rolling his eyes at that one. There were so many times that Sherlock often began to believe that perhaps his brother wasn't so bad after all. And then, well then he said things like that.

"Sorry, Sherlock. Eating disorders are not genetic. They happen to be, you know, psychological. But I guess you didn't know that."
The younger Holmes scowled. He would never cease to be annoyed by the way his brother so frequently treated him as though he was a child, or an imbecile - neither of which he had large amounts of respect for. Particularly the latter. There was no excusing idiocy.
"There are a lot of things you learn in rehab. But then I guess that you didn't know that," he muttered spitefully.

"Oh, and no. You aren't performing any experiments concerning my eating disorder."

The scowl deepened, and he made no move away from where he was standing. Mycroft seemed content to be sat by the window all on his own, anyway. Would want to disturb him.
"I never said that, I mean to figure out if there is something within a genetic line that affects mental health and psychological disorders in its recipients. But I didn't expect you to get that, as you never understand what I try to tell you anyway."

The growing separation was becoming ever more present the longer Sherlock overstayed his welcome in the Hospital room. In Mycroft's Hospital room. But he wasn't willing to leave, not yet.