[If this were any other time, Sherlock would greatly enjoy hearing Mycroft sound so unsure of himself. His brother was always so irritatingly put together, so calm, so dedicated to the veneer of British good manners; to see him flustered at all is a rare treat, and one he can't even enjoy properly.
He doesn't want to stay here.
He's cold, his bones ache, and he can feel his body going into shock. He wants to be taken home to his own bed to sweat this out, or die in dignity, not do it here in this scummy place.]
Help me stand.
[God, it's a lot of effort to talk coherently. He just hopes Mycroft doesn't argue.]
Said home.
[Mycroft's home, of course, not Sherlock's student digs.]
no subject
He doesn't want to stay here.
He's cold, his bones ache, and he can feel his body going into shock. He wants to be taken home to his own bed to sweat this out, or die in dignity, not do it here in this scummy place.]
Help me stand.
[God, it's a lot of effort to talk coherently. He just hopes Mycroft doesn't argue.]
Said home.
[Mycroft's home, of course, not Sherlock's student digs.]