Gregory Lestrade woke up when his mobile phone rang the alarm. He sat up and realised that everything revolved around him. His head was buzzing, his nose was shut. His throat was scratching, and as he tried to stand up, a violent coughing fit shook him, and at the same time a dizziness gripped him, causing him to plop back onto the bed. He touched his forehead. Yes, he clearly had a fever, and that's how he felt.

He picked up his mobile phone and texted Donovan that he was ill and wouldn't be coming to the Yard.

Then he let himself fall back into bed and fell asleep immediately.

He woke up again late in the morning.

Thank God he had a water bottle by his bed. He unscrewed it and took a few sips. That felt good. Afterwards he was at least able to go to the bathroom for a moment. Then he groped wobbly into the kitchen.

He searched his cupboard for tea. Nothing. So he made himself a coffee. A hot drink, after all.

A look in the refrigerator revealed a total emptiness. He was hardly ever at home otherwise; he ate at a snack bar somewhere during the day, took home pizza in the evening or Chinese food ... He should get some food, also some fruit. And tea.

But then he shook his head, which immediately caused dizziness again.

No, going out and shopping, God knows he would not be able to do that now.

So what to do?

After he had finished his coffee, he remembered that he could call John. Surely John and Sherlock would be kind enough to get him the essentials. So he dialled John's number.

"Yeah?" his friend's voice cracked on the line.

"Hello, John, it's Greg," he squawked back. "You don't sound too good..."

"Yeah," sniffed John, "Sherlock and I have been hit really hard. We've both been ill since yesterday. Hurray for Mrs Hudson, who's looking after us."

"Oh..." Greg was thinking. I suppose that was the end of his plans.

"John, I just... I didn't want... I think we'd better discuss it when we're all well. Like I said, nothing important."

He coughed.

"Okay," it came faintly from John. "Get well soon, Greg."

"You too, both."

He hung up.

Well, I guess that was nothing. Anyway, he'd wait until tonight and then call Donovan, surely she'd be kind enough to get him a few things after hours. He just had to wait.

He went back to bed for a while.

…

Sherlock was only half listening to John's phone call. The fever had made him feel as if he had cotton wool all around him.

"Who was that?" he asked anyway.

"Greg," sniffed John.

"What did he want?"

"I don't know. He had a terrible cold too, and when he heard we both weren't feeling any better, he said we could talk about it later, it wasn't important."

Sherlock shook his head. He understood immediately why Greg had called.

He might be groggy and his, yes, even his ingenious thinking apparatus might have been a bit affected (swollen and irritated throat and nasal mucous membranes, inflamed bronchi, blocked sinuses and the resulting rise in body temperature were also annoying!) But it was clear why Greg did call.

And in that moment he had an idea.

A few weeks ago he had already asked Gregory Lestrade (yes, he knew Lestrade's name. The fuss with the wrong first names was just a game, he enjoyed it when the other person got annoyed about it, and in the meantime he had noticed that Mycroft also got annoyed about it when he called Lestrade by the wrong first name in his presence, and of course that was at least as much fun for Sherlock) as well as Mycroft to bring the game on.

In his opinion, only a blind man with a cane (and again, in his opinion, most people were blind and desperately needed a cane for their minds) could overlook the fact that Greg and Mycroft liked each other, well.

He had now tried to poke them both with in the right direction, but no success was forthcoming.

They were coy as Victorian young girls.

Well, propably it was necessary to bring in the big guns.

He picked up his cell phone and called his brother.

"Holmes..."

"Mycroft, it's Sherlock. Listen. A friend needs help."

He heard Mycroft snorting, he could feel his eyes roll, he could literally see his thoughts:

What does Sherlock want? What the hell's he done now?

Sherlock coughed pointedly into the phone.

"We are ill, John and I, since yesterday. We're in pretty bad shape. Don't worry, thank God John went shopping yesterday morning and Mrs Hudson's a real gem. She's even left us a large pot of home-made chicken soup. So we're all set."

"Right, Sherlock, so what can I do for you?"

"A friend needs help. He's also sick, he called earlier, probably to ask us to get him some things, no, not probably, I know that's the case. When he heard how sick we both were, he backed out. And, well, I know he doesn't have anybody else to help him."

The latter wasn't exactly true, Sherlock knew that, but the end justifies the means.

"Well, „said Mycroft, a bit annoyed, „and what's it got to do with me now?“

Sherlock smiled and said, after beating a coughing fit:

"Well, the freind in question is George Lestrade!"

"Gregory,“ Mycroft growled, before he realised what his brother was saying.

He was silent.

Sherlock enjoyed his silence, knowing what was going on in Mycroft's mind.

He decided to take it to the limit.

"I'm just saying," he said, and hanged up.

With a wide smile on his face he looked at John.

"Ten," he said.

John looked at him questioningly. "Ten what?"

"Seconds till Mycroft calls back," Sherlock said, counting down on his fingers.

At two, his mobile rang.