The next morning Greg slept quite late. When he woke up, he had to shake his head over himself. He'd actually dreamt that Mycroft Holmes had turned up at his place with food and medical supplies...and even chicken soup.

Greg laughed.

What strange things the fever was doing to his brain.

He wasn't really any better than yesterday, his nose was still shut, his throat hurt, his head and all his bones ached. Well, at least he was no longer dizzy.

He groped into the bathroom and took a shower, then put on a fresh jogging suit and thought about going to the bakery to at least get something to eat.

When he entered his kitchen, he stood there like rooted to the spot.

In the middle of the table was the full fruit bowl.

He hesitantly went to the refrigerator and opened it.

It was well filled. Yes, there was also a pot there, and when Greg looked inside, he recognized chicken soup.

He slammed the refrigerator shut and closed his eyes for a moment.

So obviously it hadn't been a dream.

Oh, boy.

Well, then he might as well have made himself breakfast while he figured out how to handle it now.

He immediately made himself a whole pot of tea again, toasted some toast and made himself scrambled eggs.

Then he sat down at his kitchen table, and as he ate slowly, his thoughts went back to the last day.

Mycroft Holmes.

Why had that man come?

He would have heard... He said...

Well, that was easy to explain. Greg had phoned John; what John knew, Sherlock knew and he'd probably told his brother how bad he was.

Mycroft had come over afterwards to help him.

And he had to admit, it was a great help.

He had food in the house now.

...and medicines. And although there was not much you could do about a cold, except wait until it passed, things like nasal spray and cough syrup were helpful and relieved the symptoms.

Mycroft could just as easily have sent his driver. Or his assistant.

But he'd come himself.

He'd come himself. Why?

Should... ..should there be something at the end? About what Sherlock had said?

Was there supposed to be something about him, Greg, in the end?

Greg swallowed.

And as he took another sip of tea, he had to admit he was not at all uncomfortable with the idea.

He cleared away his dishes and snuggled out of the sofa.

This time he turned on the television.

He wanted to distract his thoughts a little and prevent him from focusing too much on this man, the brother of his consulting detective.

There was some kind of documentary about the breeding and mating behaviour of the Atlantic puffins, a modern adaptation of the King Arthur legend, a really, really bad B-movie about killer dust ... What the fuck?

Gregory shook his head. TV programming did not get better over time.

He wondered if Mycroft was preoccupied with something as trivial as television.

And then his mind went back to that man.

Finally, he gave up, turned off the television set and put on a record.

As he listened to the music, his still feverish mind drifted into a reasonably restful sleep.

He awoke with a healthy hunger.

So he went into the kitchen, put the pot of the deliciously smelling chicken soup on the stove and toasted some bread.

When the soup was hot, he began to eat. He felt how good it did him and was grateful to Mrs Hudson. When he was well again, he would send her a big bouquet of flowers.

And, yes, he was grateful to Mycroft.

He'd like to thank him too. How, though, he'd have thought about that later. That's what his head couldn't manage at the moment.

He looked at the clock. It was early afternoon, yesterday Mycroft had turned up at about this time, if he was halfway through relaxing.

And, um... And he said he'd be back today.

Greg was cleaning the kitchen, cleaning the table.

He made a fresh pot of tea and carried a second cup and milk and sugar into the living room.

For a moment, he looked around. Then he prepared the sofa a little, straightened the cushions.

He ventilated the room, because somehow it smelled of sickness, because of the cold ointment and the stale air.

A quarter of an hour later he found the air fresh enough.

He wiped over the coffee table again.

Then he went out across the hallway, rang the doorbell of his old neighbour and asked her for some of the homemade cookies she always had in the house. She gladly gave them to him and smiled.

"A date?" she asked curiously.

Greg shook his head vigorously.

"Just... ...sick call."

The old lady smiled knowingly, but said nothing more.

Greg arranged the cookies on a pretty bowl and placed them on the living room table.

In doing so, he realized that what he was doing here must actually look to an outsider as if he was waiting for a date.

Yes, he couldn't deny he was hoping Mycroft would actually come.

He was waiting for him.

Looking forward to it.