HAART

Greg was just barely conscious as he dragged himself into his office Monday morning, his second coffee of the day steaming in his hand.  

“You look like shit,” Sally Donovan helpfully informed him, grinning to herself as she received a half hearted glare for her efforts. “Anything I can help with?”

“Katie has a cold,” Greg sighed. “She thinks she’s dying. Last night she told me that for dinner she wanted ‘to see the sun one last time’. She keeps this up, she might actually end up dying; I truly don’t know how long I can resist the urge murder her.” 

“I’ll make sure that statement ends up in the report when we’re investigating it,” Sally replied with a chuckle, turning back to her computer as Greg walked by towards his office. 

“Oh,” she called over her shoulder as Greg laid his hand on the doorknob, “Freak’s in your office by the way.” Greg closed his eyes for a long moment, taking a deep breath, bracing himself for whatever he found inside. 

“Thanks, Donovan,” Greg sighed and resolutely shoved open the door. 

~~~

Early that morning, Sherlock had received a call from his brother. It was a standard call, a case of ‘national importance’ that Sherlock was quick to determine was a mere 4 and thus not worth his time. The call did provide an opportunity to push Mycroft’s buttons a bit, and Sherlock would never miss an opportunity for that. 

“I’m surprised you even called me, I don’t think I’ve heard from you since the beginning of this new era. You and Lestrade…domestic bliss.” 

“I’m not talking to you about my relationship, Sherlock.” 

“That’s fine, I can talk enough for both of us,” Sherlock flopped down onto his sofa, grinning to himself. “Living together already…should I be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?” 

“What exactly is the point of this, Sherlock?” 

“Just passing the time.” 

“And what makes you think I have time to pass with you right now?” Mycroft was taking care to keep his voice neutral, any evidence of actual annoyance was simply another weakness for Sherlock to exploit. 

“I can’t imagine what else you could be doing with your time, since you are off work today.” 

“And what on Earth are you basing that deduction on?”

“I can hear your dishwasher in the background, brother mine.” 

“Alright fine,” Mycroft snapped, “I am home from work today. I do take days off sometimes.” 

“No you don’t,” Sherlock sputtered. “Never in all the years you’ve had this job have you taken a day off unless…” Sherlock’s voice trailed off as a realisation slammed into him with the force of a freight train. “Mycroft, is Michelle sick?”

“No,” Mycroft replied with an exhausted sigh. “She’s fine. I’m sick.” 

Sherlock tensed, the hand that had previously been idly running up and down his violin strings suddenly forming a tight fist. 

“Is it bad?” Sherlock knew his voice was shaking but it couldn’t be helped. 

“No, no,” his brother tutted dismissively, “a chest cold. Nothing to worry about in the least, but Anthea, being the mother hen that she is, has insisted that I get rest. And I have learned better than to argue with Anthea. She has yet to lose one of our arguments.” 

“It is nice to know that there is at least one person on earth that you listen to,” Sherlock muttered. “You’ll let me know if things get worse?”

“You’re a bit of a mother hen as well, Sherlock,” Mycroft chuckled dryly. “Between you and Anthea…” 

“Mycroft, just tell me if things are getting bad.” 

“I will,” Mycroft promised, his voice sweet and sincere. “Thank you, Sherlock. It really does mean a lot to me that you care.” He paused for a long moment, then with a smile in his voice, continued: “you know, if you are that concerned about my health, you could take this case…” 

“Piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied, smiling warmly as his brother laughed on the other end of the line. 

“As you wish,” Mycroft quipped. 

~~~

Greg opened the door to find the world’s first and only consulting detective sitting in front of his desk, strangely without his blogger in tow. 

“Sherlock,” Greg greeted the man hesitantly. 

“Ah, Lestrade. I’m glad you’re here.” Sherlock was clearly uncomfortable, shifting in his seat and looking askance. 

“I don’t have any cases for you.” 

“Oh, no, I didn’t come here for a case. I need…” he took a deep breath, pained to have to say, “I need advice.” 

“On a case?” Greg asked, utterly confused. 

“No, no, of course not,” Sherlock snapped. “I wouldn’t go to you for that.” 

“Have you considered that you might want to be pleasant to me if you want my help?”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock sighed, actually looking contrite. “I need moral advice.”

“Isn’t that what you have John for?”

“Explaining this situation to John would likely result in him gaining information that I don’t feel comfortable sharing with him.” 

“But you’re okay with sharing it with me?” Greg couldn’t fathom where this conversation could be going.

“You are already aware of the situation.”

“Okay,” Greg sighed, sitting back. “Lay it on me.” Sherlock shifted in his seat once more, clearing his throat and fidgeting. 

“Let’s say you knew something about someone else and that person has specifically asked you not to share the information. You’ve kept the secret thus far, because there wasn’t any imminent danger.” 

“Do you feel that there is now some imminent danger?”

“Yes.” 

“Then you have to tell someone.” 

“I will lose this person’s trust, which is something that I fought hard to earn.” Sherlock’s eyes were wide, silently begging Greg to understand what he was saying without having to say it out loud. 

“So you’re telling me, without giving me the details that would make it clear what on Earth you’re talking about, in hopes that I can figure it out and eliminate the danger while leaving your conscience clear.” 

“I suppose I am,” Sherlock replied, every part of his body now joining in the silent pleas that his eyes were sending. 

“I’m not as clever as you Sherlock, just tell me what’s wrong and I’ll take care of it.” Sherlock’s eyes closed, fighting a battle within himself. Of course he knew he should just tell Greg, It wouldn’t even technically break his promise, he had only said he wouldn’t tell Mycroft. But the look on Michelle’s face when she begged him not to worry her dad was still front and centre in his mind. And of course, with Mycroft sick, any additional stress could spell disaster. He bit his lip, mentally kicking himself for looking so pathetic in front of Greg. 

“I’m sorry, I’ve told you everything I can.” He stood up, shot one last desperate look at the DI, and fled the room. 

Greg sat back in his chair, scrubbing a hand over his face. He had known Sherlock for a decade and he still couldn’t make heads or tails of what the man was going on about half the time. He would figure that out later, he decided, and he plunged into the pile of paperwork waiting for him. 

He picked up a manila folder that was laying at the back of his desk, narrowing his eyes when he realised it wasn’t the same kind that the Met used. He opened it, reading the title page of an extremely thick stack of papers, his heart sinking. 

Decreasing Efficacy of Highly Active Antiretroviral Therapy (HAART) in Patients With Pediatric HIV Infections. 

By Michelle Monroe-Holmes.