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Sherlock refused to acknowledge the most humiliating thing that happened to him. He used denial as a shield and stubbornly declined offers of help until he couldn't pretend any longer. He has caught a cold. Accepting that his body was not as strong as his mind was hard enough and Mycroft, utterly delighted with the news, would not make it any easier. In their world, succumbing to common cold meant the person was ordinary and weak.
'Have some more tea,' Mycroft said, with a touch of contempt. He was cool and collected, his appearance impeccable as always, while Sherlock was sweaty and embarrassed. 'You should stay here today. Watch some telly.' Like a simpleton you clearly are.
Sherlock ignored him, too focused on his suffering. Defeated so easily! He, the smartest person in history! And Mycroft was there to witness the whole ordeal and mock and feign concern about his brother's health.
A combination of a headache and a fever caused Sherlock to nod off and he missed the moment when his brother left. That must have happened, though, the house seemed empty. The memories of Mycroft rejoicing at his misfortune were still fresh and more painful than the damned illness that started it all. The longer Sherlock dwelled on the problem, the more reasonable his solution seemed. He stood up abruptly, tossed the blanket onto the sofa and crept into Mycroft's room.
Violating his brother's privacy was strictly forbidden, but Sherlock was desperate to find something, anything he could use against his gloating brother. A trace of a secretive action, maybe a non-ambitious book, preferably with pictures, a stash of chocolate biscuits, anything would do. Mycroft surely predicted that day would come sooner or later and hid his most private possessions in clear sight.
Snooping around should be done when one's ears are not clogged, Sherlock realised when his right arm was suddenly seized in a tight grip and twisted behind his back. The fever slowed his reaction time and he hit the wall instead of bracing himself against it with his free hand. He managed to produce enough groans of pain to amuse Mycroft before he shut his mouth.
'Unwise, brother mine,' Mycroft crooned into Sherlock's ear, pressing him harder against the wall. Sherlock willed himself to stay silent and not to struggle. Mycroft would love to see him squirm and beg.
'Let go of me,' Sherlock demanded, his voice strained. A part of him wanted to stay in that position forever to avoid facing his smug brother ever again.
Mycroft was not done yet. He obviously found great pleasure in tormenting Sherlock and wanted to savour the moment of his triumph over his troublesome brother. Sherlock winced when a gentle hand stroked his curls away from his forehead and closed his eyes to hide from Mycroft's gaze.
'Learn your place, brother.' Only Mycroft could turn that word into an insult.
He finally released Sherlock and his self-satisfied smirk pained Sherlock more than his aching wrist.
The memory would often return to Sherlock at night when he lay open-eyed, too agitated to relax. Usually, that made him feel so hot that he had to kick his duvet off the bed. Shame, he deduced. Since that horrible day, Sherlock would not turn away in Mycroft's presence, afraid the attack would happen again. He never let himself forget and waited patiently for the right moment to retaliate. When he did, when it was Mycroft who panted helplessly, flat against the door frame, Sherlock felt immense satisfaction. He understood why Mycroft did that to him in the first place. It simply felt good.