Sherlock POV: Sherlock was not used to the slow rumbling of a horse drawn carriage, and yet he had not requested a chauffeur to deliver him back to his home at such a late hour. The man was always embarrassed of his late nights, and as he curled up within the corner of the bumpy buggy he checked his watch from the light of a street lamp. Three o'clock in the morning, just a little past. Sherlock sighed heavily, dropping his watch back into his pocket and hastily trying to pull the buttons together upon his vest. He was not very well put together, as the clothes he had worn out of the house had fallen into disarray during the worst parts of his evening. On the off chance that he would be received by any welcoming party Sherlock felt he must clean himself up before he arrived outside of the gates, just to avoid any unnecessary suspicion. Oh but exhaustion overwhelmed him, and even as Sherlock tried to smoothen out his jacket he felt his arms grow terribly limp, falling together upon his lap as he huddled even closer into the comfortable corner of the rented cab. Perhaps he could make up some more reasonable excuse on the off chance that anyone would stay awake to receive the master of the house back into his most familiar walls. Sherlock's head jolted against the wooden frame as he strained his eyes out of the window, staring into the darkness as he rubbed his fingers compulsively against each other, scrubbing with unseen soap as if to try to wipe them clean of their sins of the night. He still felt a touch upon his skin, a most despised feeling! He never liked taking his work home with him, even if that work merely lingered about like a ghostly presence against nerves fired long ago, now sitting bored and cold within the smooth recesses of his fingers. At last the streets began to look familiar, and while Sherlock suspected the cabbie of taking the long way home he could not protest as he stumbled from the elevated cab, collecting himself onto his feet and reaching into his pockets for the exact change. The cabbie, who was dressed in a thick overcoat and a low brimmed hat, accepted the money thankfully and whipped his horses back into their trot, parading the city for anymore drunken wanderers who were in need for a ride home. Based off of Sherlock's appearance he doubted that the cabbie took any interest in him, undoubtedly considering the disheveled traveler to be a servant who had gotten the night off or a visitor who had taken to the town for a fun evening. Certainly he would not have guessed that his passenger was the owner of the large manor, given the state of his appearance and the time of his arrival! And perhaps that was for the best. Sherlock didn't need any rumors beginning to circulate about his nighttime activities, lest the wrong people begin to speak of their own experiences with the man's nocturnal duties. Sherlock passed through the gates and latched them behind him, figuring that he would be the last one to step into the garden with due reason for the night. He was almost surprised there were not more undesirables lurking about in the bushes, as oftentimes he would be met with the homeless plucking roses off of the well-manicured bushes to sell alongside the street the next morning. People always figured out how to steal from the Holmes family, though there were times when Sherlock almost considered they were entitled. Considering how much his family had taken from this city, well why shouldn't he allow a bold homeless man to take advantage of any opportunity presented to him? It was an opinion that Sherlock shared only with his unconscious mind, and under no circumstances would he allow himself to be caught with such sympathy. His brother would mock him to no end; perhaps even scold him for taking such a humanitarian view upon the subject. Sherlock was not allowed to be human, that much was established even before he learned to read or write. Fumbling within his coat pocket Sherlock found his key ring, looping the iron chain around his finger as he pulled it from its place and wobbled each of the keys individually through the open air. Thankfully the porch lights were kept on at all hours of the night, not only to demonstrate the wealth of the family and their ability to afford electricity but also to make sure that the house looked presentable and noticeable at all hours of the day. By nightfall most buildings fell dark, as candles were extinguished and oil lamps were shut out by their thick iron covers. The third and undesired advantage of having electric porch lights was allowing the master of the house to find his house key, a task that should not have been so difficult. Yet his mind was rather blurred at the moment, alcohol tainting his direct vision and exhaustion making it almost impossible to keep his arms raised for long enough to inspect thoroughly. Finally Sherlock found the correct key, fitting it into the lock by pressing his entire body against the door and twisting with two turns of his wrist. The door swung open, presenting the house in its shadowy silence, and Sherlock stumbled within the doorway as if he was just learning to walk. Recollecting his keys into his pocket the man shut the door loudly behind him, twisting the lock securely once more before falling in a daze upon the wooden floors, staring up with a lolling mouth and a twisted gag at the decorated ceiling which loomed above. The taste in his mouth was quite similar to vomit, which made Sherlock wonder if he had forgotten some portions of the night. Perhaps he had been sick; though that would be expected after the time he had taken off from his normal duties. Sherlock had taken nearly a week off to prepare the household for the new tutor, and as such neither his stomach nor his mind was prepared for such extravaganzas so early on! The man groaned again, rolling over and pawing at the floor with one of his outstretched hands. For a moment he began to wonder how he was going to make it into his bed, considering it felt as if he was not able to get to his feet much less up those stairs in a quiet and professional manner. Yet suddenly he was not alone, for better or for worse. An oncoming shadow collected above him, alive with the shape of a human but moving at odd and irregular angles, as if Sherlock's eyes did not perceive the whole of his motion but only snippets. For a moment the man's hands were at his side, though suddenly one appeared upon the wall, flicking one of the switches to the lights and illuminating the hallway in that harsh electric light. Sherlock looked up with strained eyes, rolling onto his back and giving a low moan of regret to see his brother's humored face downturned upon him. Oh he should have known it was Mycroft from the first glance, no one else in the household bore such a strange and widening shape!
"Had a rough night, brother mine?" Mycroft wondered with a little chuckle, offering a hand to help Sherlock pull himself to his feet. Sherlock pawed at it though his arms had lost nearly all strength, and while he could hold his fingers up in the air for a moment he was unable to grasp at his brother's hand effectively enough. He decided it was better to lie here anyway, considering he did not always appreciate his brother's idea of a rescue party.
"It's been a while." Sherlock admitted. "I'm tired."
"You're drunk." Mycroft commented.
"Wine helps me in ways you could not imagine." Sherlock grumbled, wondering just how painful his job would be if his mind was clear at any point during the night. Mycroft chuckled, tapping his toe against the cloth messenger bag which was tied securely around Sherlock's shoulders. He prodded the thing with his shoe until at last he hit a solid object hidden within the folds of the fabric, a smile appearing upon his face once more as he recognized the shape and curvature.
"You are invaluable, Sherlock Holmes." The man repeated, kneeling down at last and shuffling his brother's body into his arms. Thankfully with all of his girth Mycroft was able to lift Sherlock's entire weight off of the ground, heaving the thin frame into his arms and making his way with stumbling steps into the sitting room. Sherlock lolled against his brother's chest, his stomach twisting and turning with such irregular motions, though the approaching sofa was beginning to look more and more heavenly with every step they drew near. As soon as he was settled upon the soft cushions Sherlock's eyes began to shut, his limbs falling heavily from his body and his mouth dangling open to allow a long trail of saliva to drip from his lips and onto the carpeted floor below. Mycroft merely sighed, untangling the messenger bag from his brother's body and huddling the package safely to his chest. Obviously the bag could not be discovered by any servant, nor even by Sherlock's own family if they were the first to discover him. Sherlock's fingers were the last to still as his body finally fell into the deep sleep it was longing for. Mycroft watched him for some time, noticing the way his hair was still slicked from the gel, the way his forehead was caked with the crackling salt of dried sweat. Sherlock looked so peaceful when he slept, which was all the more regretful to the man who forced him to look so strained in his waking hours. Mycroft would like nothing more than to see this look of relaxation upon Sherlock's face when his eyes were opened, though business demanded otherwise. And business must be personified into a single entity, a single man who would not enforce any silly things like family values or tropical vacations. That role of villain was regrettably taken on by the older Holmes brother, made all the worse when he found he had a particular knack for avoiding each and every emotion the human heart was supposed to contain. However tonight, in the presence of no conscious witnesses, Mycroft allowed himself to smile. He folded his fingers along his brother's forehead, patting down some of his sticky curls and messaging his thumb into the man's exposed temple.
"Sleep well, brother mine." Mycroft whispered, holding his hand for just a moment longer before withdrawing and collecting himself back onto his feet. He readjusted his posture, wiped his face clean, and marched back towards his bedroom without a second thought; not even considering finding a blanket to drape over his brother's shivering shoulders. Besides, Mycroft hadn't any more time for the stumbling agenda of little Sherlock. He had his own business to attend to, his own arms to fold into. Mycroft walked quickly to his bedroom, hoping that his indentation within the mattress had not yet disappeared, and hoping furthermore that Victor would still be awake enough to embrace him upon his return. 

 The last thing Sherlock needed to smell was the sizzling of sausage and peppers, though that was exactly what was presented by the footmen who swung their platters across the shoulders of the Holmes family for their morning meal. The poor man's stomach had not yet recovered from his evening of drinking, and since the time he had forced his eyes open just four hours after they had closed Sherlock's head had been spinning, his stomach twisting, and his brain aching. Hangovers were no fun, though it was his only choice but to maintain his composure and keep his eyes averted from the sizzling meat, trying to ignore the popping of the grease and the excited gnawing of his companions. Sherlock shielded his eyes, staring down upon his own plate (which contained nothing but a slice of apple and a sad lump of oatmeal) and blocking out the scraping of knives and forks with a slow and contained humming. These were the times when he wished there was conversation around his table, perhaps a topic that would keep his mind distracted upon things such as the stock markets or the weather instead of the twisting and turning of his poor stomach. When he wasn't staring down upon his plate Sherlock could only manage glances towards his brother, the only one who knew of his exact predicament. Of course Irene could guess to the state her husband was in, though by the way she continually shoveled more foul smelling food onto her plate he suspected she would not be an ally. Mycroft's eyes were not all together encouraging, though he at least went through the effort of coupling his brother's stare with an equally selective one. There were times when Sherlock would try to force his agony into his glance, trying to display to Mycroft that there needed to be some sort of distraction in order to get him safely away from this table. Well of course he could not admit to the state of his health, that would alert not only the children but also the servants who sat around the table, oblivious to the state of their master! How could Sherlock excuse himself politely when John Watson's brain was always turning, always trying to figure out the mysteries behind the strange mannerisms of the Holmes family? To admit to a stomach ache now would be to arise more suspicion than was necessary, and Sherlock could not for the life of him imagine another reasonable excuse to leave the table. He would just have to wait it out then, that is unless Mycroft could manage a good enough reason for the brothers to excuse themselves. Clenching his fists together, Sherlock tucked his chin safely upon his hands and stared down into the blackness of his eyelids, forcing his mind into other dimensions while he tried to maintain his composure for the remainder of the meal. It would be over soon, breakfast was of course the smallest gathering of the day.

"Sherlock dear, would you like a sausage?" Irene asked her voice so sharp and antagonizing that she must be provoking on purpose. Sherlock winced; squeezing his eyes shut even tighter as he smelled the whiff getting more centralized. She must be serving one onto his plate without his asking for it, how else could that sweet smell of peppers suddenly appear so closely to his suffering nose?
"No, no Irene." Sherlock whispered.
"Oh why not? They're so delicious; we're all enjoying our breakfasts very much." The woman insisted.
"I'm not..." Sherlock held back a belch, wincing and clenching one of his fists overtop of his nose. "I'm not hungry." He finished at last.
"Oh just one, come on then. After such a hard night you must at least replenish yourself." Irene insisted. Sherlock took a deep breath, summoning his strength and opening just one eye to investigate what the woman had done to his breakfast plate. As he suspected she had added a sausage to the piles of food he had collected, though with a wrench of his stomach Sherlock realized that she had also drizzeled as much of the excess grease onto his plate as well. The white dish, which was concaved so as to hold sauce better, was now soaked in the oily and transparent liquid, his oatmeal swimming and his apple slice completely afloat in the small puddle Irene had collected. Well that was enough for Sherlock, unfortunately such a sight was not ideal for stomachs which were hanging on very loose threads. The man grabbed onto the arm of his chair, turning with as much force as he could all the while his stomach loosed, not even giving him time to stumble towards a trashcan or even leave the room. Sherlock allowed his lips to part overtop of the hardwood floor, the foul taste of regurgitated alcohol passing over his tongue along with whatever he had not managed to digest of his dinner the night before. The man pulled his shoes up onto his chair, leaning over with some regained control and spitting the last of his foul saliva to join the rest upon the floor, pushing his hand upon his forehead and falling back into his throne with a wail of anguish.
"Look what you've done, Irene!" Sherlock growled. The woman had been screaming through the whole episode, though only now was Sherlock able to get a good look at her. Irene had scrambled atop of her chair, standing with her heels dug into the velvet cushion and her dress collected in bunches in her arms, trying to avoid any splatter or leakage from the puddle of vomit upon the floor. Both children were crying, though they kept their heads down and their feet in the air, too afraid to leave the table without asking permission first. Both were shaking from head to foot, though from what Sherlock could tell it was unclear just what they were more afraid of; Sherlock's exposed stomach contents or the argument that would surely ensue.
"Sherlock, are you alright?" John Watson had flown from his chair in an instant, and before Sherlock could even place to the voice to a specific location he felt a pair of hands encircle his shoulders and pull him gently to the other side of his chair. Sherlock's frail body allowed itself to be tugged, roughly falling into the opposite arm of his chair and collected into the careful arms of his newly hired tutor. He couldn't see John, as his eyes were still shut tight, though Sherlock had already familiarized himself with the man's distinctive breathing. He could hear the breaths inhaling through that sharp nose; he could feel that heart beating its exaggerated little rhythm. Yes, it was into the arms of John Watson that he suddenly fell, though even if Sherlock had been blind and deaf he still might have realized who it was that came to his rescue. Considering no one else around the table seemed to care about their patriarch it could only have been John Watson who offered a helping hand. As the servants collected to clean up the mess Sherlock had made he allowed himself to be helped out of the room, leaning heavily upon the shoulder of John Watson even though he was feeling considerably better. His legs would have worked just fine, though for some reason Sherlock felt he had to take advantage of the shoulder which was offered to him. It was one of the only times he would be allowed to use another as a crutch, and to be honest it felt quite good to place some of his body weight upon the stature of another man and let them bear the bulk of it for some time. Sherlock enjoyed the stiff arm John offered him, the grip of tight fingers across his chest and the little words of encouragement that were made throughout their slow shuffle to the sitting room.
"There you are, Mr. Holmes. Sit down there." John muttered, softly easing Sherlock down onto the sofa and allowing the man to sink comfortably down into the cushions. This was the very couch that had hosted him the night before, and to be honest he didn't enjoy the view that he had woken up to again so soon within the day. The brim of the coffee table and the throw pillows on the couch opposite all seemed to want to mock him, shaming him for not even making it two hours before he ended up in quite the same state he had been found in not five hours earlier.
"Thank you, John." Sherlock whispered, recollecting himself upon the sofa and wincing as his headache reached a new extreme.
"Have you come down with something? Oh let me go fetch a thermometer, I can see if you're running a fever." John suggested, lunging in the direction of the door before Sherlock let loose a groan of disapproval. He certainly didn't need such a fuss to be made over him, especially when the cause was quite clear and not nearly as severe as Mr. Watson would assume.
"Stay here, Mr. Watson. It's nothing serious, merely a hangover." Sherlock admitted at last, figuring that any state of his condition would have been guessed by the doctor in the coming hours. John faltered where he stood, Sherlock's slanted eyes could make out the look of pure amazement flashing upon those usually unaltered features.
"A hangover? Mr. Holmes, I thought you were at work last night?" he clarified in a hushed voice, as if he was trying to keep Sherlock's escapades a secret from the rest of the house.
"I was." Sherlock muttered, as if that should clear the misperception from the air. John's face creased even deeper, the tutor's eyes reading of utmost confusion as he tried to figure how a night of drinking and a night of working could possibly overlap for such a man of business.
"A strange profession you have, then." John decided at last. Sherlock chuckled, rearranging himself upon the sofa to let his limbs dangle a bit more freely. Sherlock let his arm droop, his fingers tangling within the fibers of the carpet as his head lolled from side to side, following the movements of John Watson's eyes as if he was entranced by the fierce browns.
"You are curious, Mr. Watson. But I cannot take you within my confidence, I hope you understand that matters within this world are...delicate." Sherlock muttered at last, almost feeling sorry for keeping his tutor so uninformed about the house he lived within.
"I understand of course." John admitted, finally stepping around the coffee table and sitting nervously upon the sofa opposite. From Sherlock's angle he had a perfect view of the man's bent knees, his legs curling about each other in his modesty and playing host to his nervous fingers which sat carefully upon his thighs.
"John I do trust you." Sherlock assured. "It is no personal offense."