Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock’s eyes were fixated on the world outside, despite how it was inducing a severe dizziness that really wasn’t doing his nausea any good. But he’d be damned if he’d grant Mycroft the satisfaction of being looked at.

“You dragged me out of there for this?” Sherlock muttered in annoyance. “Some stupid letters? The rest of my life?” His eyes fell shut and he leaned back in the seat. Could this car be a little gentle on the corners?

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Why did Sherlock not see that he should be grateful for what Mycroft was doing? He was saving him, saving him from another opportunity to possibly overdose. “I’m looking after you,” Mycroft retorted. “And frankly, that’s all I ever do and if you receive it as ‘stupid’ then that’s your problem, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at hearing those words. When was Mycroft finally going to let him decide what to do with the rest of his life? “I know what they are!” he snapped, before turning his attention out of the window. It was actually disconcerting to watch the sidewalk fly by. He was definitely still high.

“It’s not my chance, Mycroft. It’s my choice.”

“You’ve been making a lot of bad ones for the last...” Mycroft chuckled mockingly. “Actually, I can’t remember you ever having made a good decision. I don’t see why I should let you ruin your chances now. You’re still relatively young, if you start your degree now you might be at least slightly recognised for your work. If you wait...”

Sherlock flinched at the loudness with which Mycroft had the audacity to shut the door. Couldn’t he at least try to make things a little easier for Sherlock? Apparently not, because this was all his own fault anyway. He shouldn’t be here in the first place, let alone need picking up.

“You always zay you mean it,” Sherlock said, his words clinging together in a slurred mess. “But you can’t actually stop me.”

Mycroft knew Sherlock was going to say that, but he didn’t care whether his little brother believed him or not. He would believe him, because this time he was absolutely adamant. There was no way he was going to let Sherlock out of the house again, not until he was absolutely clean and Mycroft knew for certain he wasn’t going to get himself in a mess.

Sherlock did, in fact, know that. He was very aware of it, actually. Mycroft had made that same point over and over again. Of course Mycroft didn’t care, because it wasn’t an advantage. Sherlock didn’t need to be told that once more, definitely not when he already felt annoyed enough to punch his brother in the face.

For some reason Sherlock had expected it to be midnight, which was why he got such a shock when he exited the building and was met with an obnoxiously sunny afternoon. He squinted his eyes and held his hand up to protect them, while he tried to locate Mycroft’s car.

“Whaz there to discuth… Someone died?” He almost sounded hopeful.

Mycroft ignored Sherlock’s inquiring until they got to the car and he shoved Sherlock into the back. He slammed the door behind him and got in at the other side. “Back home now,” he spoke to the driver, who had been waiting patiently.

Sherlock only found his balance with difficulty and he hadn’t even tried walking yet. He knew that if he didn’t find a way to walk out of here, Mycroft would find a way of dragging him out of here.

“Az alwayth,” he spoke unclearly. It wouldn’t be the first time Mycroft used those words on him, but over time they’d lost their appeal. Mycroft rarely meant something of actual interest. Usually he meant a discussion that would quickly turn to an argument.

Holding on to the railing tightly he found his way down the stairs, although he had to take a moment with every step, as the staircase was spinning out of control for the most part. “I really waz busy.”

Mycroft stepped behind Sherlock, still holding onto the back of his shirt when he was on the stairs, in case he would actually fall. Sherlock was slow on the stairs and it was added to how annoyed he already felt.

“Has it ever dawned on you, brother mine, that I don’t actually care?” he responded, finally getting to the bottom of the staircase. When all of this had first started to happen, he had wanted to know everything about it. He’d needed to know why Sherlock did it and what he did while he was high. Right at the start, if Sherlock would’ve said he was busy, Mycroft would have wanted to know the answer, but he simply didn’t care enough. Sherlock’s story wouldn’t be worth his time.

It was always a matter of time, yes. But unfortunately Mycroft’s timing was always peccable. If that was even the opposite of impeccable, which it probably wasn’t.

Sherlock tried to pull away, but in his current state it was hard to tell whether he was even moving or whether the room around him was. That was nauseating, but he tried to suppress it. He’d been lying peacefully on a mattress only moments ago and now Mycroft was having some kind of fit at him. 

As always their shenanigans drew an audience, but neither Mycroft nor Sherlock seemed to care. Well, until Mycroft took a fist full of his hair and literally forced him to keep his balance or suffer the consequences. That seemed to raise some objections.

“Fine, fine!” he exclaimed, his hands moving up to get free. “I’ll walk.” Or at least, he’d make an attempt.

Mycroft’s smile was utterly sinister. “Interesting, isn’t it?” he asked at the little crowd that had began to come and take a look at what had been going on. “Move along.” He spoke to them with utter disrespect. They didn’t deserve his politeness.

He had let go of Sherlock’s hair, but grabbed him by the back of his shirt to guide him along. “Let’s see how you make it down the stairs, shall we?” He almost wanted Sherlock to fall down them, just so he might knock some sense into that head of his.

It was always a matter of time.

Sherlock found his way here, dragged himself to the regular spot, shot up and laid there for hours. Sometimes he was thinking and other times–surprisingly–he was not. The latter wasn’t what he did it for, although occasionally it was a bonus. What he did it for was… well, to fight boredom. To have something to do. To fill that empty space in his mind that needed something.

He wasn’t asleep, so he couldn’t be dreaming, but he was deep into the labyrinth of his mind palace. He should really redecorate some of these places. And there were definitely some rooms that needed a do-over. He hadn’t been as good at organising data when he’d been nine and it showed.

He hesitated in front of a familiar door. His old bedroom door. He hadn’t seen it in ages. Sherlock.

He never quite had the courage for it. The drugs were good for one thing, at least, as he raised his hand to the wood.

Get up.

The image flickered, but it refocused and he took hold of the handle to push open the door. This is the first room he ever made and it held some of his oldest memories. Get. Up.

This time the door vanished entirely for a second, but he forced his way back there. He knew there was something behind it that he had to remember, but never had the guts to do.

He stepped into the bedroom, which was so familiar, yet seemed a lot smaller than it’d been when he’d made it. His bed stood exactly where it always had done–covers perfectly made–and the glass on the night stand was half full of water.

You stupid boy.

He was, quite literally, dragged out of his thoughts. He blinked vigorously against the sudden brightness in the room, which probably wasn’t bright at all. He’d just not opened his eyes in hours.

“Oh ‘z you,” he muttered, before letting out a groan. His head was pounding. More importantly, he’d been in the middle of something. “I’m busy.”

Mycroft didn’t care whether Sherlock was in the middle of something or not. He had to get the hell up so he could take him home and if he wasn’t going to at least try, then Mycroft would simply have to drag him down and into his car by his bloody ankles.

“I don’t care what you’re doing,” Mycroft spat, once again yanking Sherlock up from the mattress.

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