fossilised | For Mycroft

For Mycroft

[Seventeen, in university already after completing his A-levels alongside his GCSEs, and arguably one of the more brilliant students in the country. Sherlock Holmes had a bright future ahead of him, or should have done. But he's bored. Oh, so very bored. He can't stand the banal chatter of his peers, caring more about how much alcohol they could consume without dying and who could manage to copulate with who, than they cared about what chemical compounds could be taken from a small patch of hair.

He hates his teachers, they're all dull-witted and far less intelligent than him. He hates the coursework, he completed it in a week and promptly deleted the majority of it from his mind palace for being utterly pointless information. His mind is always running, always chasing thoughts endlessly, the observations from the world around him impossible to stop. He has no funnel to keep them focused, no specific experiment to distract him, and so it's all very overwhelming. Very tiring. Very tedious.

When he discovers heroin, it's bliss. It wipes his endlessly busy mind blank and allows him rest. When he discovers cocaine, it's better, it lets him focus and work far beyond his normal capacity. It enhances him. When he takes them in combination, it's the least bored that he can ever remember being. It's a thrill. He's not an addict, he's far too clever to fall into a trap of addiction, he just uses to augment his natural abilities. There's no need for anyone else to know.

Until one particular night when he finds that the solution he's taken, the added little pills given to him to create a potent cocktail, is killing him. He can feel it, he knows his own body better than anyone else, and he can feel the rapid beat of his heart and the ache in his head, the danger zones. He tries to roll off the mattress in the crack house he found himself in, and can't. He can't go anywhere.

Which is why, for the first time in months, Sherlock digs his phone out and dials the number for Mycroft's phone. Better him than their parents, Mycroft will probably understand. Drugs aren't the demonic big deal with the media makes them out to be.

Pick up, Mycroft. Pick up.]

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[24, and quickly rising through the ranks of MI6, Mycroft Holmes was certainly busy and nearly missed his phone ringing. His desk was full of paperwork, data to be scoured over, and he was with more responsibility than someone of his particular standing should have, once his superiors realized his mental prowess and incredible intelligence. He was an ambitious sort, hoping that one day he'd be able to head all of this. It was a nice thought. Uncle Rudy had left safeguards in place for Sherrinford, but it would be much better, they both agreed, if Mycroft was able to find a governmental position that would allow him ready access to the facility without questions asked. And so Mycroft did his best to begin to make his way to the top, getting contacts, networking, making political allies, though a poor experience had left him with a sour taste of 'legwork'--he would rather not be a field agent. All of this had left him too busy to really check in with Sherlock, even though he felt guilty about not paying him more attention.

His phone was still ringing, buzzing on his desk. He frowned, fishing through the papers to find the Nokia 6110. The screen read Sherlock. Odd.

He leaned back in his chair.]

What is it, Sherlock?

Edited 2017-06-04 12:13 (UTC)

[His mind has already begun wandering when Mycroft doesn't answer, the buzzing of the ringtone in his ear a dull purr that's already sunk to the bottom of his priority list. It's so much quieter than the dull boom of his heart in his ears, something that seems to be thudding a countdown to an inevitable cardiac arrest.

And then suddenly his brother's voice, calm and cultured as ever. He almost hangs up, irritated beyond reason at the idea of having to rely on Mycroft for help. But a blindingly painful cramp in his stomach stops that show of petulance.]

I would appreciate it if you could send a car for me.

[It's what he thinks he says, it sounds that way in his head. It's not what he actually says, what he actually says is:]

Preciacarme.

What?

[Mycroft rubs the bridge of his nose.]

Sherlock, I don't have time for your silly games. I'm at work.

[His voice is chastising, like he's speaking to a child. Sherlock was still a child, and despite his intelligence, often acted like one still. This sounded like a prank of some kind, some stupid teenage lark.

What time was it, anyway? He'd lost track. He tended to work ridiculous hours, his superiors liked that sort of thing. He checked his watch.]

[It's 3:47am.

Not that Sherlock knows this, it could be the middle of the afternoon for all he knows. No, must be night, it's dark outside what small amount of grubby window he can see. He's annoyed that Mycroft is already being dismissive, but playing back his own words-- Ah. Well. That could be a problem.]

Seventeen. [Pause.] Mellar. [Pause.] Street. [Pause.] Come. [Pause.] Now.

[It's humiliating to have to pause after each word and deliberately enunciate the next to make certain that he's understood, but needs must. He's at least intelligible this time, though his words are slurred.]

[It doesn't take Mycroft Holmes to deduce that Sherlock is clearly under the influence of something, and in trouble.

With every new word, something sinks in the 24-year-old's stomach. With every word, his regrets at not checking in with Sherlock, with not paying him as much attention as he should, hit home.

Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?]

I'll be there right away.

[He clearly didn't want their parents to know what he had gotten himself into.

Mycroft had run out of the office. He was holding his suit jacket in one hand and frantically trying to wave down a taxi with the other, and contemplating just what exactly was he going to do when he found Sherlock? A harried barked order to the cab that had driven up to the curb, and he was on his way.

He could only imagine just what sort of place was Seventeen Mellar Street as they pulled up to it.]

[Even at this stage in their lives, when Mycroft is far from top of the ladder in his chosen career, Sherlock is still surprised to hear that his brother is coming personally. Not sending an assistant, not paying a taxi driver to do it for him. He must really sound bad.

17 Mellar Street is a crack house. There's no other way to describe it, it's falling apart, there are discarded needles in the hallways, and people in various stages of collapse throughout. It stinks of human refuse, sweat, and sex.

Sherlock is on the third floor, trembling violently and trying to get warm.]

[The taxi-driver gives Mycroft, who's basically wearing a three-piece suit (he was a bit overzealous when it came to that sort of thing), an odd look as he speeds away from the seedy building.

Mycroft covers his face with a handkerchief as he picks his way through the sordid place. Good God, what did you get yourself into, Sherlock? By now his theories had been confirmed, and his stomach had sank to somewhere in the vicinity of the ground floor, as he climbs the stairs to the third, continuing his search. He does his best to avoid the attention of any of the denizens, most were too high or sedated to really give him any trouble, though he does get some confused looks.]

Sherlock?

[He finally spots the familiar dark curls and runs towards the teenager. His heart hammers in his chest, stomach twisted in knots, inwardly panicking--what were they going to tell their parents? How did this even happen? And the guilt--the guilt that this was somehow his fault, by not paying attention to Sherlock, by leaving him to his own devices as he soared through school and through his career.

And a nagging feeling that perhaps something worse, something deeper that was broken inside Sherlock, may have been the cause for this. That Eurus and Victor had left scars that Sherlock could never name, but always felt.

Mycroft takes off his suit jacket, and moves to place it on top of his little brother. Seeing him like this was awful, it truly was.]

I'm here, Sherlock. What happened?

[Sherlock is aware of a strange dichotomy of self as he waits for Mycroft to arrive. Part of him is dispassionately examining his own failing body, counting heartbeats and estimating internal temperature, and cataloguing each sensation for future analysis. He knows that he's suffering an overdose and could die, but the scientific interest keeps him pragmatic about it.

The other part of him is a teenager dying alone in a crack den, terrified and confused and hurting. It's that part of him that's relieved to see Mycroft when his brother appears over him, though he can do little more than moan and curl in on himself further to shake.]

Cold.

[Cold?! What an absolutely stupid thing to say. Why is his mouth not doing what he tells it to do? It's making him sound like a moron.]

Mycroft.

[This was...

Mycroft's own heart caught in his throat as his little brother suffered. He didn't like the way he was communicating, his rapid-fire speaking or witty quips would be far more welcome than this...weak mumbling. He tried to pull the coat higher, and lay his hand on his brother's forehead to check his temperature.]

I know. Don't worry, I am here, Sherlock.

[He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, readying to dial emergency services.]

I need to tell them what you've taken.

[He wants to snap out that he's hardly made a list, who would do that? But a list would actually be quite useful now, as he doesn't have the mental acuity to recall exactly what he took and in what dosages, nor can he articulate that problem particularly well.]

No hos'l.

[Urgh, this is utterly humiliating. If only his tongue and lips would start to obey him again.]

Home.

[If Mycroft calls the emergency services then their parents will be called; they are, after all, still his legal guardians being under eighteen. They won't do much for him anyway, liquids, monitoring. He's already going to live or die under the strength of what he's taken.]

[The look on Mycroft's face grows stormier, he's debating the merits of taking him to the hospital. Of course Sherlock wouldn't want to go, their parents would get involved. How disappointed they would be.

He holds his phone with both hands a moment, biting his lip. Their parents would end up blaming him too. He should have looked after Sherlock. He always should have looked after Sherlock.

He'd already failed looking after Victor and Eurus. One moment, and they were gone. Their parents had been furious at him.

He'd been furious at himself.]

Sherlock, I have to phone them. Tell me, what did you take?

[He reaches over to check his pulse. He had the same line of thought. Either he was dead already, or he wasn't. And if Sherlock couldn't tell him what he'd taken...they'd waste time trying to diagnose him and he'd be dead from that, too.

All he could really do was monitor him himself, then take him home.]

Edited 2017-06-07 09:18 (UTC)

[Damn it.

He never should have called Mycroft, if all his stupid big brother is going to do is call an ambulance and hand him off. He could have called an ambulance. He really hopes that this disdain and annoyance is showing in his expression, because he lacks the loquaciousness to properly tell Mycroft verbally at this current moment.]

Home.

[He repeats the word with as much force as he can muster. He's not sure how much consciousness is left remaining to him, and he really needs to get this sorted before his time runs out.]

[Mycroft anxiously looked at his phone again. If he miscalculated, if his brother died--

--if their parents found out--

A compromise. He'd call the ambulance if Sherlock's condition got worse, if he couldn't breathe. There was no point in inducing vomiting, it was already in his system, anyway.

He checked his watch. Sherlock would be missed if Mycroft had hauled him off to his own apartment. Though he wasn't sure he should move Sherlock at all at the moment. His knowledge of recreational drugs was, both fortunately and unfortunately, rather limited.]

I'm not so sure I should move you right now until you can reasonably sit up, Sherlock. I...I can wait here a couple more hours. If you're not well by then, I'm taking you to hospital.

[Mycroft sounded unsure. His voice betrayed the fear that was coiling in his stomach. He didn't like how these drugs addled Sherlock's mind, robbing him of his intellect in their poisonous hold.]

[If this were any other time, Sherlock would greatly enjoy hearing Mycroft sound so unsure of himself. His brother was always so irritatingly put together, so calm, so dedicated to the veneer of British good manners; to see him flustered at all is a rare treat, and one he can't even enjoy properly.

He doesn't want to stay here.

He's cold, his bones ache, and he can feel his body going into shock. He wants to be taken home to his own bed to sweat this out, or die in dignity, not do it here in this scummy place.]

Help me stand.

[God, it's a lot of effort to talk coherently. He just hopes Mycroft doesn't argue.]

Said home.

[Mycroft's home, of course, not Sherlock's student digs.]

[To be fair Mycroft didn't actually want to spend another second here, he just didn't know--What was he supposed to do, he didn't know--his home, he got that, but wouldn't Sherlock be missed if he--

--damn it, Sherlock, why did you have to go and get yourself involved in this nonsense?

I failed you.]

Can you even attempt to stand?

[A lecturing tone. Well, there'd be time for that later. He hoped.

He would have to call a cab, though, he couldn't risk anyone he knew seeing Sherlock...like this. Nor did he trust them to keep a secret, after all, they all spied on people for money.]

Edited 2017-06-09 08:30 (UTC)

[He is damn well going to stand. His body is a transport for his mind, and he will not have it betray him on all the simplest of tasks. Sherlock furrows his brow in concentration and manages to get up to his knees, though even that feels like a Herculean effort. His muscles all seem to be cramping, his body is wracked with chills and sweats alternately, and the dizzying warped perception of reality sometimes has gravity behaving very strangely.

Somehow, against all the odds (and by using Mycroft liberally as a hand hold to pull himself up), Sherlock gets to his feet.

He intends to bark another order about going home, but something changes very abruptly. He can feel it like a switch flipped in his head, making all the lights in his mind palace flicker off, blank and gone. For once in his life his expression is open and terrified, his voice pleading.]

Mycroft...

[His brother's name, that's it, and then he crumples to the floor and begins to seize, the overdose taking its toll on him badly.]

SHERLOCK!

[Mycroft rarely yelled, but this was an unfortunate special occasion. Suddenly Sherlock was on the ground, seizing, falling far too fast for the older brother to catch him. He curses in several different languages under his breath--he was instantly at his side, dialing emergency services on his clunky phone.]

Yes? I need an ambulance immediately at--

[His voice caught as the sight of his brother possibly dying in front of him nearly sent him into a tailspin of panic and despair. Antarctica was only a facade, a code name, his reputation for being ruthless and cold. And he was. Or he thought he was. No one has seen him this expressive since they were very young.

You promised to protect him. You failed him. Poor little Sherlock...Mummy will blame you, you know.]

--at s-seventeen Mellar street. He's overdosing, seizing--I don't know what I can do--

[Helpless. Out of control. He tries to put his coat under Sherlock's head, tries to sit behind him with his hands out to catch him in case his head against would knock against the ground--

He felt his face grow hot. An inexplicable grief was clenching his heart. His little brother.

Please don't die, Sherlock. Please. I beg you.]

[Lucky for Mycroft and his far from typical panic, the operator is used to people in far worse states trying to give information and is trained in how to handle it. Her voice is calm and professional, clear, and extremely concise.]

The ambulance is on the way, sir. I need you to try to put something soft under his head, but don't restrain him. Tell me immediately when he stops seizing, or if anything changes.

[The faint sound of keys tapping can be heard in the background.]

Can you tell me the name and age of the patient? And your name? Do you know what he's taken?

[Their calm tone does help.]

I've done so. His name is Sherlock Holmes, 17 years old. And I don't know what he's taken, I've asked him and he either can't or won't tell me. That was before he started seizing. His coherency wasn't all that great to begin with when I found him.

My name is Mycroft Holmes, I'm his older brother.

[A pause, as he tries to think of anything else. He gives them Sherlock's approximate weight as well.]

And we're on the third floor. Hurry.

[It's almost an order, barked out of fear and panic. Some detached part of him knew he'd have to call their parents immediately after this. Sorry, Sherlock. Your reward for pulling through was going to be disappointment and lectures. But that was something Mycroft desperately looked forward to. ]

Edited 2017-06-09 23:49 (UTC)

[She's more than used to being shouted at by panicked people, it just rolls right off her now.

On the ground, Sherlock stops seizing and goes limp, chest moving in spasmodic little flutters as he still struggles to stay alive despite the drugs doing their utmost to kill him. It's fascinating inside his mind palace, the absolute devastation and disorder is like watching an earthquake topple a building.

The operator has Mycroft put her on speakerphone and talks him through placing Sherlock in the recovery position. It's only a couple of minutes after that when the paramedics come bursting into the upstairs room and start loading Sherlock onto the collapsible gurney.]

Are you coming in the ambulance with us, sir? Is there anyone else we can call?

[Somehow it was just as alarming to see Sherlock go limp. Mycroft's eyes are wide, staring at his brother, struggling to breathe. He's mostly on autopilot now, obeying the operator perfectly, and he scarcely realizes how little time has passed when the paramedics come bursting through the room.

He doesn't let go of--or at least tries not to let go of--Sherlock's shoulder as they do so, even though he realized on some level he was in the way.

All he could see was his little brother suffering, possibly dying, and he couldn't do a thing about it. For all his grand plans, his career aspirations, all of it so that he could gain some measure of control over the chaos that was life, the chaos that was Sherlock himself, it was all for naught in the end when things like this could happen.

How did this happen?]

W...what?

[Was someone talking to him? It takes him a second to register what they said. He swallows and nods.]

I'm coming. Uh...parents. [He rubs his face, trying to steady himself.] Our parents, I need to call them...

[One of the paramedics makes sure to help Mycroft down to the ambulance, words low and calming because the poor man is obviously in shock. They're all very efficient, so it's not long at all before they're speeding through the streets of London heading for a hospital.

The paramedic working on Sherlock already has an oxygen mask over his face and various temporary machines hooked up in order to monitor him.]

Alright, you can give them a call when we get to the hospital, Mr. Holmes. You did the right thing in calling us, we'll do the best we can for your brother, okay?

[Poor guy, he looks so shaken.]

Do you have any idea what he's taken? Has he done this before?

[Mycroft lets them lead him along, he usually would scoff at the techniques people would use to calm others down, he wasn't like that, only ordinary people were like that, and yet here he was, utterly useless against his own sentiments.

Sentiment.

How he had tried to tell Sherlock it was never worth it. He'd seen what Victor's loss had done to the small child. How Eurus had grown jealous of their friendship. Caring wasn't an advantage. It never was.

And yet, here he was, caring.]

Yes--ah, yes, I'll do that.

[He's broken out of his reverie by the other paramedic. Mycroft shakes his head.]

No, he wouldn't--or couldn't say. No, I mean--it's possible he could have been taking drugs some time before this, obviously he's overdosing but I've no idea when he started...I should have. I should have seen this coming!

[Frustrated. Angry. Angry at himself, really, rather than Sherlock. His brother had been through so much, it was obvious now, with his mindset, with his talents and personality, he should have seen this coming. He'd failed him time and time again. When would he ever do right by Sherlock?]

[It's normal for family members to blame themselves, and it's a shame to see a drug problem in someone so young. Barely more than a kid, maybe experimenting with his friends at a party or something...

Poor Mycroft will be left behind when they get to the hospital, stopped at a pair of double doors as the paramedics rush Sherlock through them on the gurney.]

I'm sorry, sir, but it's no public access past this point. The waiting room is just down to the right, and there are payphones there to call your folks. Someone will come out to speak to you when we have more news.

[Mycroft looks aghast, he tries to push through before he realizes that he's not going to have much luck, and besides, what's he going to do in there except get in the way and distract the doctors and nurses, who actually have jobs to do?

Sentiment, it makes one do foolish things.]

...I, right. Of course. Thank you.

[He hovers in front of the waiting room, too wired and anxious to go in there and actually sit down, as he takes out his cell phone and, after hesitating, and a large sigh, dials their parents. Hopefully he's skilled enough to explain this in the least shocking way possible.

Yeah, right. How on earth was 'your son is possibly dying of a drug overdose?' going to be anything but shocking? He rubs the bridge of his nose, and looks anxiously back over at the door of the waiting room.

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