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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Yes, I don't see why not.

[She's glad that he seems to have supportive family here, it's always sad when someone so young threatens to throw their life away on drugs. Definitely posh, judging by the brother's suit and accent, so maybe a rich kid rebelling against his upbringing? It's not her business to judge, only to help.]

He might be a little drowsy and out of it, but you're welcome to go in.

[She steps out of the lift with him and points to the third door down the corridor.]

Through there.

[Just as she said, Sherlock is laid out in a bed in that room. Drip in his arm, oxygen tubes in his nose, and a variety of machines beeping by his bedside. He opens his eyes when Mycroft walks in and scowls.]

This isn't home, Mycroft. Honestly, are you completely stupid?

Thank you.

[He's silent the rest of the way, his face impassively cool and collected, though if anyone knew him, he was anything but, right now. His eyes hold a storm of worry and relief.

Without another word he strides into the room, his heart skipping a beat when he sees Sherlock with the oxygen and the drip in his arm, not to mention what he actually looked like. As painful as it was to see him like this, it was certainly preferable to the alternative.]

Sherlock.

[His voice holds the enormity of the effect this has all had on Mycroft. He's unsure of what to say next, not sure if he should yell at him, lecture him, or tell him how glad he is that he's all right.

He should. Maybe if he'd been...more open, this wouldn't have happened.

His mouth opens and closes. What was he so afraid of?]

I informed our parents.

[Brilliant. Exactly what Sherlock needed to hear.]

Edited (Tenses again ) 2017-06-16 15:47 (UTC)

Obviously.

[He thought the hospital would have done it, actually. He's still a legal minor and they're his guardians, even if Mycroft was there, they had an obligation to inform them in case anything needed to be signed regarding his care. It's irritating, it means he'll no doubt have to deal with his mother being disappointed, and it's all Mycroft's fault.]

They wouldn't have had to know if you had simply took me home as I asked you to.

[Mycroft isn't the only angry one here.]

[The sheer relief and remnants of fear faded to the anger that he'd kept quiet in fear of Sherlock's recovery, for good or ill.]

I'm sorry, you were too busy dying of an overdose, 'home' isn't exactly outfitted with lifesaving equipment and doctors.

What on earth were you thinking, Sherlock!? Where did you even get them!?

[Them, of course, meaning the drugs.]

They didn't know what you were on. Do you have the faintest idea how incredibly lucky you are!?

[Of course, and now it begins.

Sherlock sighs and somehow manages to flop further back into his pillows in an extremely teenage show of petulance.]

Please, spare us both the tedium of this conversation.

[He is not having the drugs conversation with his brother.]

Make yourself useful and get me discharged before Mummy and Father show up.

No.

[Mycroft set his jaw, he was livid Sherlock had put him through this.

For making him recognize how much he cared.

For bloody scaring him.]

Tell me. What was going through your head? Why!? Why do this?

If you're not actually going to be useful, then do me a favour and piss off.

[There's the hint of fear beneath the annoyance, he really didn't want all of this to come to a head in such a messy way.]

Listen to yourself, Mycroft, you sound like one of those ridiculous soap opera dramas.

[Jaw set again, he ignored the insult. He wasn't going to leave Sherlock alone. Ever.

Maybe he could use some of his resources from work...yes, it would be simple to arrange. Especially if he was able to get a certain job, no one would ask questions. Or would be able to ask questions.

Sherlock clearly demonstrated the inability to be trusted on his own. It would be for his own protection, after all.]

Do you not care, at all? What you've done to yourself, what you've done to our parents?

[To me?]

Stop being so dramatic, you're making it sound as though this is some insurmountable addiction problem.

[He starts to peel off the various small bits of tape holding the instruments in place, planning to discharge himself if Mycroft won't.]

I use, I'm not addicted, and you should know that controlled recreational use is rarely fatal.

[Mycroft's eyes fall to the peeling tape.]

I will call someone if you even think about trying to run out of here. And I'm not talking about the nurse.

[He lets the threat sit a second before he continues.]

You call this controlled?

[He waves a hand at the hospital bed.]

A slight anomaly in usual proceedings.

[Which should probably tell Mycroft that this really isn't a one-off affair.]

I shall simply not buy from that particular man again. He's only harming his own business, really, by cutting his products with dangerous or inferior materials.

[Blast, it was even worse. Usual proceedings.]

Are you even listening to yourself speak? You're smarter than this, Sherlock.

[Perhaps that would motivate him to see reason. Appealing to his intellect. Mycroft looks appalled what Sherlock was implying. This was basically confirming that he was an addict.]

No, Mycroft, you're smarter than this. Surely you know better than to buy into all the fear-mongering propaganda surrounding drugs.

[He sighs and pulls out the drip in his arm with one sharp tug, the spot of blood welling where the needle was is ignored.]

I don't need you to babysit my life, Mycroft.

Because the dangers of addiction and overdose are lies and misinformation, right?

[A steely look.]

Put that back. Now.

And clearly you need someone to, because you can scarcely handle yourself. Look at you! Look at where I found you!

Edited 2017-06-23 16:20 (UTC)

[He sighs, but his mind is already working overtime. He might still be able to make this as minimally tedious as possible by playing on Mycroft's need for control.]

If you force me to stay here and deal with the doctors and Mummy, I promise you that none of you will ever get a word out of me on where I've been or what I choose to take recreationally.

[He knows this will work, he can feel it.]

Get me out of here, and I'll at least answer a few questions in payment.

[There's a long pause from Mycroft. He's miffed with himself that he's actually considering it. They needed to know what he took. And he was being foolish if he thought that Sherlock didn't have a serious problem. Which meant that this...this could happen again.]

You realize that you can't run from them forever. Whether you face this now, or you face this tomorrow, our parents will confront you.

[Mycroft thoroughly underestimates Sherlock's ability to avoid things when he's not actually trapped in a hospital bed; besides, he's certain they'll turn their wrath to Mycroft for allowing him to leave.]

Do we have a deal, Mycroft?

[Mycroft hesitates. He's torn.]

You need to stay in hospital, it's not good for you to be unmonitored after you've just suffered an overdose--

[But he knows Sherlock. He's terrified it's going to happen again and he will have no tools, no information, nothing at his disposal. He could only deduce so much from the evidence presented tonight, and Sherlock had clearly managed to succumb to a drug habit without anyone in their family even suspecting it...]

[Sherlock merely raises an eyebrow and very deliberately clamps his lips shut as if to indicate he'll be saying nothing more, as threatened.

Mycroft will have to decide if he'd rather be there for Sherlock, get the information, and do what he can-- but do it in a way that gives Sherlock the power and probably gets Mycroft into further bother, or to do the right thing and make him stay.]

[Sherlock.

The guilt over letting Sherlock get this bad wins out. He was getting nowhere with fighting him, anyway. Mycroft looks around, to see if any doctors are nearby. Blast, he was going to regret this in the future, wasn't he?]

On one condition.

[His voice indicates he's not going to take no for an answer.]

I'm not a fool, I'm not going to pretend the possibility for this is never going to happen again. You make a list of what you've taken, any time you take...anything.

[He couldn't believe he was saying this, but there was no getting through to Sherlock without working with him, most of the time.]

Promise me, Sherlock. Contrary to popular belief, I don't actually want you to die.

[His voice was hesitant, revealing too much.]

Promise me there will always be a list.

Edited 2017-06-25 15:27 (UTC)

[Sentiment between them has always been stilted and awkward, and neither knows what to do when the other expresses it, so Sherlock only shifts in discomfort when Mycroft admits that he doesn't want him to die. Not the most affectionate statement, perhaps, but still more than they usually indulge in.

It's a smart deal for Mycroft, and one Sherlock sees no reason not to agree to. It might even save another night like this if he already has an effective way to tell what he has taken when his tongue doesn't want to obey him.]

Very well. [A brief pause.] You have my word, there will always be a list. Now can we go?

Always.

[Mycroft can't help but get one more jab in, insistent and commanding. It helps to break up the tension he feels when he's revealed too much, shown that he actually does care. A part of him wonders once again that perhaps if he had shown Sherlock that he cared, outwardly, maybe he wouldn't...

But then, Sherlock ought to realize this, it was obvious he cared, wasn't it? No need to say such things out loud and spare them the embarrassment of it all. Besides, it was wise not to let other people know, either. Sentiment had even more problems when other people knew your pressure points.]

The coast is clear for now. But an alarm will go off.

[He points to the beeping machines, once they cease receiving a heartbeat.]

Judging distance from the nurses station, and the current hour, I approximate we will have twenty-five seconds to disappear before they come.

Edited 2017-06-28 05:40 (UTC)

[He doesn't bother to repeat another promise, he has already given his word and he intends to be bound by it. A list isn't much of an imposition, and he can always use them himself as well afterwards in data collection.

Sherlock grins.

The adrenaline rush of escaping the hospital is the sort of thing he loves, which might explain why he has fallen so easily into the world of drugs, and he readies himself on the edge of the bed.]

Then you had best be ready to run, Mycroft.

[The look on Mycroft's face is a mix of 'are you serious' and 'I can't believe this is happening.' Running? Mycroft actually wasn't entirely physically incapable, he actually did have a fairly decent exercise regimen after a youth of unhealthy eating habits...but actually having to be forced to do something extra, ugh...

...he missed those days of happily eating all the cupcakes and sweets he wanted.

Though, in retrospect, it was probably not a good time to delve on one's own vices in the current situation. That disgusted look on his face is still there, though. What Sherlock had put him through that night should have been more than enough to bear...]

The fastest way out will be to the staircase on the far left, down the hallway. It puts us out of view of the nurse's station and is scarcely used. There should be a side exit at the bottom, that takes us away from the parking lot.

Edited 2017-06-30 15:27 (UTC)

[That Mycroft looks so reluctant only makes this even more appealing, and Sherlock is practically bouncing on his toes as he pushes up from the bed at an awkward angle to keep himself still connected. He goes a little pale, his body still recovering, but it doesn't dampen his enthusiasm.]

Good luck, Mycroft, I'm looking forward to observing the effect of exercise on such an unprepared body.

[His grin gets wider, and then all of a sudden he rips free of the monitors and darts out of the room at top speed.]

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