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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[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.]

I can keep up.

[A roll of his eyes.

Despite the horror he'd just put him through, despite scaring him half to death, Sherlock was still willing to make a mad dash for freedom and was excited by it, like it was a game. A part of him was lost in nostalgia a moment. remembering the little scamp of a child that tackled him merrily at the beach when they were still small. What simpler days...if only things could have remained that simple.

Sentimental nostalgia was pointless, and yet Mycroft fell into it time and time again--

And suddenly Sherlock was gone, ripping out of the bits that connected him to the machines--

--Mycroft dashed, madcap, after the teenager--]

Sherlock!

[He hissed his name as he ran.]

[Sherlock's only response is a low laughter that floats back towards Mycroft as he slams through the door previously indicated and starts going down the stairs at a reckless pace of two or three in one long stride. He's much more built for speed than Mycroft, all long legs and gangly body, but he's unsteady from the previous night and so he probably doesn't overtake that much.

There's some consternation from above them, raised voices, but nobody has seen them come down here and so they aren't being looked for yet.

A grin is plastered all over his face when he finally hits the slightly damp fresh air of the car park, skidding to a halt to let Mycroft catch up.]

[Mycroft's huffing and puffing by the time he catches up to Sherlock, though at least his lead wasn't too great. The older brother's distaste for exercise, while necessary and something he participated in regularly, was clear on his displeased face. It sounded like there was a commotion up there, but luckily, the noises were far above. They must be in the clear, at least for the next few minutes.]

We can wait for a car over there.

[He's a bit out of breath. Mycroft points to a street corner, where they'd be out of view of the hospital. He looked over Sherlock worriedly, after all, he'd just suffered an overdose and really shouldn't be on his feet.]

[He's slightly pale from his run rather than flushed, but that seems to be the only adverse effect that he's showing. Though he does look a little odd in a hospital gown heading for the street corner.]

I hope you've already called for one, it's not the warmest out here and I'm quite conspicuous.

[Ah. He quickly dials a number in his cell phone and calls for a car. Luckily, he's got enough favors at the moment to get one that will be off-record and ask no questions. One day he'd be able to command such things on his own, and that day couldn't come soon enough.]

They'll be here in a few minutes.

[The sight of poor Sherlock running through the chilly streets in a hospital gown after a mad escape should be worthy of a few moments of laughter, but Mycroft was just too agitated and worried to oblige. At least he wasn't fainting or something.

His guilt as he looks back towards the hospital, as he rounds the corner, flares up again. Their parents would be arriving and they'd find both sons missing. Not to mention the legal implications of it all. Though perhaps, as Uncle Rudy explained, legality was very...malleable, sometimes, when it came to the work he wanted to do.]

[Sherlock leans against the cool railings that border the car park and just relaxes to watch the traffic. He already feels as though he's come out on top in this particular encounter, for he won't have to face the wrath of his parents today.]

You can get the car to drop me back at my lodgings, I supposedly have a class later this afternoon.

[Though really, he's already completed all the coursework and his teachers are much stupider than him.]

[As if he understood what Sherlock would be thinking next after the successful escape, Mycroft stands stiffly next to him, managing to regain his wind.]

You can't run from them forever. You'll have to deal with our parents eventually.

[A pause.]

And what's stopping you from falling into this new...habit, this afternoon? Or tomorrow? Or the next day?

Stop talking like I'm an addict, Mycroft, it's getting ridiculous. I'm a user, I use when I want to enhance my natural abilities or augment boredom, that's all. I'm perfectly in control.

[Which means there's nothing to stop him going home and indulging some more.]

You really need to stop worrying so much, it's making you look so old already.

So all this... [He gestures towards the hospital.] ...this was in control, right? Almost dying was surely nothing, right? Overdosing, not a big deal? I'm sorry, I'm not quite up to date with the latest in addict-speak...

[Mycroft's tone is harsh, angrily so. It's obvious that Sherlock's not going to stop.]

One day you'll overdose again, but this time you'll be too high or ill to call me. What then, hmm? What then!?

Then, I suppose, I'll have the pleasure of knowing the last thing I hear won't be your voice.

[It's snapped back, he's getting to the end of his patience with this.]

It was a momentary mistake, Mycroft, singular, it won't happen again.

[That stung.

Mycroft's used to the insults. But this...]

I was there for you tonight, Sherlock.

[His words are low. Almost upset, if one could say Mycroft Holmes was capable of being such.]

I will always be there for you.

Edited 2017-07-06 11:15 (UTC)

[Perhaps a deep part of Sherlock knows that to be true, but he's not nearly mature enough to admit that yet. It will take a long time, a doctor and his assassin wife, and the rediscovery of his sister to bring that to the fore.

For now he just looks uncomfortable, already dreading the car ride when the inevitable questions he promised to answer will come.]

Must you be so mawkish?

[That gets Sherlock a Look.]

Sentiment isn't an advantage. I'm merely stating the obvious.

[Of course, Mycroft clearly cared, and caring brought with it so much trouble. He'd rather not see Sherlock fall into that state when he still remembered Victor. The boy that he once was had cared so much, and subsequently lost so much. And look at him now. Would he have ever fallen into this were it not for Victor's loss?]

[Sherlock simply turns his head and refuses to engage any further in this discussion. Luckily, it's not that long before a sleek black car pulls up and the doors open so that Mycroft and his unlikely hospital-gowned teenage brother can slide into the back seats.

The driver keeps an impressively neutral expression, it's not his job to judge, and merely asks Mycroft the address. Back to his home, or to the Cambridge dorms? Sherlock remains quiet, in some futile hope that Mycroft will forget that he offered to answer questions in exchange for this escape.]

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