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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[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.]

Dorms, please.

[A part of Mycroft would have been mildly peeved at being forced to go to his rival university's campus, but he was far past such trivial thoughts right now.

He fixes a stare on Sherlock. There, brother mine, you've received your freedom. Now your part of the bargain.]

How did it begin?

[Damn it, and it's a long drive back to Cambridge so he'll be stuck in this car with Mycroft for far too long.]

There's so little stimulation in university, it's ridiculous. These are supposed to be the highest learning centres in the country, and the coursework is fit for toddlers at best.

[Boredom. Boredom and his mind having nothing to challenge and stimulate it.]

Where did you get them from?

[Them, being the drugs, of course.]

You think I didn't find the coursework boring? Of course it's boring, but you have to make the best of it, work within it to make it challenging for yourself. Do research projects, make new scientific discoveries, network, navigate through tricky student-political arenas...[He trails off.]

That's you, Mycroft, I have no interest in navigating any student politics, why would I care? They're all just as dull as the coursework, I plan to never see them again once I leave, and I have better things to do with my time than engage in meaningless socialisation.

[His problem is that he doesn't know what he wants to do. Mycroft knew, he had his sights set on the government for years before he even left school, but Sherlock doesn't know. The only thing he likes is solving murders on the news, but he'd make a terrible police officer because he'd never follow orders.]

As to where I got them; where do you think? From a dealer, of course, they're hardly hard to find on a university campus.

[And said dealer would probably be getting a visit from a certain department of the government sometime soon, and so would the local police, and the school if he had something to say about it...Mycroft was working on plans upon plans in his head. It would not be pretty if he found the actual dealer Sherlock used, too.]

It's not entirely meaningless--yes, people are idiots and it's dreadfully tedious, but interpersonal relationships can be manipulated--

[He drops off. Sherlock wasn't like him, he didn't find the same sorts of things that interested him stimulating.]

Of course, naturally. What led you to seek them out, for the first time?

[He needed to find his triggers.]

I told you, Mycroft, I was bored.

[He sounds half exasperated with the conversation, and half endlessly frustrated with that boredom.]

I have nothing worthwhile to focus my thoughts and observations on, and an endless barrage of meaningless trivia is just cluttering my mind. Naturally I sought out solutions to this problem.

Being bored is no excuse for taking drugs! Do you want your mind to lose its ability to think as it does, if you end up brain-damaged for yet another overdose!?

[He realizes he's going off on another lecture and that would probably make Sherlock shut down.]

What holds your focus? In school, I mean. What about your violin? Fencing?

Distractions.

[He waves a hand dismissively.]

I can hardly do nothing but play the violin, day in and day out. If I'd wanted to do that, I would have become professional and joined the Phil.

[This was proving more difficult than he thought.]

Surely there is something, Sherlock. You can't be bored by everything.

Occasionally there's a murder on the news that I've been able to solve, but the police do not always listen to random tip-offs from the general public.

[He adores the puzzle of murders, or any high profile crime. Perhaps a part of him that he definitely isn't willing to admit is there, enjoys helping people with the skills he has, but mainly it's the intellectual and adrenaline stimulation.]

Then perhaps you should not be a member of the general public. There are plenty of positions within MI6 that I believe would interest you.

[And allow him to keep a close eye on him.]

Don't be stupid.

[Mycroft knows him, he's likely put together a full psychological profile on him just for fun before now, he knows he'd be an absolute disaster in that sort of rigidly defined structure.]

[A sad smile. It was worth a shot. Anything to keep Sherlock from this, even though in reality he'd be fired after 32 seconds on the job.]

Do you have any idea of what you want to do? [It's a slightly irritated question, though.]

I want to solve crimes.

[But he can't possibly join the police, that would be even worse than MI6.]

I'm better at it than the idiots working for the Met, anyway.

[At last, something. But he can't help himself, he scoffs a little.]

Crimes? I should think you'd be more interested in hard science.

[He really should be a scientist.]

What else is the application of hard science for, if not for tasks like solving murders and taking the dangerous off the streets?

[It's useful, it's practical. It's obviously something he's very passionate about, probably stemming from a mystery and crime he failed to solve and now doesn't even remember.]

For the sake of science itself, of course. Not that there can't be practical applications, just that your mind can be used for so much more than simply solving crimes.

Is there a better use than to stop a murderer from killing again?

[He knows he can't make any money doing it, but he wants to somehow solve crimes and not have to be a policeman to get the people arrested at the end.]

Well yes, obviously, but think of the bigger picture, Sherlock. Your mind can be used for a larger scope. You could solve one little murder--or benefit hundreds, even millions with applicable scientific research.

[Mycroft was always thinking about the big picture, the greater good, leaving individuals--like Sherlock--to fall between the cracks. Like what happened tonight.]

Boring.

[It's not. Of course he knows about the wondrous practical application of scientific research, but he knows it's not for him. He needs the adrenaline rush of the individual case, not the overarching goal.]

You keep seeming to forget that I'm not you.

Boring?

[Mycroft's irritation and frustration with Sherlock was reaching a head. Of course he wasn't him, just--why couldn't he be more like himself, it was so much easier!?]

You have to think of something, Sherlock!

I've told you what I want to do, Mycroft.

[He wants to solve crimes and catch criminals, but he doesn't want to work for the police or the government. He really needs the police to just let him hang around and solve things.]

Solving crimes isn't a viable career path, Sherlock! Especially if you aren't going to join law enforcement or the government!

[He's frustrated, Sherlock was being an unreasonable child.]

Then I suppose we're back to indulging in any way I wish in order to make the time at least marginally tolerable.

[Because he'll be damned if he has to endure this interminable boredom without the drugs.]

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