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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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.]

Damn it, Sherlock! You can't fritter your life away on drugs!

[His patience was wearing thin.]

I will honor our agreement this time, but the next time--and mark my words, there will be a next time--I am doing everything I can to send you to a rehabilitation center.

You can try.

[It's said with a very deliberate scoff.]

You know perfectly well that any medical establishment isn't equipped to handle someone like me, I'll drive every counsellor out of there in three days. Guaranteed.

I will try.

[The battle of wills!]

You forget I have certain resources at hand. The entire government is potentially at my disposal. [True, he didn't have the kind of power and influence he wanted yet, but he had many favors he could call in.]

And what do you intend to use that government for?

[He screws up his nose, mocking.]

Pitiful if you need to rely on the whole weight of the government to get your way.

For keeping track of you, apparently, because I deem it necessary now that I know you'll likely die of an overdose if I don't! And I'll bloody well use the whole weight of the government to get my way!

[He snaps this.]

[He groans loudly and lets his head flop back dramatically onto the headrest.]

Why can't you do something useful, like an actually good big brother, and find me something interesting to do rather than spy on me?

[There's a pause as he suddenly falls thoughtful. What...if...? There's no way Sherlock could handle being a part of the various governmental organizations, but perhaps if he could drum up something vaguely freelance.]

Perhaps I shall. It's not outside the realm of possibility.

[He wasn't sure he could get away with it yet. There were forms to fill out, and drug habits would disqualify him from everything, but he could pull some strings, maybe call in a few favors, do it all behind the scenes of what was 'official.' Perhaps he needed more authority himself, but it was a thought.]

[He wasn't expecting Mycroft to actually concede that there might be something to be done, but he's not going to say thank you.]

I suppose you have to be competent on occasion.

[A tight, sad smile.]

On occasion, yes.

You realize that this does require some kind of cooperation on your part, should I manage to find something.

That entirely depends on what you manage to find, I'm not going to search for some little girl's lost bunny.

[He has standards, Mycroft!]

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