Chapter 1: A Restless Night
Author Note: This is actually an ongoing role-play between me and Beth (No-body-perfect). Don't worry, I have permission to publish. Basically it follows Mycroft's (me) and Sherlock's (Beth) relationship when Sherlock returns from falling off St Bartholomew's Hospital. So, with some editing so that it flows more like a story while trying to stick to its role-play roots, I present Sherlock's Return.
Mycroft paced his flat restlessly, the evening sun shone through the curtains and bathed the flat with its light. Files were strewn across the coffee table and the sofa was creased from where Mycroft had been sitting for so long, flicking from one file to the next, trying to find answers to the questions which floated through his mind. Mycroft looked up, his pacing slowed and a gently knocking could be heard at the door. He walked towards the door, turning the brass doorknob and allowing the door to open just a little.
Sherlock eyed his brother; he could feel his legs starting to give in under him. He felt weak; he'd not eaten at all in the last week and had hardly slept either. Mycroft opened the door wider, allowing Sherlock to stumble through the door.
"Where the devil have you been Sherlock?" Mycroft growled. Sherlock forced his eyes to stay open. It wasn't working; the blurs in the corner of his eyes were clawing at the end of his vision.
"I... I..." Sherlock staggered backwards, knocking an expensive looking vase off of Mycroft's table as he did. Mycroft's anger subsided slowly as he watched Sherlock, grabbing Sherlock under his arm and leading him to the kitchen.
"Do you think you can stay awake long enough to eat something?" Mycroft asked his brother more slowly and softly than before. Sherlock nodded weakly, his eyes following Mycroft as he moved towards the fridge to grab some cheese and some chocolate. Mycroft moved to the cupboard which stood directly to the side of the fridge and opened it to find some biscuits, laying these in front of Sherlock before Mycroft started to make some tea.
"Thank you," Sherlock muttered lightly threw gritted teeth.
Sherlock reluctantly ate the food that was put in front of him. Eating was not his favourite thing to do, bad for brain work. He kept an eye on Mycroft as he made tea, Sherlock had not intended on going to Mycroft, but he had little choice of anywhere else to go. Everyone thought he was dead…
The thought trailed off as Sherlock pushed his food away. He dipped his head downwards and closed his eyes, thinking. He'd done a lot of thinking lately; it hadn't done him any good. Sherlock sighed and looked up again his eyes following Mycroft's every movement. Mycroft turned around with two mugs in his hand and sighed heavily, he took a few paces towards where Sherlock was resting his head on the table.
"Here, drink this," Mycroft said, placing one of the mugs in front of Sherlock. "You look terrible you know, and why you decided to come here is beyond me. We all know that I'm the last person you would consider to actually come too for help."
Mycroft took a gulp from his tea, waiting patiently, though he knew he wouldn't get an explanation from Sherlock in his current state. Mycroft placed his mug on one of the coasters. "Drink that, I'll go make a bed up for you to sleep in."
Mycroft rose swiftly and aimed towards the kitchen doorway, turning slightly to look at his brother again before leaving the room completely. Sherlock said nothing and watched Mycroft as he left the room. He picked up the mug of tea and sipped at it. He had missed the taste of tea; Sherlock was a found believer that you could never have enough tea. He pushed the chair he was sitting in backwards slightly and swung his legs up onto the table.
It was a shock to Sherlock that Mycroft was being hospitable, they had never got on. Not even as children. Sherlock was grateful for Mycroft's attitude towards to him. He was not in the mood to fight with Mycroft, nor in the mood to explain himself. He simply needed the time to think.
He put the empty coffee mug down and got up off his chair, walking towards some of the kitchen draws looking for some form of a cigarette. He needed one. After rummaging through multiple of Mycroft's draws, he gave up and sat back down again. He placed his head back on the table and closed his eyes, trying to clear his buzzing mind.
"You can have my bedroom for the night," Mycroft came back into the kitchen, once again looking at his brother before looking around the kitchen. "And if you were looking for a cigarette, I've left one on the bed for you."
Mycroft stood calmly across from where Sherlock sat, studying Sherlock's slightly puzzled face before grabbing is own cold cup of tea from the counter and taking a sip. Sherlock looked up at his brother and gave him a simple nod. Before he pushed his chair out far and stood up. Sherlock blinked multiple times as his vision seemed to wobble. He grabbed onto the table for support before looking at his brother, trying to give the impression that everything was fine. Sherlock was tried to make a face that made him look like the old, he old consulting detective. It didn't work, He was too tired and his head was buzzing as ideas and thoughts were flying around in his skull.
"I'm going to bed," Sherlock hoped his voice would come out strong, but it only came out as a whisper. As Sherlock slowly walked past Mycroft and into a room he took for Mycroft's.
He sat down on the bed and picked up the cigarette and pulled a lighter out of his inside blazer pocket. He lit it up and took a long drag, before slowly blowing the smoke out. He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. Enjoying the felling that nicotine left in his lungs and how it made everything in his brain slow down to 'normal' speed. Sherlock stubbed out the cigarette on a conveniently placed ash tray that lay beside the bed on a bedside table. He kicked off his shoes and places his arms behind his head, closing his eyes. Before drifting off, still wearing the clothes he's been wearing for the past week. But as sleep took over Sherlock's mind and body, he couldn't have cared less.
Mycroft watched his brother unsteadily make his way out of the kitchen before moving into the living space, grabbing some of the important files which lay on the coffee table. He spread the files out around him on the floor and immersed himself with the work that needed to be done as his brother slept in the other room. Hours passed slowly as Mycroft continued to work, only occasionally getting up to get another cup of tea.
It wasn't until the early hours of the morning that Mycroft stood up, opening the curtains at the window wide enough to look outside. The pale light of the sun was trying to push the darkness back, though the moon still managed to cling to the sky. Mycroft sighed, turning back and sitting on the sofa. He ran his hand absent-mindedly through his short hair, looking towards the bedroom door where he could hear a few gentles snores. Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply before returning to one of the folders which lay before him, hoping to distract himself until his brother woke up.
Sherlock twisted and turned in bed lightly, his dream started off normal.
He was in 221B, home. He was running around the flat, he was looking for something… but he couldn't find it. John was nowhere to be seen; he ran down the stairs and hailed a cab. It was quiet… too quiet. When he got out of the cab he was at St Bartholomew's hospital.
"Oh no… oh no," Sherlock mutter in his sleep lazily.
He began to climb the stairs up to the roof, what he feared most was there… waiting for him. Moriarty. His eyes pierced Sherlock. Fear struck him as soon as he saw this man.
"I'm going to burn the heart out of you Sherlock, I've watched you burn!" Moriarty's laugh cut the silence as Sherlock's body both shook in his dream and out of it. Sherlock looked around. There was no escape. Sherlock look back at Moriarty he had John…
"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted out loud, his body shaking.
"You jumped once Sherlock, you got away. Think is the only way, this is the game. Jump and John lives. If you don't… well," Moriarty's voice was like poison in Sherlock's mind. As soon as Moriarty had stopped talking a red sniper light appeared on John's chest.
Sherlock would feel his cheek's getting wet, as he slowly stepped up to the side of the building. He could hear John behind him shouting at him, telling him not to jump. He had to do this… do it again.
"You're boring Sherlock, so boring! So predictable! So I'm going to make things more fun," As Moriarty said this, a loud bang from a gun went off and John collapsed to the floor in a heap.
"NO! JOHN!" Sherlock screamed out loud of the second time.
He was falling, falling of the building; he was coming closer and closer with impact. When the sound of his own skull crushing filled Sherlock's ears.
Sherlock snapped out of his sleep at once, flinging his body to sit up right. Sweat was covering his head making curls stick to his forehead. Sherlock sat there breathing deeply in the darkness. His cheeks were wet and his eyes were sore. This wasn't the first nightmare he had, had. It was always the same. It scared Sherlock, but he would never admit it to anyone.