I had hit a creative wall and could not think of anything to write. I then came up with this. Set when Sherlock is 18 and Mycroft is 25.
Disclaimer; I do not own BBC Sherlock nor am I in any way associated with Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat or Mark Gatiss.
"Sherlock, I have had enough of this! Take. Your. Medicine!" Mycroft shouted, waving the bottle of prescription anti-depressants in his brothers face. He was never one to yell or raise his voice, but he had reached his breaking point.
One month ago today Sherlock had a mandatory physical. Mycroft had accompanied him as Sherlock did not have a car nor money for a taxi or the tube; prices were skyrocketing due to the summer heat. He was also coming to ensure that his younger brother truly did go to the doctor. He had not acted like himself for a while now. Refusing food, not sleeping and drug abuse were completely normal habits for Sherlock, but he just seemed...odd. Mycroft planned on asking the doctor's for their medical expertise.
"I don't understand the purpose of going to the hospital if one is not sick." The younger man had mumbled as he sat in the hospital room, only staying in his chair because Mycroft was holding him down by the arm.
"It is only to ensure you are healthy."
"I AM healthy!"
Sherlock ran a hand through his dark hair, the curls so long that they hung in front of his eyes, almost hiding his face. Mycroft noticed his hand was shaking.
His lips were pale and cracked. His already way too thin body was by far too skinny for a six-foot eighteen year old male. His body was trembling and his breathing was shallow.
That was how Sherlock looked at him now, pain in his green-grey eyes.
"There is no reason to fix what is not broken." he insisted, hands trembling like leaves in the wind.
Mycroft scowled and opened the bottle, holding one pill in the palm of his hand.
"Take. This. Now." he demanded.
Sherlock took the pill from his palm and swallowed it, opening his mouth as proof that he did not hide it under his tongue.
"One pill, once every day. I promise it will make all the difference."
Sherlock, frown on his face and anger in his eyes, left and returned to his experiments.
-Two weeks later-
Mycroft scanned the security camera footage he was receiving on his computer to find his brother in his room, working on some sort of leftover schoolwork, trying to keep his intelligent mind occupied. He watched as Sherlock stood and grabbed his books, throwing them across the room, papers flying everywhere. He paced in a circle and then proceeded to punch a hole in the wall, causing his hand to bleed. He pulled at his hair, screaming unheard due to lack of camera audio. Mycroft sighed. Things have only gotten worse since he had been so harsh to his brother, forcing him to take his medicine. It still was not enough. Sherlock was still uninterested in life, still moping about through their summer flat, still having fits of rage followed by hours of locking himself in his room. Mycroft had to do something about this. Soon. He had not even told mother that Sherlock was diagnosed with depression yet. He couldn't go to her for help. So what could he do?
The next day Mycroft insisted on staying the night with his younger brother, afraid he would hurt himself, whether it be he pulled out his hair or broke another knuckle trying to punch the wall again. But his presence made no difference. Sherlock was too uninterested to care. He refused his supper and went to bed early, locking himself in his room. Again. This was ridiculous due to the fact that it was only 5:30 pm.
At 7:45, Mycroft (knowing Sherlock would not have fallen asleep and was sure to be hungry) made him a sandwich and brought it to his room and lightly knocked in the door.
He heard a strange sound coming from the other side of the door.
He pressed his ear against the wood and listened hard.
It was sobbing.
Sherlock. Sherlock was sobbing.
Mycroft immediate response was to ask himself, 'why?' Why was his brother crying? Sherlock did not understand nor did he hardly ever show emotion. But when he did something horrible must have happened. But nothing remotely sad had happened that week. No one had died. He hadn't gotten bullied in months, due to the fact that he was on summer break. So why was he sobbing? Mycroft didn't know.
He knew better than to go inside and talk to him. It would only make matters worse. But he didn't want to leave. Hearing his brother so...upset...was unsettling for him. He just sat there, sandwich in his hands, listening to his brothers endless screaming and sobbing and sniffing into his pillow.
It seemed to have went on for hours until he finally cried himself to sleep.
Mycroft opened the door.
Sherlock was asleep, lying in bed, head on a soaked pillow, facing towards the wall. His shoulders were still shaking in quiet sobs and every time he inhaled the air would hitch in his throat and he would gasp greatly.
Mycroft put the sandwich on his nightstand, pulled his brothers blankets up to his chin and quietly left the room, shutting the door silently behind him.
What was this?
The next morning Sherlock was late for breakfast. Mycroft didn't care, knowing that he didn't get as much sleep as normal and allowed his brother to stay in bed and rest as he sat and read the paper.
Two hours later Sherlock emerged, eyes bloodshot red and cheeks wet. He had been crying again.
Mycroft put his paper down and pretended not to notice.
"Morning, brother mine. What would you like for breakfast?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"Nothing." he croaked. All that screaming must have done a number in his vocal cords.
"You cannot take your medicines with an empty stomach. It will make you sick."
Sherlock shook his head again.
"I'm not taking my medicine anymore."
Mycroft rolled his eyes.
"Yes, brother dear, you are!" he had threatened this a few days ago as well.
Sherlock wiped his eyes, the dried tears replaced with fresh ones.
"I will not take them...I can't..." his pitiful pleading sounding out of character, but somehow very real.
Mycroft sighed, opening the bottle.
"Sherlock, you need this! Take it!"
He held out one pill in the palm of his hand. Sherlock stared at it for a moment but remained still.
"Do NOT make me call Mummy! I WILL tell her! Pick it up and take it!"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"I'm trying. I can't move." he slurred, barely moving his lips.
Sherlock looked up at his elder brother, tears still falling from his green-grey eyes. The right side of his face was emotionless, expressionless, completely limp compared to the left side, which seemed confused. The corner of his mouth was turned in a scowl. And then suddenly he fell to the side, limp eye falling closed. He started convulsing, flopping about like a fish out of water. Mycroft pulled out his phone and bent down to his side within the same second, both dialing an ambulance and checking his brother's pulse at the same time.
He was too far out of his mind to remember what exactly he said to the ambulance, but he remembered that they assured him that they were on their way.
Sherlock was still flailing, chest elevating off the ground. Vomit was flowing from his mouth and he gasped, choking on it. Mycroft pushed him to his side and hit him once in the back to open his airways. This blow somehow also stopped his heart.
Mycroft didn't notice until he saw that Sherlock's flailing had stopped. He rechecked his pulse. He leaned over his brothers limp body and started doing compressions. He has taken classes for this exact kind of situation. After Sherlock nearly died after drowning in a pool Mycroft wanted to take his precautions.
He counted off to himself.
One, two, three, four, five.
He leaned forward and tilted Sherlock's head back, lightly pinching his nose and pressing his lips against his brother's mouth, breathing into his lungs, chest rising and falling beneath his hands.
One, two, three, four, five.
One, two, three, four, five.
The door busted open and paramedics took over, ventilator replacing Mycroft's mouth and paddles taking over his hands.
He heard the charge of the paddles and winched as his brothers limbs jolted as if struck by lightning before falling limp.
They shocked him a second time.
And then a pale, shaky hand reached out for Mycroft.
He could have sworn he heard Sherlock say "Help me..."
Mycroft sat in the waiting room, head in his hands. Things had been a blur in the ambulance, but never once did he take his eyes off of the shaking figure on the gurney, the green-grey eyes that needed him. This was all his fault. Somehow.
Two hours later they had calmed Sherlock's system enough to call Mycroft in the room.
"What's wrong with him?" Mycroft asked. He had gone over so many different possible reasoning's for his brother's fit, hoping none of them to be the correct ailment.
The doctor sighed.
"We've got him in fairly stable condition. I'm afraid that if you hadn't have tried saving him we would have been too late."
The look in his eyes, his vague answer, still not letting him in the room. They were beating around the bush. This was something serious.
"What is wrong with him?" Mycroft repeated, both annoyed and worried.
The doctor put a hand on Mycroft's chest.
"Sir, calm down. He's in a fairly stable condition. We have him under control."
"You keep saying that," Mycroft's hands were in fists, "But you fail to tell me that he is alright. I know this is something seriously life threatening. I would appreciate if you did not lie to me and just tell me the truth and get this over with. Is that clear?"
The doctor nodded.
"And get your hands off me. It's very unprofessional."
The doctor moved his hand.
"Your brother has had some sort of epileptic seizure. We have an idea of what caused it-"
"What?" Mycroft asked. He was tired of playing games.
"There was an incredible amount of over active nerve endings in the brain. And according to his medical records he was prescribed antidepressants for severe clinical depression. Some people have adverse reactions to medicine when-"
"He doesn't need it." Mycroft realized, far too late. "He knew all along...he KNEW! Why didn't he tell me?"
But he DID tell him! He told him so many times! Why didn't he listen? Why did he trust the doctors more than he trusted his owns brothers judgment?
"He didn't need them..." Mycroft sat down in a chair. The doctor was taking to him but Mycroft wasn't listening. He didn't care what he had to say. He had forced his brother to use pills he didn't need, causing him to nearly die in his kitchen. What had he done?
"I want to see him." Mycroft stood and pushed his way through the doctors and into his brothers room.
Sherlock was hidden under wires and tubes, hooked up to all sorts of machinery. He looked so sick. And it was all Mycroft's fault.
He went over and found Sherlock's hand in all the tubes, holding as tightly as possible without causing his brother any more pain.
"Is he going to make it?"
The doctor swallowed.
"We are worried he might not make it through the night. We have him on watch. But of he does make it he should make it the rest of the way through."
Mycroft nodded. He was shaking now. Why had he done this? This was all his fault. And now Sherlock was paying the price for his mistake. No. Not his mistake. The doctor's mistake. They are the ones who misdiagnosed him with depression. But he was the one who suspected the depression in the first place. There was no denying it. This was his fault.
He squeezed his brother hand, looking up at the doctor for just a moment.
"I know you must do your job, but I would like a few moments alone with my younger sibling."
The doctor left without bothering to question anything.
Mycroft looked up at the heart monitor, its beeping steady. For the time being.
"I am sorry, Sherlock. I am sorry I did not trust you. I did not know. I was not thinking."
This was Mycroft first real apology to Sherlock in well over four years, since they diagnosed his brother with sociopathic behaviour. It was not something he enjoyed doing. He sat and waited for Sherlock to tell him off, to shove his useless apologies where the sun refused to shine. But that bloody heart monitor was the only thing that answered him.
"I mean it. I never intended to make you depressed. I thought I was helping you."
The closest thing to his brothers annoyed scoffing was the wheezing of the ventilator. It wasn't enough.
"I never meant for this to happen. I'm...I'm sorry, Sherlock. I am."
The heart monitor continued to beep, a slight blip unnoticed by the young politician.
"I hope you can find a way to forgive me one day-"
The doctors rushed in suddenly and Mycroft stood.
"What is going on?"
The doctors shook their heads.
"Rapid change in blood pressure. You need to leave."
"You must be insane if you think I am leaving him now! I am a high government official! I think I have the right to stand by my brother's bedside when he is unwell!"
The doctors protested, but thankfully didn't kick him out.
It was only a false alarm. Sherlock was fine. For now.
-Three and a half days later-
Sherlock opened his eyes to the white ceiling and beeping of some sort of machinery. He quickly closed them shut, blocking out the painful light. He heard someone shift in their chair.
"Sherlock, can you hear me?"
Mycroft. It was Mycroft's voice that whispered into his ear.
He tried responding.
"Shhh, brother dear. Rest. All is fine now."
"You have not called me that since you were six years old. Though I suppose it is all you can say with a bruised throat. But at least they took that blasted breathing tube out." he smiled weakly.
Sherlock opened his eyes to look at his brother. He had dark circles under his eyes and his grooming was not up to par for his usual standards. Sherlock had no interest in looking at his surroundings. There were white, dull, boring. He had an idea of where he was, but was rather disoriented and unsure.
"Where...where?" he tried asking.
"You are in a hospital. You gave me quite a scare too. You've been on death watch for three days."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"That, I am afraid, is my fault. And before you say anything I just want to tell you that I had thought I was doing the right thing and I will provide any needed or desired compensation. I thought I was helping you but I was wrong. I was so wrong. I'm so sorry-"
"Shut'up..." Sherlock spoke quickly, slurring the words together.
"Alright...I understand...You are upset with me. You don't want me here. I'll go-"
"Don' leave..." he managed to get out.
Mycroft slumped back down in his seat.
"Thank you. Rest now." he commanded, looking as if he were about to fall asleep himself.
Sherlock swallowed against the pain in his throat. It was coming back to him now. The argument in the kitchen. His limbs falling numb. The world going dark. And now the pain and weakness of his body.
Sherlock reached and grabbed Mycroft's hand.
Mycroft, half asleep, look up, wide and alert.
"Yes, Sher?" he mumbled. This was the first time (without spite) that he had used this nickname in twelve years.
Sherlock squeezed the hand weakly.
Mycroft squeezed back.
"I know, brother. I know. I'm sorry."
Thank you for reading!
Also working on updating my other fic, "Through The Eyes Of The Blind".