AN: I have recently discovered an obsession for Mycroft/Sherlock relationship fics. Not filthy ones, but ones that study how they interact with each other and why. I apologize if you think that Mycroft is rather OOC but this is how I see him in my head, even while watching the show. Or rather, this is the other side of Mycroft, the one that doesn't get seen. Call it my version of a character study
Will be mild Mystrade with a not-so-mild helping of eventual Johnlock. Vivid descriptions of drug withdrawal and it's related symptoms and eventual slashy sex. It is a bit AU and certainly an alternate timeline/meeting for John and Sherlock.
I do not own BBC. I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any other characters contained within. All mistakes are mine, though if anyone reads this and would like to beta it for me, please let me know.
"…seems to be an accidental overdose, but with Mr. Holmes' history I would recommend full sectioning and suicide watch for the foreseeable future. Your brother, sir, clearly cannot take care of himself. I see he's checked himself out of the hospital numerous times, against medical advice and he has started and stopped more than four different rehab programs." Mycroft understood and heard every word that the polite and properly deferential doctor in front of him was saying, but in a separate part of his head, he was screaming.
Screaming that he'd let Sherlock do this to himself again. Screaming that he'd not watched his brother as closely as he could, letting his work get in the way. Screaming that no one else cared about the fragile genius laying in the bed next to him. Sentiment was such a bother, but Mycroft only had it for one person, and he'd had it for 26 years, 158 days and 45 minutes. Ever since his baby brother had been placed in his arms when mummy got home from the private hospital he'd loved his brother. Making a decision, he coldly eyed up the doctor; seeing the ambition in the man's eyes he knew his words would be taken as gospel.
"Thank you so very much Doctor Williams, I appreciate your candor as well as your suggestions. However, I think that my brother deserves better care than all of that and, as soon as he is able to leave, we will be heading to my home where I will be taking care of him myself. I don't need to remind you that your discretion in this matter would be very much appreciated." The doctor swallowed thickly and nodded before turning away and heading out of the room, hopefully to fill out the requisite paperwork. Mycroft sighed inaudibly and turned to the body lying in the hospital bed.
Sherlock looked positively awful. Though, that was to be expected with an overdose. He also looked small and heartbreakingly-young laying there. Mycroft reached out and brushed an errant curl off his baby brother's forehead before seating himself in the convenient chair.
"Sherlock, you won't enjoy this anymore than I will, but I am going to help save you from yourself." He gently squeezed the unresponsive fingers curled up on the sheets before rising. There was another matter to deal with in the hallway. He stood tall and straight, wiping all emotion off his face before stepping out the door to meet the young Sergeant waiting nervously.
"Sergeant Lestrade correct?" He smiled blandly and held out his hand. The hand that gripped his was firm and dry; he could tell that the nervousness had nothing to do with him and everything to do with his brother. The smile on his face became a bit more genuine.
"Please, sir, call me Greg. Is Mr. Holmes going to be alright?" Mycroft felt the smile fall from his lips as his mask became necessarily emotionless. It would not do to let an unknown police sergeant see his true emotions.
"Gregory, yes my brother will recover. Though it will take time and not a little bit of work from he and I to get him sorted properly. I simply cannot thank you enough for the way that you have handled the situation. You have my sincere gratitude." His mask slipped for a fraction of a second to allow a spot of real thanks to shine on the policeman. He really was rather attractive, worried about Sherlock as he was. Where on earth did that thought come from?
"Sir, I think that Sherlock is a great kid, and I know he has an amazing mind. If there is ever anything that I can do for him, please call my private line and I would be happy to help. He just needs a bit of…well sorting out really. Someone to teach him how to sharpen that huge brain of his without the drugs. I felt really horrible when I found him, but I was glad it was me instead of someone else. I shudder to think how it could've ended up. But, I can see that you'll take good care of him." Gregory held out a card with his mobile number scribbled on it under his office line. Mycroft reached out to take it, mentally filing away the note to put both numbers in his contact list as soon as their conversation was completed.
"Gregory…thank you. Rest assured that I will certainly call you when you are needed. Your association with Sherlock has been very good for him, and once he is back on his feet he will need…you." Mycroft caught himself before he could say a 'friend', Sherlock wasn't good with people and had no one that he would call a 'friend'. But he was being honest when he said that the police officer had been good for Sherlock.
"Okay Sir, well, I better get going. I have to start my shift in a few minutes. Thank God I found him off the clock, now I don't have to file a report." Gregory laughed, a charming sound, and shook Mycroft's hand again before departing. Mycroft was glad that he was walking away because there was no instance where a report would be made of this incident and his cold, angry face reflected that. Shaking off his emotionless mask, he stepped back inside the private room and firmly shut the door behind him.
Mycroft resumed his position in his chair before removing his mobile from his pocket and adding Gregory's numbers. The then marked them as favorites, as he thought that the two of them would be speaking with some level of regularity. Then he began the distasteful task of contacting Anthea and a few other, select employees, letting them know that for the next week at least, he was not to be disturbed for anything less than a seven. They were mostly competent without him, but Sherlock was not.
Tucking his phone away before he could get any responses he resumed his careful appraisal of his brother. Another inaudible sigh left his lips when he slipped his hand into the curled and unresponsive fingers he'd squeezed earlier. He knew that Sherlock would be out for the remainder of the night and most likely well into the next day. He hoped to get him out of this place before tomorrow evening, but that all depended on Sherlock.
"Do you remember that awful vacation that mummy and father took us on after my first semester at Uni? I was 18 and so humiliated at having to have a family holiday but mummy insisted. Said you'd missed me so much, but of course you were only 11 at the time and were unwilling to show it. We went to Uncle Milton's house in Nice… I don't think you spoke one word to me the entire time we were travelling. I suppose that you were mad at me for leaving you in mummy's tender care. She has never been terribly maternal. When we got there mummy and father realized that Uncle Milton had rather embellished on the descriptions of his house, it was barely more than a cabin. At least it had a door on the bathroom." Mycroft smiled at his memories. Lost as he was in the story he missed Sherlock's eyes opening just a fraction.
"You threw such a fit when mummy suggested that we head to a hotel instead. I took one look at you, looked right in your eyes Sherlock and saw how much fun you thought that place would be, and also asked to stay. I wanted to do what you wanted to do. I couldn't be bothered to care what our parents did but you were a different story. There was no second bedroom, only a loft and two camp beds squished together. I suppose when I took your side in the argument you changed your mind about speaking to me and we lay awake that whole first night, talking and being shushed by mummy so that we wouldn't wake up father."
"Do you remember the 'adventures' we went on that winter? I simply cannot remember if I ever laughed so hard before or after that holiday. I could hide away on the beach with you, without having to worry about father's disapproval or the fact that I was a University man now, full grown and far too mature to be acting that way. It was worth it all to see your blissed-out tired face at the end of every day and wake up to you jumping on my cot." Mycroft smiled brighter as he closed his eyes and pictured the memory. Eleven year old Sherlock, all elbows and knees with a great mop of black curls on top of his head with never ending questions about everything streaming from his smiling face. It was a wonderful sight even faded as memories can be.
Sherlock curled his fingers tighter around his brother's to alert him to his awake state. He couldn't speak throat too sore to make even the slightest sounds, but Mycroft, lost in memory, didn't need him to speak. He smiled down at his brother.
"I can't promise anything brother dear, this may make you hate me more than you ever did or it may bring us back to the closeness that we once shared. However, you no longer have a say in the matter. You are coming home to live with me." Sherlock, had he had the capacity for speech, would have been struck mute by that statement.
Reviews are love…NPC