A/N So I wrote this after seeing a post on tumblr – unfortunately I don't actually have tumblr so I can't message those who wrote the new lyrics, but I can tell you their names were doodlebug-debz and agates-link. Here is the link to the tumblr post I was inspired by: (www) castielfallingfordean. tumblr post/ 72261392334/ calenmindon-agates-link-doodlebug-debz (without the spaces)
Rated T for drug use.
Anyway I hope you enjoy! Disclaimer: the characters belong to BBC and ACD, and most of the dialogue belongs to tumblr user doodlebug-debz and tumblr user agates-link And if they find this, I hope you don't mind me using your lyrics and that you think I've done them justice!
Do you want to play deductions?
"Mycroft!" A five-year-old Sherlock patted on his older brother's door with his tiny fists. "Mycroft, do you want to play deductions?" Their favourite game, until a few days ago Mycroft had retreated into his room for reasons unknown to Sherlock – he was still too young to understand the concept of being grounded.
"Mycroooft," Sherlock whined, "I want to hear what you think! There's a woman going past the window, and I think she lives with her brother, but you're always better at it than me…Mycroft?"
There was no answer. Sherlock slid to the floor and sighed in a world weary fashion. "I never see you anymore. Come out and play with me like we used to!" He lay on the floor, trying to see what Mycroft was doing under the door.
What if it was an exciting new experiment that he didn't want to share with him? Sherlock hated to be left out. But with no Mycroft, he had nothing else to do but go back to the window and watch the passers by alone.
But it was so dull without his big brother! He would always point out the funniest deductions; he could make Sherlock laugh until his sides hurt. He found himself back outside Mycroft's room in less than an hour.
"Pleeease Mycroft! We used to be best friends." He had learnt the art of emotional blackmail very young. "Just you and me. And now we're not. I want you to show me how to be as clever as you! Do you want to play deductions?" He pressed his mouth up against the key hole. "It doesn't even have to be deductions! We can do whatever you want to, pleeease!"
Inside, Mycroft tried to concentrate on other things. He wasn't allowed to come out of his room, and Sherlock couldn't understand that. But this constant begging was getting annoying.
"Go away, Sherlock!"
Sherlock recoiled sharply as though the door had burnt him. "Okay," he replied quietly, trying not to let his brother realise how hurt he was at the rejection. "Bye."
*5 years later*
Sherlock skidded to a halt outside Mycroft's room. He was so so bored, and all Mycroft ever did anymore was study in his room. He knocked on his brother's door.
"Mycroft! Do you want to play deductions?" As usual nowadays, there was no answer. "Or play Operation?" They were both too clever for chess now – they could see each others' strategies a mile off, and it only ever ended in stalemate. Operation was much better because it relied on physical skill only. And Sherlock liked it because he nearly always won.
"Come on, Mycroft, you're always working. You're well overdue for a break, and I'm losing my mind here! I've started talking to that plastic skull you gave me," he tried, attempting to entice a laugh out of his brother. Nothing. He shared an exasperated look with the skull. "What am I going to do with him, Billy?" he asked it sadly.
Maybe he could try and guilt trip him, like when he was little?
"It's getting so lonely without you, Mycroft. I miss you making fun of the passers by with me! Remember?"
After a while of fruitless effort, Sherlock gave up and resorted to racing around the massive Holmes mansion like he usually did. "Bored!" he shouted at the top of his voice, listening to the echo. "Bored! Bored! BORED!"
After a few weeks Sherlock stopped knocking on Mycroft's door. His brother was clearly bored of him, and he now crept past silently. He began to forget how close they had been.
*15 years later*
Sherlock sat alone in the dingy, freezing flat he could barely afford, a trembling hand holding the syringe needle ready. He could barely wait for the sweet release the cocaine gave him, the release from the boredom that scrambled his mind and allowed him to switch off the endless intake of information and deductions that plagued him constantly.
But something caught his eye and he hesitated. He hadn't noticed before. The scant furniture he owned was slightly out of place. There was a disturbance in the layer of dust and grime that covered every surface. Someone had been in his flat.
Sherlock scowled. His pious, patronising brother. He looked around for the for the camera that had inevitably been installed, but couldn't see it. No matter. It was there, and his brother could see him.
His low voice, made scratchy from disuse, cut through the silent air like a knife. All the joy of the child he once was had vanished from it. It was cold now. Stony. Bitter. Harsh. An ignorant onlooker would probably describe it as hateful.
"Stop. I know you're watching. You've seen all you need to see." An irrational wave of anger at the detachment and distaste his brother treated him with rose up inside him.
"You keep telling me to be better, get clean!" he spat, "But I'm telling you now. I'm done with you! You don't know what it's like! I have absolutely no incentive to stop, so why should I? Just leave me alone!" He was shouting now, and very aware that he was acting like a child, but all the hurt and disappointment and loneliness was threatening to overwhelm him, and it was just easier to be angry. Get angry or cry in front of Mycroft, and that certainly wasn't going to happen.
"We never see each other any more anyway. Why? Are you ashamed of me? Ashamed of your junkie, dropout brother who could threaten your fantastic job?" He scoffed angrily. "Just stop bothering me!"
He looked down and shoved the syringe into his arm before he lost his nerve. As he watched the clear liquid swirl with blood and then empty itself into his veins, he suddenly became aware of the part of him that believed his brother was Superman, that he could fix anything. He almost laughed. Fix this, brother. Fix whatever the hell my life has become. I'm scared.
"What are we going to do, Mycroft?" he whispered, and sank into oblivion.
Far away, Mycroft watched his brother slowly lose consciousness. Without thinking, he gently touched Sherlock's face on the laptop screen, searching for a trace of the little brother he knew. Where had he gone so wrong? How had Sherlock grown so far away from him? When had he become this hateful, angry man? A child's voice, full of innocence and love, whispered in the back of his mind. Do you want to play deductions?
Mycroft wished he'd said yes when he'd had the chance.