SHERLOCK
NEEDED
Author's Note:
Main Pairing: Mycroft Holmes/Gregory Lestrade
Side Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Note: Re-formatted and edited as of 17/04/2013
Warnings: Graphic m/m sex, explicit language, drug use/abuse, alcoholism/alcohol abuse, suicide attempt/suicidal thoughts, depression, self-harm, OOC moments
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, and Steve Moffat. The original characters are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing but the plot and make no money from this story.
Chapter One: You're Dragging On, Your Heart's Been Broken
Chapter Title: The Forgotten by Green Day
Sherlock yawned and opened his eyes. They were blue, the brightest blue Mycroft had ever seen.
'Hello,' he said, leaning on the tips of his toes to see into the crib. 'I'm your big brother, Mycroft. I'm here to take care of you.'
Sherlock scowled and for the first time Mycroft could remember, a real smile spread across his own face.
Mycroft Holmes blinked back the tears that threatened to break free. He was sitting in his expensive, sterile flat. Everything was silent and dark, the only light the small lamp to his right. He had a bottle of scotch in one hand and had long ago given up drinking from a glass.
It had been years since Mycroft had allowed this feeling to take hold; this black hopelessness that surged through his body like sludge, poison. He'd always managed to push it away, to focus on more important things like taking care of Sherlock and running Britain. But now... now none of that mattered.
Sherlock had Doctor Watson. John Watson was a good man; smart, funny, incredibly loyal and brave. He was the only person who actually liked Sherlock, who put up with him voluntarily. They'd started as colleagues before moving onto a real friendship. And now? Well, now they were lovers, husbands; Sherlock Holmes was actually in love with someone.
Mycroft was happy, he didn't want anybody to think otherwise. He was absolutely thrilled that his brother had found somebody to love. But at the same time it was like Mycroft was being pushed away. Sherlock had always forced Mycroft away but it was different now. Now Sherlock didn't actually need Mycroft. He had John.
On the outside Mycroft Holmes had done a lot with his life. He'd raised his brother, had a fantastic job running the British government, and spent his rare free time making sure the projects he had his fingers in were still running smoothly. Other than that, though, Mycroft had nothing; no friends, no lover, no children. All he had was Sherlock.
And now Sherlock didn't need him anymore.
Which was why Mycroft was sitting at home on a Friday evening getting drunk. The alcohol swirled through his body nicely, numbing the black hatred that Mycroft felt coil in his gut. It had always been there as long as he could remember.
At the age of twelve Mycroft had diagnosed himself with Bipolar II disorder. Nobody else knew, although maybe Sherlock did. Mycroft had never wanted to do anything about it. He'd never been suicidal so what was the point? It didn't matter if Mycroft was happy; Sherlock mattered, that was all.
It was different now. Sherlock was truly happy. He had John, he had cases, he actually had friends. Mycroft? He had nothing but a few posh suits and an expensive PA. There was nobody out there who needed Mycroft, who would smile at his presence. Sherlock scowled whenever he saw his brother.
It was fine, though. It was all fine. Mycroft had long ago resigned himself to feeling this way. He'd just never expected Sherlock to find somebody. And now that he had...
Mycroft placed his scotch bottle on the glass table, a rattling sound echoing in his ear as glass hit glass. He removed his waistcoat and untucked his shirt; might as well be comfortable. Slowly, and with practiced ease, Mycroft rolled up his left sleeve. The silk slowly and smoothly settled above his elbow, giving Mycroft a view of his pale skin.
He was very freckled and always had been. But his skin was marred with track mark; little black circles, small scabs, long cuts that Mycroft had made by picking and scratching at his arm; they were the only evidence of his drug use. Mycroft Holmes was very good at keeping his drug taking a secret. Unlike Sherlock.
Mycroft picked up the tourniquet and fastened it around his bicep. He'd prepared the liquid earlier and sucked it into the syringe, smiling as he flexed his left hand. Cocaine. Always useful when Mycroft was having these black days. Sherlock had taken drugs to keep his brain busy. Mycroft took them to shut his brain up.
Thick blue veins popped up under thin pale skin and Mycroft smiled. He slipped the needle into his arm, inhaling sharply at the tiny pinch. He pushed down on the plunger, injecting the drug into his system.
He withdrew the needle and dropped it on the table before pulling off the tourniquet. Now he settled back onto the couch with his bottle of scotch, sipping and waiting for the high to hit.
Mycroft gasped; ah, there it was. The euphoria of cocaine slashing through him. Mycroft smiled before groaning, head flopping back and hands curling into fists.
Too much, his brain told him. You took far too much.
I know! he spat at himself. That's the point!
'Too much, too much,' Mycroft slurred, grinning to himself. He'd never taken too much in the past. But that was the past. It didn't matter now.
Someone was knocking on his door. Mycroft turned to stare at it, already feeling unconsciousness pull at him. When he fell asleep there would be no waking up, not now. He smiled.
'Mr Holmes?'
Mycroft frowned. He knew that voice. But from where?
'Mr Holmes, its Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need to talk to you.'
Mycroft nodded along to the words. Ah, DI Lestrade. Handsome man, smart, able to handle Sherlock. Right, yes.
'Mr Holmes, your assistant said you were home.'
Mycroft stood and a wave of nausea washed over him. 'Oh,' he groaned as pain prickled at his stomach and skin, his head thumping and his heart jumping. 'Oh.'
He dropped the bottle of scotch and it smashed into the table. Glass rained down on the carpet and Mycroft felt like it was raining down on him. Sharp stabs of pain were spearing through his head and he groaned.
'Mr Holmes?' the voice was getting louder now, more urgent. 'Are you okay?'
No, he wasn't okay. But that was fine, right? Because Mycroft wanted this; he'd purposely injected too much. Sherlock didn't need him anymore, Mycroft's job was done. He could let go; let the cold black sludge take him.
He stumbled and fell to his knees, feeling glass penetrate his expensive trousers. The small stabs of pain didn't matter as Mycroft rolled onto his back. He blinked, staring up at the ceiling. Already his heart was slowing, his brain was calming, and everything was just so good.
The door smashed open as Mycroft closed his eyes.