Hi! Another oneshot - even though I might continue it, I'm still thinking about it, there is a lot of material and ideas...
WARNING: Mentions of character death
The needle slides through his skin into his vein and he can already feel himself slipping into wonderful oblivion. He doesn't like heroin, usually. He is more the cocaine-person, he likes the rush it gives him, the clarity, the ability to think.
But today, he doesn't want to think. Today he wants to stop his mind, wants to stop the whirlwind of thoughts and memories.
Everything seems fuzzy when he opens his eyes again. Everything moves a lot slower, he curiously watches the particles of dust floating through the air. There is a peace in this room, his mind is finally quiet.
The click of the door resonates through the silence and he slowly moves his head to see the unclear shape of his brother. Blinking a few times, it clears up a bit, but not completely. Is that a disapproving frown on his face?
"Oh Sherlock, why did you do that?" Sherlock blinks twice until he understands.
"It's quiet now." He slurs, for once not caring that his brother is there. The heroin numbs it all.
"What is quiet, Sherlock?" He isn't sure whether Mycroft is faking. Shouldn't he know what Sherlock is talking about?
"My head. I'm not thinking; I don't have to think."
"You mean remember." His brother is still calm, a sad, understanding smile graces his features from what Sherlock can see. Why is Mycroft understanding? It's not like him, he should be threatening him with rehab already.
Sherlock wishes he could go back to the peace and happiness he felt only minutes ago. Maybe he could get another hit. It might bring the peace back.
And who is there to care if he overdoses? Mycroft can block it out, he wouldn't mind too much.
"I don't want to remember, Mycroft."
"But he might want to be remembered." Sherlock looks up blankly.
"Does he care?" His vision goes even blurrier, he can discern even less, but he understands it only when the wetness rolls down his cheek and drops onto his hand.
Mycroft sighs quietly and sits down next to Sherlock, back leaning against the sofa, groaning slightly as he lowered himself. Suddenly Sherlock's head feels too heavy and he lets it sink down onto the shoulder of his brother.
"About you, he did. And if anyone makes it into heaven to watch over loved ones, it's him."
They sit in silence, until Mycroft hears the breath of his brother deepen, until he breathes slowly and evenly.
He smiles a relieved but tired smile. Even in death, the one thing that calms his little brother the most is John Hamish Watson.