"Sherlock?"
No answer. Again.
"Sherlock," Mycroft called to his brother again, "you have to come out. This isn't healthy. Come out or I'm coming in."
Only empty air answered him, as if the wind helped keep the secrets Sherlock wasn't saying behind the door. He sighed, lightly knocking his head against its wooden frame. He knew he had messed up doing this. Letting Sherlock do this. Causing more pain than he had thought possible. Sherlock was supposed to be ready for this - ready to let go of himself - of John. Ready to give up the life he used to own for his new one.
But he wasn't. And it was too late for him to turn back. For both of them, it was too late.
So Mycroft straightened himself, pulled the silver key out of his suit pocket, and unlocked the door.
Surprise hit him like a wrecking ball as he walked through. His master guest-room was a wreck. Bottles upon bottles of alcohol from the bar were strewn across the carpet, some cracked and smashed against the walls. Puddles of whiskey and bourbon littered the floor, causing a strong unpleasant smell to fill the room.
A cracked mirror hung above a vanity holding all sorts of sugar-like substances Mycroft knew Sherlock was all too familiar with. The substances were powdered sugar across the top, making Mycroft wonder how many he could identify as illegal. His answer was simple: all of them.
The clothes Mycroft brought for his brother covered the entire floor, barely leaving any room to see the newly stained carpet. A particular shirt John had once bought for Sherlock was ripped to shreds and thrown to various sides of the room.
And in the middle of it all, sitting on the floor against his bed, was Sherlock. He was as pale as a ghost, save his face, puffed up and red from crying. His eyes were bloodshot and wide, wet with tears. He looked too skinny for his clothes, his shirt pooling around his figure. His head bobbed against its collar, as if sleeping were a crime he couldn't commit. In his hands he clutched a ripped, crumpled picture of him and John during Christmas. He and John stood in front of their fireplace, both wearing the green sweaters Mrs. Hudson had gifted them. Their arms intertwined together and their faces beamed next to each other, unknowing of what would come to pass.
Mycroft couldn't say anything. What could he say, 'I'm sorry we had to pretend you committed suicide and drag you from John, it was for the benefit of the government'?
Fortunately, he was saved from his apology.
"Mycroft," Sherlock's voice sounded drunk and broken and could barely make out a croak.
"Sherlock," Mycroft whispered, running to hold his brother.
It was an awkward hug. Besides the fact that the brothers had never had much contact in their childhood, Mycroft had to crouch down while his brother stayed sitting. Sherlocks arms numbly hung around Mycroft's suit, immediately sobbing into his shoulder. Mycroft had never hugged anyone, save his parents and his grandparents, and didn't really know how to position his arms. He didn't care though, and held his brother, through the smell of drugs and alcohol.
"My-Mycroft," Sherlock stuttered, sniffing and pushing his brother away so Mycroft could see his brother's face. Two new streams lined his face, from his eyes to his chin. His eyelids could barely stay open, as if trying to force themselves shut but their owner wouldn't let them.
"Get some sleep Sherlock," Mycroft softly said, holding his brothers arm to help support him up.
In response, his brother mumbled some profanity, did something that resembled a nod, and did his best attempt at bringing himself up to his feet. He stumbled forward, falling on his bed face first into the stained covers. He turned his head towards Mycroft, eyebrows furrowed together as if scolding himself for sleeping, but exhaustion overpowered him and he relaxed into sleep. He was still in the dirty clothes, but his light snoring informed Mycroft that that was something that shouldn't worry him. With one last glance towards his brother, Mycroft slowly and quietly exited the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. He waved over a maid dusting one of the long pillars in the lobby, summoning her to him.
"Yes, Sir?" She asked, putting the duster in a pocket of her apron and wiping her hands on her shirt.
"Sherlock's room needs cleaning. Do this as swiftly and as quietly as you can, and start immediately. Please discard any illegal substances."
"But Sir," She said, hearing the snores coming from the room, "He seems to be sleeping, and I wouldn't want to wake him up…"
"Mrs. Bates, I assure you, you needn't worry, my brother will be sleeping for quite a while."
She nodded solemnly, taking the duster out of her apron and walking behind him towards the mess.
He grabbed her shoulder, "And Mrs. Bates?"
She shook his hand off of herself, "Yes, Sir?" She asked, obviously annoyed with his manner.
"Please lock up the bar after your're done cleaning."