I've had this one in my head for a while. There are a lot of Hurt Sherlock fics out there that deal with the Sign of Three aftermath. I wanted to give my own spin.
Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, drug use, self hatred. Heavy stuff man.
A/N: I do not own BBC Sherlock.
"The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything."
- Johnny Cash, "Hurt"
-x-
The Watson wedding ends without a hitch. One nearly murder, but Sherlock counts that as a success. Months of planning, of denying the Work, and he was not going to screw this up, nor let anyone else ruin John's "biggest and most important day."
This was the exact reason why a wedding was a stupid ceremony. Best Man: origin/ Germany 16th century - Not only was it just another tradition to add to the plentiful that symbolizes society's obsession with celebrating love, but a man was almost murdered. That, in itself, should be plenty of reasons for not having a wedding.
But no one asked Sherlock. He may have said it already. They don't listen to him though.
Lately, Sherlock has felt absent. Not physically. Physically, he knows that he is present in this world, at this party, surrounded by a hundred people he does not know. But there is another absence in him. It has been growing for a while now, spreading like a sinkhole, hollowing out his being without remorse. Some nights, he feels it ache.
Those are the bad nights, where he must play his violin so loudly to drown out his thoughts that point him to the hollowed out tile in the loo, or the secret bottom in the middle drawer. He knows there is enough to take away the ache, but not enough to numb him in the days after.
Sherlock has tried to be a good friend. Friends are "there" when others need them. Like Molly was there for Sherlock when he needed her. Like John was there for Sherlock when he needed him.
Sherlock knows it is illogical to see life as a balance sheet, to "scratch backs" as John put it. But he knows he owes his friends, especially John. He will forever be in John's debt, and the ledger weighs heavily upon his shoulders.
Sherlock had the idea that if he was gone, if John believed he was dead, the world would stop turning, but as Mycroft is so fond of reminding him, the world does not revolve around Sherlock. According to John, it revolves around a bigger star.
So Sherlock dove into the Work. Anything to keep the loneliness at bay, and his stash hidden.
He had John, that was all that mattered, and Sherlock did not want to lose him. Promoted to best friend and best man, he made sure John would remember his wedding fondly. A man only marries his wife once.
Sherlock remains an island in a sea of dancing and smiling guests. Molly with her Tom, John with Mary, and Janine... She shuffles and jerks her shoulders in rhythm to the music. Sherlock is not very rehearsed in pop music, but he knows how to find the rhythm. At least he will get to dance...
She gives a thumbs up to Sherlock and nods to the man with the elephant tie he had pointed out earlier. They are a couple now. The knowledge settles over him like the orange blankets they give out at crime scenes. Her desertion does not surprise him, he has been abandoned plenty in the past; it is the hollow ache that surprises him.
He closes his eyes, seeing the colors flash behind his eyelids. "I wish you weren't... whatever it is you are."
Sherlock had not meant to like her. She got his attention in a way that did not irritate nor intrigue him. Sherlock was correct in his observation. Brides tend to favor plain bridesmaids as an unconscious contrast for their "big day." Janine will likely gather even duller women for her wedding. But if his deductions are correct, she will remain single for many more months, possibly years, because of her high stress job.
She is a terrible dancer, with poor judgement in men's appearances, but she talked to Sherlock. The first time to play coy. She was looking for a date. She came alone to the wedding, so she hoped the best man would be interested. A deep shame seeped under her confident spread of makeup and push up strapless bra.
She came close to understanding, because she lives with loneliness as well, but hers is a different loneliness. She did not ask, so Sherlock did not tell. Sherlock will never tell.
It is better that she did not dance with him. Better that she understand that they could never be. But the hurt remains because he dared to hope that he could be normal.
That he could have a few at the bar and take her home on his arm for a night cap, too drunk to understand that she wasn't who he really wanted. That he could be satisfied with anyone other than him. But, as Sherlock is reminded amidst the mass of moving bodies, he is not normal. Something he has known since he was a child.
It's not about you, a voice that sounds remarkably like Mycroft reminds him.
The desire for companionship drains from him. Sherlock nods in return and does not look at Janine anymore.
He did his job. John had the perfect wedding. Husband and wife dance, and the bridesmaid goes home with a suitable man.
Sherlock slinks through the crowd. No one says goodbye, so neither does he. He changes out of his tuxedo in the men's loo. He brought an extra suit for the taxi home. He stuffs his wedding attire in the bin. He can get another tux. Hopefully not for another wedding.
He washes his hands and presses them, still dripping, to his face. It feels far too warm. His mind is racing, forcing him to confront the last twelve hours, when all he wants is quiet and nothing.
Mary is pregnant. How had he not seen it? All the signs were there, and yet he had not prepared, too occupied with preventing a catastrophe at her wedding.
He slams the door behind him.
A child will change the equilibrium in their lives in a monumental scope not even he can imagine. John never expressed that he wanted children, and Mary only came into his life two years ago. Sherlock had hope that none of this was permanent, but John is a good, honorable man. He would never leave an expecting mother. Sherlock wants to bash in his head for thinking such thoughts.
The late May air is refreshing from the stifling heat of the packed bodies inside the chapel, and the blasting music finally dampened. He stands there for a long moment, letting it wash over him, wash the wedding away like grime on his feet. But the tension has been present for the last two months, a constant squeezing pressure around him that is both comforting and bloody straining. Now that it is over, he feels as though he will come apart. His insides give a horrible lurch and he cannot breathe properly and he knows he is close to death.
There is a proper time to die.
The moon is a thin sliver in the sky. Out here, the stars shine brighter than in the London smog. Only on rare occasions can one see even a few stars above the city lights. But in the country, they light up the dark roads.
Sherlock remembers lying in the grass as a child and looking up at the stars, Redbeard's heavy panting beside him, always beside him.
He tilts his head back and closes his eyes. He would give his heart for a cigarette right now, anything to relieve the tight feeling in his throat. His chin wobbles.
Perhaps if he goes home, tomorrow will not come. It shouldn't. People living their ordinary lives, going to the shops, riding the tube, clocking in at work... none of it will happen because the world cannot possibly keep turning.
Sherlock does not want to go home.
-x-
He goes through the motions once he is back at the flat. Tea, shower, comb, teeth. It's all he can do. He grabs a spoon from the drawer and digs around for a lighter. His blow torch would melt the spoon.
He locks the bathroom door, just in case.
Sherlock uses the end of the spoon to levy up the loose tile and his fingers sneak in to grab the plastic baggie. He takes out the parchment with shaking hands. The white powder inside spills to the floor. He tosses the baggie in the sink.
He pauses, on his hands and knees, staring at the little hill of white. His very bones are aching for just a hit of it, but a small voice orders him to scatter his hand through the powder and send it into every nook and cranny of the loo so he can never find enough to fill even thimble full.
There is more than enough for a spoonful.
It hovers over the flame.
What was that song Mummy sang? Spoonful of sugar?
Yes please don't look at me like that Myc. Just pretend it's sugar.
The muscles in his iris pull his pupils apart, every hair follicle over his body now wired to his brain. The air is too heavy, feels like ants crawling over him. Each pulse of his heart pushing blood through his veins and arteries, oxygen flooding his muscles. It is the most he has been aware of his transport in months.
The breath escapes him with a low noise. His head falls back, lights swirling overhead.
Sherlock watches the needle leave his skin, he can feel it sliding out of the hole torn through him. He brushes his thumb over the dollop of blood. It looks too red over his pale skin.
The syringe clatters to the floor.
The loo rocks back and forth like the inside of a top when it's lost the momentum. Sherlock stuffs the paper into his dressing gown pocket. Those are the rules, but right now he can't remember why. It's good that he can't remember, so achingly good. Sherlock always remembers even when he so desperately wants to forget; it is his curse. He promised himself he did not need to forget Serbia, no matter how long he went without sleep. No matter how much he wanted it, he did not want John's disappointment even more.
Now, he can blessedly forget it all. The gouges in his back, the baby, the night at the restaurant, the feeling of weightlessness when his feet left the roof, so many many things to forget. Do normal people have to forget this much?
Sherlock uses the edge of the sink to try to heave himself up, but his arms give out, and there's a moment of weightlessness and heart stopping fear when he catches a flash of overcast sky, and suddenly he is on his back. His head lolls to his shoulder, cheek pressed into the cold tile. He can see under the door into the hall.
He blinks slowly, feeling his breathing even out. He presses his palms into the cold floor. He wants to sink through it into the water below. He can hear it lapping at his toes.
It's like coming home after seven years away. He closes his eyes and slips under.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
Sherlock bangs his elbow on bottom of the tub. He has managed to contort himself enough so he's lying on his side with his knees tucked to his chest, but that leaves his toes under the faucet which has been leaking for weeks now. He has attempted to patch it thrice now, and the drips stop for a day or two, but they always return when the flat is quiet.
Sherlock climbs out, much more steady than he thought he would be. The tile is warm under his feet.
Plink. Plink. Plunk.
The mirror is still fogged over from the shower. Sherlock swipes his hand over it, revealing a reflection of himself that is years older. Age lines crackle across his forehead and eyes. Salt and pepper hair curls over the receding hairline. He squints and leans closer, touching his face at the same time as the reflection. So it is his reflection. He almost looks like -
Mycroft heaves a sigh from the other room. Sherlock frowns, forehead lines crinkling like clay, and turns away from the mirror. What could possibly be ailing Mycroft right now? Probably had an aneurysm from climbing the stairs. Too bad it didn't kill him.
Sherlock drags his feet into the kitchen and glares at the back of Mycroft's thinning head poking up from John's chair. Premature balding set in at twenty five. It is a wonder he has not lost all his hair at this point.
Sherlock continues to drag himself to the sitting room. The drips from the toilet are dampened here, but a massive fissure in the center of the room floods the carpet. Sherlock's feet squelch across the puddles. The clock chimes the hour. Sherlock glances at the timepiece on the bookcase. The hands are missing, and some of the numbers are just smiley faces. Time has no meaning here.
Mycroft is dressed down. No suit jacket, and his vest is unbuttoned. Big Brother is not so informal as John though. Mycroft has not taken off his shoes in Sherlock's presence since they were children. Although, Mycroft never really was a child. Sherlock is convinced Mummy and Daddy found him fully dressed in a miniature suit in the dusty attic rather than actually birthing him.
When they were children, Mycroft told Sherlock that Mummy and Daddy found him after a freak show packed up and left him behind. Sherlock knows he would have fit in quite well there. He could have been the Amazing Death Faker. The crowd screams in fright as he falls to a cold pavement, but he gets back up, not a single bone broken. But then one night when he has to fall off a building for the umpteenth time, he'll switch out the airbag with one that deflates much too fast and sends him cracking on the stone. The front rows splattered in red.
Sherlock tips back and drops into his chair. Mycroft sniffs. He hates when Sherlock does that. Wrinkles the trousers.
Sherlock rubs the space between his eyes and tilts his head up so he does not have to look at Mycroft. He will stay until morning. No amount of cocaine or booze will make him float away like his other problems.
"What are you doing here?" he says to the ceiling. He can see dancing patterns in the stains from past cigarettes. He could use a cigarette now. His gaze falls on the space next to the hearth. His slipper should be there. It's so far away though.
"Do you ever wonder if he asks too much?" Mycroft says, jolting Sherlock from his thoughts.
Sherlock blinks, bringing Mycroft into focus again. "You ask too much," he retorts.
"You know that's not true, little brother. I have your best interests at heart." Mycroft smirks and twirls his umbrella handle. "I'm the only one who does."
Sherlock curls his knees up to his chest and reaches for his violin, not to play, not even to pluck the strings. It just feels nice in his hands. The sounds of unsettled water fill his head.
Sherlock strokes the neck of the violin. "John does." He does not know why, but he feels proud that he can name someone else while Mycroft cannot. Of course Mycroft would not see that as an achievement.
Mycroft tilts his head and frowns. "Where do you get that idea?"
Sherlock sneers and leans forward. Mycroft is trying to trick him, trying to tell him that he's a waste of air like he did when they were kids. But he's wrong. Sherlock stabs his finger at him, only to lose his balance when his elbow slips off his knee. He grabs hold of the armrests and waits for the room to stop swaying.
"John," he says matter of factly, "is my friend."
Mycroft's icy expression softens, to more frigid water, and he shakes his head. "You do too much for him, with little reward, or regard for that matter, of your own delicate sensibilities."
Of course Mycroft would think that. Every favor came to him wrapped up with an expensive price tag hanging off the bow. Right and wrong had no jurisdiction, only if one paid more and if it was important enough for him to intervene.
"What would you know?" Sherlock mutters. Mycroft has no friends, and Sherlock knows he tried to smother him when he was still in the pram.
Mycroft smirks. "I know when to let go of something that is holding me back. That's all he is now. He obviously does not need you." He nods to the side.
Though his blurring vision, Sherlock sees Mary Morstan swaying in front of the coffee table. He was quite certain he locked the door, and yet here she stands.
Sherlock plucks a string and the note swirls over his head. Sherlock glares. "You're just jealous."
Mycroft chuckles in that revoltingly irritating way of his and smiles with too much teeth. "You wouldn't need people either if you just stopped with this little play-act."
There comes a point in one's life when a visible persona overtakes the true skin. Something akin to self brainwashing to sell a lie they themselves do not believe, but want so desperately to be true. "Fake it 'til you make it," like they say. Who "they" are, Sherlock is not certain. But they wear their second skin around people that need to be impressed, and shed it at night to reveal their true selves like an ugly scab in a harsh light.
Sherlock's skin is becoming harder and harder to shed, and easier to keep on.
He is no longer certain of who he is. So many years he understood that he needed no one and no one wanted him. That was the legacy of the last Holmes children. That was what made them Holmeses. There was the briefest of connections at Uni, twenty years ago, where he thought he could be -
Mycroft's umbrella whacks him in the face, derailing his train of thought. "You got involved," he sing songs.
A burst of seething hatred erupts from Sherlock and he is on his feet, splashing in the ankle deep water before he can calm himself. He is not a child anymore, and yet Mycroft constantly berates him like one just to humiliate him.
Sherlock grabs the umbrella. "I don't need anyone!" he yells.
Mycroft stands and yanks the umbrella back to him and whaps Sherlock again. He stumbles back into his chair and sucks in a breath to shout, but chokes because his brother is gone, and in his place is... him. His reflection. It flickers in and out of focus like water. It stands with its chin against its collarbone, swaying in place like it's not really standing, but floating. The same thin frame, dark hair, long bloodless fingers. Its chin raises, blinking slowly at Sherlock. But it's wrong. It is not Sherlock.
Sherlock remembers his reflection after he washed the fake blood off his face in the locker room at Barts three years ago. This... thing, looks nothing like that. Purple and red splotches over the swelling lumps on the side of its face. Blood drips from its nose and mouth, plopping off its chin into the ankle deep water at its feet. Blood seeps from the side of its head where a piece of skull is missing and the brain pulses beneath. Black straggles of hair stick to its forehead.
The doppleganger tilts its head. "It's just like flying," it says in a rough version of Sherlock's voice.
The dead Sherlock collapses like a cut marionette and its bloody hands claw through the flood. Sherlock backpedals in his chair, nearly throwing himself over the side to get away. The water splashes around him in great waves in his desperation. He backs himself into the corner between the desk and the window.
"Don't leave me," it moans.
Sherlock shuts his eyes and presses his forehead into the wall. His hand creeps up to his throat. He cannot breathe properly. It isn't real. It cannot get him. It's in his head. All in his head.
The doppleganger's hands dissolve in the water, along with the rest of it, and Sherlock stares wide eyed at the remains of red and black that float towards him.
He trembles and rises to his feet. "It isn't real," he whispers.
A pale grey hand launches out, spraying Sherlock with red and black and latches around his neck before he can scream. His terror ratchets up as it pulls him to his knees and he manages to gulp in a breath just as he sinks below the surface. Down, down, down into the dark and cold.
It isn't real, he frantically reminds himself. He struggles against the hands around his throat. It isn't real, not real. He's not here.
A face emerges from the depths. A familiar pair of dark, blank eyes wink at him and the hands tighten. A stream of bubbles escape Sherlock's open maw. He kicks down, gripping the wrist like stone. Sherlock would know those eyes anywhere, especially in the dark. He thrashes against the hands, but a voice stills him. He could not move if an electric prod jabbed him.
"It's not so bad," he whispers to Sherlock, his soft voice slithering into his brain. His voice just as clear and eerily pleasant after three years. "You might like it."
Sherlock closes his eyes. There are times when he still searches for excuses. He saw the articles, remembers what John said - the death threats. Hatred chips away at a person's insides more than Sherlock cares to admit. Particularly at one's own self. But that would mean those eyes would smile and that silky soft voice would laugh and laugh and laugh at him forever in the dark.
"No," Sherlock croaks. "Not like you."
The eyes shimmer and shadows swallow the face, and the hands dissolve around Sherlock. Light breaks through the darkness. Sherlock reaches up towards it. He just has to swim.
He gasps, sputtering awake on the hard wood floor, staring up at a pair of long, dark legs and the tails of a belstaff. He cannot move, despite the cold and the ache in his body.
The legs bend, knees beside his head, the coat just barely brushing his cheek. A leather gloved hand turns his face side to side. The light blocks out the face above, but he can see the outline of frazzled hair.
"So what d'you think?"
Sherlock blinks and suddenly he is staring down at his own body, as if he were someone else, but he's not. John stands beside him, dressed in his wedding tuxedo. The body at their feet wears a blue military uniform, and a white belt with gold clasps lying limp at his sides. Its cloudy pale blue eyes stare up unseeing. Dark red stains his midsection where the white belt would be.
There's a proper time to die.
"Sherlock?" John nudges him.
Sherlock does not want to look at the body. He instead directs his gaze ahead, where Mycroft sits in the church pews below them. This is wrong. He should not be here.
"Oi. We've got a job to do."
Sherlock frowns. He can see his reflection behind the the cloudy eyes. He opens his mouth, but cannot find the words. John raises his eyebrow and nods to his hands. Sherlock blinks and is startled to see the notecards.
"Well?" John says.
"Victim is in his late thirties," Sherlock reads. "Single. Past addict." Christ. Is that what others will see on him?
Laughter behind him. The pews are filled now with faceless mannequins, except Mycroft, who watches with a grimace.
John nods. "Go on."
Sherlock shuffles the cards. "Ruined four and a half dates. Drugged friend/flatmate three times for fun, and..." He does not want to read the last one. He looks at the corpse.
This all they will see when they find his body. This is all he will be. Just a body, another specimen left behind for Molly to examine. Nothing special. Whatever's cheap.
John crouches down and lifts the medals, just over the space where his heart would be. There is a hole, carved through the muscle and bone, and the smoldering cavity is empty. Smoke trickles out.
John winces and gets to his feet again. "Kind of pathetic."
Sherlock feels something squeeze in his chest and turns to John. "You observe that?"
John nods. "Why do you think no one reported him? No missing persons, no one to interview. He had enough money to live on his own for two years. Why am I here again?"
The cards tumble from Sherlock's limp fingers. "Why? You are valuable John. You are worth so much to him... to me."
The audience simultaneously awws and Sherlock's shoulders creep to his ears.
John sniffs and shoves his hands into his pockets. "That's all well and clever, but do I have to go to his actual funeral? I mean I did already go to that fake one."
Sherlock feels like he has been punched. It is hard to breathe. "John... I am sorry."
Suddenly John seizes him by his dressing gown and Sherlock hears a crack and John's forehead is covered in blood and Sherlock is falling. There is a moment of panic, and the air rushes out of him. He reaches out for John's hand, but he is gone when Sherlock hits the ground.
Tears prick at his eyes and his throat is tight.
Raymond Macintyre, in the standard academy uniform, sneers down at him, his fist bloody. Sherlock touches his swollen nose, warm from blood.
"You stay down there," Macintyre says with a grimace. "Keep your fag face away from us."
A long string of spit hits Sherlock's bruised cheek.
Hot tears spill down Sherlock's face and buries his head into his knees and shudders.
Suddenly, a hand clasps the back of his neck and he flinches, but he recognizes Mycroft's plain aftershave. He turns and he is in his childhood bathroom, old claw footed bathtub and green tile floor to ceiling. Mummy's blue flannels hung on brass hooks. He sits on the edge of the tub, knees bloody and uniform dirty. Mycroft kneels with his sleeves rolled to his elbows in front of him, hand on his shoulder, and presses the flannel to Sherlock's knee.
"What did I tell you?"
Sherlock gulps and tries to stifle his sobs. "Only...only idiots cry."
Mycroft, eyes still icy as stone, smiles. "Are you stupid?"
Sherlock covers his eyes and shakes his head. He does not want Mycroft to doctor him. He wants his doctor.
Mycroft squeezes his shoulder, the closest to affection of which he was nearly capable. "Good. Because no one would love you if you were stupid."
"But..." Sherlock's lower lip wobbles. "John."
Mycroft frowns and stands to his full height, miles and miles above Sherlock. He throws the flannel back into the sink and shakes his head. "What a stupid little boy."
Sherlock clutches the leash to his chest. It still has strands of red hair stuck in the fabric.
Mycroft crosses his arms. "We told you, Sherlock. You can't have another one." He snatches the red leash from Sherlock and storms from the toilet.
Sherlock leaps to his feet and scrambles after him. He follows Mycroft to the den, where the fire burns.
"No!" Sherlock cries, reaching for the leash, but Mycroft is too tall. "I-I'll take care of him," he pleads. "He needs me."
Mycroft shoves him away. "You can't even take care of yourself."
Sherlock looks at his hands. His dressing gown sleeves slip down his wrists and the bruises are stark purple against his pale skin.
Mycroft shakes his head. "He doesn't need you. You need him. No one needs you." His eyebrow ticks up and he tosses the leash into the fire.
Sherlock blinks slowly, the tears drying on his cheeks, and stares into the flames. He curls into himself. Mycroft is right. Redbeard ran off because he didn't like Sherlock. He wasn't his real friend. Everyone at school hated him. Even when he thought he could have John, he was still meant to be alone.
But he did not want to be alone. That was the difference.
He presses his face into his hands. "I-I can change."
A soft voice sighs. "You'll never change, Sherlock."
Sherlock feels his insides squeeze around a ball of ice. Sweat rolls down his neck. His heart thunders in his chest. He forces his hands away from his eyes and cranes his head up.
He is back in 221B. Soft leather presses into his back, and Jim, with his blank, dark eyes, smiles warmly from John's chair. He holds a tea cup to his lips. The firelight flickers off his face.
"You'll always end up here, with me." He rises from his seat. The tea cup tumbles from his hand and it smashes into the floor. He steps over its remains. "It's okay though. We can be broken together."
He crouches at Sherlock's side, presses close to him. He smells of cinnamon and he is warm where Sherlock is so cold inside. "It's how it's supposed to be," he whispers. "No one else would understand." He wraps his arm around Sherlock.
Sherlock's head is too heavy to keep up now. He lets it rest against Jim's shoulder. His eyes search wildly for Mycroft, but logic has fled. Only his heart remains, bared raw for the empty room. Always empty. No one, not even Mycroft is allowed to be present with this part of himself. Because this part of Sherlock is shameful, and never allowed to see daylight, like a private search of pornography. It is the only comfort he has.
Jim pats his hand. "You should've killed yourself when I gave you the chance."
Sherlock blinks, and squeezes Jim's hand. He does not have to say it aloud.
He was given a way out, but he could not leave John behind to deal with the rest of Moriarty's mess. But now, with the world safe once more, Sherlock is happy to see the irony in keeping Jim alive after years of erasing him.
He does not flinch when Jim strokes his hair. "It's not too late," he murmurs.
Sherlock gulps and shuts his eyes, the darkness a comfort for once. He has this. He curls into himself, and presses his forehead on his knees. He still has time.
-x-
Hands tighten around his biceps. His back is killing him, pressed into the cold, hard tile all night. He's getting too old for this. His head feels like he bashed it into the toilet, pounding in time with his blood pressure.
Sherlock's eyes flutter open. The overhead light blocks out the face above him, but he can smell the aftershave. Sherlock shivers. It is far too cold in here.
"S'not time yet," he mutters. His voice his hoarse trying to get through his dry throat. His teeth chatter.
Mycroft grunts and presses his hand to Sherlock's forehead like he used to do when they were little. His hand is cold too. Why isn't he yelling at him? Telling him that he will burn down 221B to search for his stash? Tell him he's going to send him back to Mummy and Daddy's until he gets clean again? Tell him what an idiot he is?
Sherlock struggles to keep his eyes open. The light is pounding against his head. Mycroft does not seem to notice how bright it is.
Sherlock pats Mycroft's hand and smiles. Of course. "Knew it. You got 'volved," he mutters.
He curls into himself and lets the fake Mycroft heave his upper body off the floor and into his lap. He sits with Sherlock, using the closed door to prop himself up.
A snowflake catches in Sherlock's eyelashes. He reaches up to catch more.
"Snowman." He snorts and looks up at Mycroft. "Notta Ice Man."
Mycroft gently takes Sherlock's hand. "That's nice, Sherlock." He rubs his upper arm.
Sherlock shivers and watches the snow.
Mycroft does not talk. He holds his little brother. Sherlock does not see the vein throbbing in his forehead, or the muscles jumping in his throat. His trembling hands wrap around something invisible close to his chest and he mumbles to himself.
Sometimes Mycroft makes out Redbeard amongst the rambling. Sherlock's glazed eyes follow something Mycroft cannot see. He sinks back into the wonderland that frees him from the torments around him. Mycroft holds him closer. It comforts him to think that Sherlock is happier there.
I am sorry that this comes before the end of my other fic. Still in progress. Thank you to all my lovely readers who are still hanging on.
Comments are always appreciated. Hope everyone had a lovely holiday, and Happy New Year.