This is a story I wrote for my friend Sabine's birthday. Sometime ago she saw the amazing artwork I used as a cover-image for this story. It is called "drugs", done by the talented "Gregory-Welter" and can be found at the website from devianart. Thank you, for the permission to use it for this story. Anyway - when Sabine saw it, she told me she wanted a story for this picture and this is what I came up with. Well, those are mostly my ideas. At some point one or the other character had an idea of his own. Believe me, it is no fun writing when you try to handle a disgruntled Mycroft or John. It's better to go along when they want to do something.
I'm grateful that my wonderful Beta Jack63kids found time to come aboard to help. Thank you so much, Jack!
Still, I don't own anything - ask my bank, they'll agree. The characers belong to ACD and, of course, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. Thanks guys!
The story is done already but you'll get it bit by bit. But I can promise you already that the last chapter will be posted on the 17th October.
Oh, and I totally wouldn't mind comments. :-)
PRESENT DAY
"Myc?"
Mycroft Holmes blinked awake when he heard the soft voice of Greg Lestrade, who was gently shaking his shoulder.
"I'm fine, Gregory," Mycroft tried to assure his friend, while straightening up. He winced from the pain in his back. Several hours curled up in a hospital chair had wreaked havoc on his body.
"You're as stiff as a board," the Inspector protested.
"Not true." However, the sound that came from the Politician's spine when he moved carefully, sounded like every single vertebra was clicking back into the position it was supposed to occupy.
Giving up all pretence, Mycroft groaned. "Not true," he repeated, peering at the doubtful expression on Greg's face. "A board would be much more flexible than my spine is right now."
With a final clicking noise, the last vertebra re-aligned itself and Mycroft stood up to stretch to his full height.
"Sorry, I couldn't make it sooner. Was caught up at a crime-scene. What happened?" Greg indicated Sherlock Holmes' sleeping form in the hospital bed. "He looks like he..." His voice trailed off and his gaze flew to Mycroft's face in alarm. "Did he OD?"
Mycroft nodded gravely. Directing his pained expression at his sleeping sibling, he gently touched the dark curls before he spoke again.
"He won't wake up for several hours. We should go and find a decent cup of tea."
Greg nodded. "Probably a good idea. There's a new café across the street. They're open around the clock."
Both men left the room; the only sounds left were the beeping of the heart-monitor and the hissing of the respiratory apparatus.