"Help me, Mycroft."
The man in question stood with his back to his brother, considering the view from the window of the breakfast room. Before him stretched the manicured swathes of lawn surrounding his Richmond home and behind him stood the twitching shell of man who'd forsaken his exceptional gifts, his obvious potential and his previously unimpeachable pedigree to find solace in a hypodermic needle.
If Mycroft continued with his current path, a future of unparalleled power lay ahead of him. He could still ascend further, still cultivate greater influence. It wasn't the money or the power that drove him so much as obligation. The duty to Crown and country and all that. A man of his background and talents owed service to the institutions that supported the monarch, after all. That was the flip side of privilege. More than that, though, Mycroft loved the intricacies of diplomacy and the machinations that were contrived in the shadows. As much as a man like him could love anything, of course.
"Mycroft!"
Ah, yes. Love.
Turning to his younger brother, he took in the street grime and pervasive odour of desperation and didn't bother to hide his disdain.
"You're a liability," he enunciated coolly. "To the family, myself particularly. To yourself," he added, stepping forward.
Sherlock flinched, but stayed put. Maintained eye contact. Mycroft noted pupils constricted to bleak pinpricks in cold green grey. Skin pale yet sallow and tight over the characteristic high cheekbones. Sweat-dampened. His curls were slicked to his scalp with rain and oil. The wreck bore only superficial resemblance to the handsome craft that had once been and the degeneration bothered Mycroft more than he thought it ought to.
"Please," Sherlock muttered in low tones.
All at once, Mycroft was reminded of another duty.
"He's your responsibility," Mummy had said, carefully settling the baby in his arms. He'd been a small boy, short and stocky for his age, but the baby – his brother, he corrected himself – was a mewling creature swaddled in soft cotton, weighing barely anything at all. His breath caught in his lungs as the bundle squirmed; terrified he'd drop it and fail to meet his mother's very clear expectations.
"William Sherlock Scott," she recited softly, smiling.
"Sherlock," he replied. A vow.
From then on, he'd watched and waited and worried. The baby had grown and become, in turn, another little boy who listened with rapt attention when his brother spoke and cried for "Croft" when he was hurt. When Mycroft went away to school, the little boy grew quiet and resentful and never answered the letters addressed to "Lock" in careful schoolboy script.
The same little boy had now been brought low by his arrogant folly and pleaded for his help.
Advancing, he stopped scant inches away from Sherlock.
"On one condition," he exhaled on a sigh.
"Anything," was the reply, too eager.
Raising an eyebrow, Mycroft circled him and assessed the damage he was about to embark on repairing. Physically, the toll the drugs had taken could be counter-acted and his brother would be well again. Psychologically, he prayed the mind was simply dormant beneath the opioid shroud. Sherlock, he knew, would bristle at obvious concern and baulk at the first sign of what he perceived to be pity. The cure must be seem straight-forward and clinical. The most successful gambit would eschew brotherly love and emotion, he thought, and play to Sherlock's conceit. Make him feel like a resource to used and exploited, and he'll be more tolerant to the intervention.
"If we start this, you will be in my debt. I will expect you to tender repayment when I require it." It had been a long time since Mycroft could effectively quell his brother's rebellion with a look and he summoned all of the hardness he had to the fore to reinforce his words.
"Of course," Sherlock returned.
"Do we have an agreement?" Mycroft asked, offering his hand in true English style.
"We do," Sherlock said.
He took the pro-offered clasp and shook once, firmly.
Mycroft was winded by something like shock when his brother collapsed against him and caught him up in a clumsy embrace. He staggered slightly under the limp weight, but managed to adjust his arms around Sherlock's skeletal frame.
"Thank you, Croft."