A/N: Hey everyone! Thanks to all of you who have been reading, following, favouriting and reviewing my stories so far, and if you are new, then hey! ^_^
This story is slightly inspired by the scene in 'His Last Vow' when John finds Sherlock in the drug den. However, I have given it a younger Sherlock and Mycroft twist, I really do just love writing about them ;) There will be a second chapter depending on how you find this one, so I hope you enjoy! Again, I apologise deeply for anything obviously out of character.
If you have time to review then please do, I love hearing from you :) xx
Mycroft could not believe it; he did not want to believe it. First of all, he did not want to believe that his own little brother would take money from him after Mycroft left his wallet unattended for less than 10 minutes, but he also did not want to believe that he would find Sherlock in the place he was currently heading to on the cold, dark and gloomy night; he sincerely hoped the ambiance was not part of some cruel pathetic fallacy.
Mycroft was 23 years old, a young budding politician who had simply returned home to visit his parents and Sherlock as he had not seen them in so long. Although he would not admit it, he was actually quite looking forward to seeing his 16 year old brother again, as it turned out other politicians could all be so dull, and no one understood the world the way Mycroft did like Sherlock; his brother was his closest interluctual equal, Mycroft would admit.
However, what was not very intelligent in Mycroft's opinion – in fact it was downright stupid – was that according to Mummy, Sherlock had taken on certain habits to cope when he could no longer stand his brain moving at a million miles an hour.
That was what Mycroft believed made him superior to his brother; he could control his emotions and still interact with others very well, he could keep his mind flowing at a steady past, his thoughts calm and calculated, whilst Sherlock liked to jump in head first so to speak and not really think of the consequences and how they might affect other people.
Part of the reason Mycroft had gone to visit was to see if he could dissuade his brother from using cigarettes and more than possibly drugs to deal with his whizzing head, that taking a more thought-out and systematic approach was the answer. Just a week before Mummy had called Mycroft in tears because Sherlock had stumbled home, verbally incoherent and covered in mysterious bruises.
On the first day Mycroft was home, Sherlock had not even come to greet him; he just stayed shut up in his room all day. This made Mummy even more upset because she remembered how Sherlock use to practically cling to Mycroft when they were little, and now he would not even come out to see the big brother he had so greatly admired. She was also concerned he was not eating and sleeping enough either and so when it came to dinnertime, Mycroft thought a more stern approach was needed.
"Sherlock" he said in a firm voice as he knocked on his brother's bedroom door. "Come downstairs right now, you have no reason to…" Mycroft was surprised when the door started to creak open on its own accord.
Frowning, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, being very careful not to trip over any of the books or parts of experiments which were scattered over the floor.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft questioned the situation now, though he would not yet admit to concern.
He hurried over to the window where the curtains were billowing in the wind. Scuff marks, probably from shoes he observed on the drainpipe beside the window, and then spotted a strand of blue fabric which he plucked from a crack in the sill; probably from Sherlock's scarf.
"Damn it all, Sherlock" Mycroft said under his breath as zigzagged his way back out of the room.
He was passing his own room when he realised the door was open after he swore he had left it closed. He went in and found his wallet lying empty on the bed, and the anger inside him almost bubbled to the surface – his own brother had robbed him! But no, Mycroft was calm and collected man, he would simply go and explain things to Mummy and then drag Sherlock home himself.
"No luck then?" Violet asked sadly as Mycroft returned without his brother in tow.
"He's not in his room" Mycroft said "by the looks of things he escaped out the window, not that he was ever trapped" he left out the part about the missing money, because despite everything Mycroft still had this insistent urge to protect his brother but also not upset their mother further – he would deal with Sherlock himself.
"Oh, Lord" Violet sighed as she ran her hands down her face "I so greatly despair of that boy sometimes"
"As do I" Mycroft said "But we cannot give up on him" he said, more to his own surprise than his mother's.
There was a part of him which wanted to believe that the little boy who would come scuttling into his room seeking comfort after a practically harsh storm was still within Sherlock somewhere, and Mycroft hoped he still had the ability to get through to his brother and be there like he used to. However, it would be difficult, as they had both changed a lot since then.
"Bring him home, Mycroft" Violet said desperately and Mycroft gave a firm nod.
"I will, please try not to worry" Mycroft said, giving his mother a small reassuring smile as that was all he could offer and really was capable of offering. "I'll be back soon, with Sherlock, I promise" Mycroft reiterated more for his own sake than Mummy's before leaving the room.
"Be careful!" Violet called after her eldest son; she could not stand the thought of her boys being hurt, and they would always be children in her eyes.
"I will" Mycroft called back, though he knew with where he was going it would be a promise he could not keep, and he could not promise Sherlock would not already be down for the count.
Picking up his umbrella - the only shield and weapon Mycroft possessed – the elder Holmes brother walked out the door, opening the brolly to cover him from the deluge of rain and headed off into the dark streets of London. There was no need for running yet, Mycroft decided, Sherlock could be perfectly fine. He would keep his pace calm, like his mind, and not assume the worst; that would not get him anywhere.
Mycroft had a clue as to where Sherlock would be. He had once caught Sherlock in a rough part of the area trying to buy cigarettes off someone when the younger Holmes was just 14. Mycroft had scolded him severely and dragged him all the way home. Sherlock had mumbled a very insincere apology, proved insincere when he came back from school smelling of smoke the next day. Mycroft knew the patch was notorious for its dirty dealings and the authorities had done nothing about it; he would though, when he went back to work.
The rain started to come down harder as Mycroft rounded the last corner, finally seeing the alley corner where he had spotted his brother trying to buy cigarettes just 2 years ago. He could already see a dark figure stood outside, shivering, but still determined to inhale whatever toxic substance they had into their lungs.
Mycroft found his pace quickening the closer he got until he was running, his earlier thoughts about a calm composure left behind as he suddenly feared for his little brother after seeing the sort of people who were hanging around there. Only Sherlock could make me run Mycroft thought grudgingly.
The man stood at the top of the alley did not even acknowledge Mycroft as he closed his umbrella and walked by. Mycroft felt a little self-conscious and unclean as he entered the abandoned building to the sight of clearly homeless people lying on flea ridden mattresses, moaning to themselves after coming down from their latest high, or laughing hysterically from insanity. Mycroft perished the thought of Sherlock being among these people and prayed his brother was in fact somewhere else; anywhere else.
The elder Holmes moved slowly through the dark and dank building, his eyes scanning the grime covered walls, the ill people and making every relevant deduction possible. No one seemed to pay his much attention at first, but Mycroft still tightened his grip on the handle of his umbrella – it was better than no defence at all, he supposed.
"Hey!" Someone finally called after him in a thick and slurred accent. Mycroft sighed and with a roll of his eyes turned to face the staggering man "What exactly do you fink you're doin' 'ere, rich boy?" he asked as he came so close that Mycroft could smell the alcohol on his breath and see the dilated pupils of a drug abuser.
Mycroft admitted that maybe coming out in his suit was probably drawing more attention to himself than he needed, but he did not really own any other kind of clothing. Besides, he did not care what this vulgar man had to say, he just wanted to get his brother and leave.
"I am looking for my brother" Mycroft spoke steadily, showing no sign of intimidation.
"Yeah well, if 'e is 'ere he clearly don't wanna see you" the man said as he dared to give Mycroft a shove back with his dirty hand.
Mycroft stumbled, but did nothing to show discomfort, much to the man's surprise. "I did not ask for your opinion on the matter" Mycroft said, his voice low and cold "I am simply here to find my brother, Sherlock, do you know where he is?"
The man sniffed "Maybe I do, but it'll cost ya" he said.
Mycroft sighed "I don't have time for this, please move out of my way and I'll find him myself"
He tried to walk past, but the man grabbed Mycroft's arm. He was of a much bigger build and maybe a few years older than Mycroft, and by this point at least four other men had circled around them.
"We can't trust you, rich boy" the junkie went on "can't have you going and spragging to the authorities on us"
With that, Mycroft turned to the man, his eyes dark and emotionless, and for the first time the man seemed intimidated. Mycroft opened his mouth and spoke, very calmly but dangerously "I am the authority"
Much to Mycroft's annoyance, the man just smiled and then turned it into a deep laugh. "Is that so?" he said. "Well, let's see 'ow you 'andle this, Mr Authority" he said mockingly.
One of the men stood behind Mycroft managed to rip the umbrella from the oldest Holmes' grasp. Mycroft spun around to retaliate, but was stopped when the fist of another man swung into his left cheek. Mycroft stumbled to the side before someone else tackled him to the ground, and then there were fists and kicks flying at him from all directions.
Mycroft would say that he tried to fight back, but he had never been in a fight before and never been trained to fend for himself using his fists. He had always managed to talk his way out of situations with his well-articulated and complex words; however that clearly was not going to work this time.
Mycroft could feel himself giving in as the darkness danced in the corners of his eyes - he felt weak and humiliated and even though he managed to get in a few punches of his own it just was not enough.
Just as he was about to lose consciousness there was an echoing shout of "Stop!" but Mycroft did not see the source of the overpowering voice as he was finally sucked into darkness.