Saving A Life
Mycroft sat at his brother's bedside, despairing. He couldn't do this anymore; he couldn't watch his brother slowly kill himself with cocaine or heroin or whatever the hell he'd taken this time. Having access to resources that really weren't meant for personal use had allowed Mycroft to finally locate his wayward twenty-two-year-old brother in a squalid room in an abandoned building in the worst part of London.
Ever since Sherlock's birth, Mycroft had taken it upon himself to be his brother's protector. He loved his little brother fiercely; he admired how Sherlock's mind worked and was often amazed at the leaps of logic that came out of that magnificent brain. But he also understood Sherlock in a way their parents never did.
They had been raised in a warm, loving and slightly unconventional household, and neither boy ever doubted that they were adored. But … but the two boys were so far ahead of their peers intellectually that making friends was often difficult. And what was difficult for Mycroft was virtually impossible for Sherlock, for it seemed that Sherlock had never developed the filter that prevented him from blurting out the truth, no matter the situation and no matter who got hurt.
So Mycroft quickly decided that it was his responsibility to watch over his younger brother, to refine his mind and teach him how to actually see the world around them.
They were best friends until Mycroft left for school. At thirteen years old, the teenager was eager to be going away to school, to learn history and politics and maths from teachers with letters like "BA" or "Ph.D" after their names. In his excitement, Mycroft forgot about the curly-haired six-year-old he was leaving behind; the child who, up until the previous year, called him "Mycwoft" due to a slight lisp.
On his first school break, Mycroft had returned home eager to tell Sherlock all about the classes he was taking and the concepts he was learning and even the few friends he had managed to make. He did not expect to be greeted by a sullen, angry child who wanted nothing to do with him.
Mummy advised patience and Father gave no opinion but rather wrapped Mycroft in a warm hug. Sherlock ignored him completely and Mycroft's heart broke a little.
Subsequent trips home revealed to Mycroft a family under siege: Sherlock was out of control, his mind whirring and seeming ready to rip him apart at the seams; Mummy was terribly afraid for her youngest and subsequently hovered over him; Father was worried, but tried to be the steadying influence that he seemed to think Sherlock required. Mycroft, knowing that his interference would never be tolerated, could only watch over his brother from afar.
By the time Mycroft was twenty-five, he was well-established in his position with the Government and was considered a "rising star". He was known to be thoughtful, well-spoken and extremely intelligent. When Mycroft spoke, everyone listened. Everyone except Sherlock, that is.
Sherlock had banished his brother from his life, insofar as he was able. He couldn't stop the Government man (who had unprecedented access to the CCTV network) from tracking him, but he did his best to disappear off the radar as often as possible. Usually Mycroft would let him be for a few days before actively seeking him out, but once the drugs entered the picture even that tiny semblance of freedom was taken from the young man. Now, Mycroft dogged his brother's every step. He knew Sherlock's haunts and habits, he did background checks on every one of the man's acquaintances and he'd even managed to 'remove' several of Sherlock's dealers from the equation.
But it was like sticking a finger in a dyke, hoping to hold back the sea; it worked in the short term, but was not a long-term solution. Sherlock managed to circumvent every protection that Mycroft put in place and disappear into the underbelly of London with great regularity. Mycroft despaired for his brother; he loved Sherlock deeply, but he soon began to resent him as well. He was tired of rescuing his brother from drug deals gone bad, saving him from catching God-knows-what festering diseases that lived in the dumps he called home and he was exhausted from having to run interference with the police. Mycroft was ready to give up.
Earlier that morning, he had received a call from Gregory Lestrade, a policeman who had shown an unusual protective streak towards the young junkie. Sherlock had apparently dazzled him with his deductions at a crime scene.
If not for Lestrade's information about Sherlock's whereabouts and the state of his health, Mycroft would not now be seated at his brother's bedside, waiting with faint hope for him to waken.
No more, he thought to himself as he gazed unseeing at the machines that surrounded the young man's bed. Reaching out, he ran his hand over his brother's head and whispered, "Locky, what happened? Is this my fault? Are you punishing me for having left you behind all those years ago?"
The only response he got was the beeping of the heart monitor and the sound of air being forced into his brother's lungs by the ventilator.
Mycroft sat there, with head bowed, for many long moments. Then he suddenly sat up straight, brushed his hands down his waistcoat and leaned back in the uncomfortable plastic chair. He had made a decision. For better or worse, and even if it meant that the tenuous thread that held them together would forever be broken, Mycroft was no longer going to stand idly by while his brother ruined his mind and body with drugs.
"I am sorry, dear brother," said Mycroft as he stood up from the chair and spoke firmly to the unresponsive man. "Enough is enough. You may hate me for it, but I will not allow you to kill yourself. You have no choice; once you are well enough to leave hospital, you will be going to rehab and you will stay there until you are clean."
With one final nod towards his brother Mycroft walked out of the quiet room, plans already forming in his mind and his fingers flying over his phone's keyboard as he made arrangements to save his little brother's life.