SHERLOCK: You phoned him.
JOHN: 'Course I bloody phoned him.
MYCROFT: 'Course he bloody did.
— His Last Vow
Sherlock was high again.
Mycroft was burying himself in documents when Anthea came in and said, 'Sir, code red leaves.' He stopped dead. Then he grabbed his umbrella and quickly searched in his mind palace for the last time his brother failed to resist this temptation, looking for possible reasons for this time simultaneously. It took him less than a second. It had been 23 months. It must be John.
Twenty minutes later Mycroft found his delirious brother arguing with a butcher. Another twenty minutes and they were back at 221B Baker Street.
Mrs Hudson burst into tears when she saw Sherlock with his face swollen and lips bleeding. Mycroft left Anthea downstairs to soothe her and carried Sherlock upstairs. He seated Sherlock on the sofa and perched next to him.
Sherlock was babbling, irritated and disgruntled, waving his hands in the air. 'You ruined everything Mycroft! I was just about to find out where he hid his daughter. He has two mistresses and he... Hey! What do you think you're doing!' Sherlock snapped when Mycroft leaned forward and started cleaning his face with his handkerchief, flinching to avoid further contact.
'You are a mess.' Mycroft let his hand fall, 'Go take a shower.'
Still grunting, Sherlock rose to his feet and headed towards the bathroom. Mycroft stood up with him and suddenly noticed one of John's jumpers on his empty chair in front of the mantelpiece.
He shouldn't have said that, but the words came out unbidden, 'I told you Sherlock, don't get involved.'
Sherlock turned around immediately, 'I'm not involved!' His voice was shaky, 'Mycroft I'm not a …' He broke off as Mycroft suddenly closed their distance and embraced him tightly.
It shouldn't be like this. It was wrong. Mycroft felt a lump in his throat as he saw tears welling up in Sherlock's blue eyes.
'I'm sorry. Sherlock, I'm so sorry.' He apologized, 'Sorry I shouldn't have said that. Forgive me.' He said into his brother's ear.
It was wrong, Sherlock's voice. It was all wrong. Mycroft sensed it immediately. He knew that his little brother was truly and deeply distressed, that he needed love, right here and now. He knew. Of course he did.
'...child anymore.' Sherlock finished, choking a bit. The moment Mycroft hugged him, Sherlock started sobbing. He couldn't control it anymore, not when he was wrapped in another person's body warmth, his brother's warmth. He was shaking.
Mycroft stroked his messy hair gently and, like he did thirty years ago when Sherlock was trapped in his own nightmares, he said softly, 'It's alright Sherlock. It's alright. I'm here. I've got you.' He held him tighter, patting his back gently, very gently.
Sherlock said nothing more. He let his tears fall onto Mycroft's shoulder.
Minutes later they parted. Mycroft wiped the teardrops off his brother's pale face. 'It's okay now, Sherlock. It's alright. Take a shower and go to bed, okay?' Sherlock nodded and slightly bit his bottom lip. He looked at Mycroft with such vulnerability as if he was begging him not to leave.
Mycroft couldn't bear it anymore. Mycroft Holmes, the icy, unfeeling, aloof Mycroft Holmes, whose emotions run even deeper than those of a consulting detective, who knew far too well that love was a disadvantage, who managed to dismiss all his sentiments with ease, suddenly couldn't bear it anymore. No, not when his little brother was looking at him like this.
So he leaned over and kissed him. He leaned over and parted his lips, pressed them against Sherlock's still bleeding ones. Gently, softly. Tremulous and tender.
Sherlock didn't expect this but he didn't wince either. He kissed back and pulled Mycroft closer.
Oh Sherlock. He called his name silently, and Sherlock heard him. But he wouldn't remember. Mycroft knew this. Sherlock wouldn't remember anything when he became sober again. He knew because this was not the first time his brother got high. He knew because this was not the first time he kissed him like this. He would never tell him though. He was certainly not telling him that this was actually the third time he had done it - although it wasn't their third kiss. So Mycroft indulged himself, biting and licking, making Sherlock breathless.
He stayed in Sherlock's room until four, watching his sleeping brother and worrying about him. He wanted to stay longer but Sherlock could wake up any minute now so he had to leave. Sherlock would not want to see him when he woke up. He kissed his brother's forehead, stroked his curls and murmured, 'I love you Sherlock.'
He removed John's chair before leaving, hoping it would help, but he didn't know.
It would happen again of course. John would soon find out and he would contact him. But Mycroft was not going to tell John. What could he say after all? It was not his position to tell John that he had broken Sherlock's heart by leaving him alone in this flat, in his mind and in this world, after he had showed him what it was like when there were two of them.
In this situation, and probably this situation only where his brother was involved, Mycroft felt powerless. He had been loving Sherlock for so long, protecting him for so long, but he didn't know what he could do this time.
'Is everything alright, sir?' Anthea asked as Mycroft went down the stairs.
Mycroft nodded without saying a word and walked out into the early morning. He shut the door behind him and Sherlock opened his eyes, touching his bottom lip and murmured, 'Mycroft.'