Sherlock

Mycroft shuffled his feet on a red carpet. His mind flew briefly to his younger years at the Holmes mansion. Mycroft would draw patterns in a similar carpet with his toes when he'd finished his homework and there was no one else around. In the present day, a woman eyed him pitifully from a chair little more than five feet away and sniffed wetly. Mycroft crossed his arms self-consciously over his stomach and kept his eyes safely on the wooden door in front of him.

As a general rule, small office buildings were not places he'd be known to occupy, but this was apart from the norm. In fact, there was nothing general at all about waiting in a cramped sitting room – Mycroft was far too fidgety to sit – for your little brother to finish a session with a counselor. Counseling for what, he wasn't sure. He hadn't even heard about it until Sherlock had texted him, asking for a ride home. Mycroft pulled lightly at his collar. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic.

About three agonizing seconds later, and not one too soon, Sherlock emerged from the office with a psychiatrist hot on his heels. Sherlock seemed to be his usual gloomy self as far as Mycroft could tell, but the poor woman behind him looked a bit miffed, to say the least. He might have grinned if the situation were less severe.

Sherlock stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and slouched, letting the psychiatrist push past him rather than stepping aside.

"Would you like to step inside the office for a moment, Mr. Holmes?" She asked brusquely.

Mycroft resisted the urge to narrow his eyes and stepped hurriedly into the office, glad to vacate the small sitting room. The woman shut the door, leaving Sherlock outside.

"Sherlock isn't really making much of a recovery." She said plainly, biting her lip as she walked around her desk to consult her notes.

"I'm well aware, Miss…?" Mycroft trailed off. He wasn't aware, actually. He had no idea what she was referring to.

"Peters. Doctor Peters." Dr. Peters whispered stiffly. "He's stopped using, which is… good… but-" Mycroft's brain shut off. Using what?

"Using what?"

A heavy silence followed and it took Dr. Peters a couple of nervous seconds to adjust her glasses and respond.

"Cocaine… Mr. Holmes…"

Mycroft must have looked positively ill.

"But what?" He asked, eyes hard.

Dr. Peters seemed very, very uncomfortable all of a sudden. She bit her lip again and Mycroft thought he saw a tiny stream of blood leak free.

"But… he's returned to sel-… self-affliction. I assumed… Sherlock said he wanted me to go over the… with you… and… oh dear…"

"Thank you for your time." Mycroft said through clenched teeth. He pushed the door back open without another word.

Sherlock was sitting quietly in the chair nearest the exit. Mycroft could only stare for a moment. He didn't even look troubled – in fact, Sherlock seemed very at peace compared to the last time they'd seen each other. Mycroft wordlessly moved over to the chair and wrapped his hands tightly around Sherlock's arms and pulled him to his feet. He loosened his grip when he realized he could easily wrap his fingers around the boy's elbows. The gesture was so gentle that Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Once at eye level, Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but after a few tries, dropped the contact in defeat.

Mycroft stared blankly at the psychiatrist for a few more moments. He didn't know what to say; how to properly express what he was feeling without causing a scene. He was afraid of something horrible tumbling past his lips. Sherlock was giving him a wide-eyed look that spoke briefly of what looked like hurt, betrayal, and loneliness. It was one of the last times the boy opened up to his brother and Mycroft internally beat himself later for not paying closer attention.

The car ride back to the mansion was painful. Half of it was spent in silence. Then,

"How long have you been using cocaine?"

Sherlock seemed to cave in on himself in the passenger seat. He folded his arms tightly over his abdomen and looked sharply out the window. He waited. And waited. And then some more. They were driving through the woods now, nearing the estate. Mycroft almost rolled his eyes before he heard a choked sob break from Sherlock's chest. Mycroft all but ruined his brakes and a loud scream of rubber across pavement set the tone as the car jolted immediately to a stop. Once the car was stopped, he tried to organize his thoughts. Sherlock was shaking and brought a hand up to his face to rub frantically at his eyes every now and then.

"…Sherlo-"

"Why would you care?" Sherlock's voice broke as the words came out. Mycroft's mind flitted to Sherlock's sixteenth birthday, the arguments with their parents when they were younger ending with Mummy crying and Sherlock running to Mycroft's room to hide under his bed. Finally, his mind traveled to the day Sherlock was born and he'd held the infant close, whispering a promise in his ear that was so difficult to keep. A promise to always, always watch over him.

"Because I love you."

Something in Sherlock seemed to break and he curled forward, resting his head on the dashboard and shaking, tears still streaming down his face. The boy was having a fit. Mycroft threw the door open and ran to the other side of the car. He gently unbuckled him and dragged Sherlock out of the passenger's seat. The boy didn't fight Mycroft as he cradled him like a child on the side of the road. Sherlock leaned limply against his brother's chest and Mycroft held him in silence. The only sound was Sherlock gasping for air, bawling all over Mycroft's expensive suit, desperately trying to catch his breath.

After a few minutes of this, Mycroft began to hum a lullaby, stroking Sherlock's hair in attempts to comfort. But as his fingers ran over something rough and uneven at the base of Sherlock's head, he ceased the humming in horror. There were six rugged, deep cuts layered over each other, framing his scalp and hidden beneath his hair. Mycroft blinked rapidly and tightened his hold on the hysterical boy in his arms. This was not alright. This would never be alright. He didn't know how to fix what had happened.

Mycroft whispered the promise over and over, combing his fingers through Sherlock's hair again and again to cover the angry red scars.

"Shh… it's okay, it's okay. I've got you. I'm here."

After a while of this, Sherlock fell silent. He didn't speak on the car ride home, nor did he bother to drag himself out of bed the next morning. Mycroft didn't tell their parents about the break down. It didn't feel right and causing Sherlock any more discomfort could mean murder at this point. Little did he know, the damage had already been done.

After a week of silence, Sherlock decided to be a sociopath.

-Javien