He needed Mycroft.
To chide him, to scold him, to give him money for drugs so he could forget… he'd gladly take anything.
Sherlock Holmes needed his older brother, and he knew it.
He curled tightly into a ball in the wooden chair, papers and documents strewn about the table in front of him haphazardly. Sherlock couldn't think. Emotions clouded his mind, keeping him from making any real progress on the case files that his brother had put together.
The head of the web is almost certainly Sebastian Moran.
John Watson thinks that Sherlock Holmes is dead.
Sherlock threw a pencil against the wall, hard. The point managed to stick in the wallpaper, and the pencil quivered like an arrow hitting its mark. The detective focused his eyes on the wooden weapon, and collected his thoughts.
Where to begin? There are three men in Moscow who absolutely must die before a councilmember in Prague can be questioned.
John Watson is grieving.
Sherlock growled. He sat for exactly five seconds longer before standing quickly and violently, sending the table in front of him flying. It landed a meter from him with a crash. Papers fell like snow all around him.
"You do realize that those are original copies," a mild voice said at his back.
Sherlock turned to face his brother with a start. Mycroft Holmes was silhouetted in a frame of yellow light, the library door open behind him.
Sherlock frowned, but was secretly glad of the distraction.
"You should know better than to give me original copies."
"I should know better than to give you copies at all, brother mine." Mycroft gave a tut and moved to right the fallen table. It was heavier than he anticipated, and he puffed a breath or two before setting it back in its place. "This is an antique," he said with a frown.
"It's oak. The odds of it shattering are regrettably low."
"Yes, and the odds of it taking a scratch or two after falling are regrettably high, dear Sherlock."
"It still seems to perform its function admirably enough." Sherlock gave the old desk a kick.
"I suppose it does, at that." Mycroft looked his brother in the eye. "Can you say the same of yourself?" He placed one hand on the tabletop, running his fingers along a shallow but prominent scuff.
Sherlock scowled.
"Even the strongest of materials can break under the right circumstances, brother mine," Mycroft said, voice carefully neutral.
"I've reached my breaking point, have I?"
Mycroft's eyes ran over his brother. Sherlock was thinner than ever. Purple hollows under his eyes proclaimed his lack of sleep, and a slight tremor in his hands suggested that his younger brother had not eaten today.
"Yes," Mycroft replied simply. "I believe you have."
Sherlock turned his back to his brother, running a hand through his hair.
"And what would you have me do about it?"
Mycroft regarded his younger sibling sadly.
"You're worried about John."
"That isn't an answer."
"No, but it is a point to sail from."
"I ask again, what would you have me do about it?" Sherlock swung back around to look Mycroft in the eye. "I'm dead, or have you forgotten? The dead do not associate with the living."
Sherlock swept moodily out of the library and into the hallway. Mycroft followed, unperturbed, his strides unhurried.
"It seems to me that the dead have not eaten all day, or slept in near a week."
"Bugger off, Mycroft."
Sherlock continued his flight down the hall, finally coming to the room that Mycroft had set aside for him to use. He slammed the door in his brother's face.
Mycroft sighed.
The dead obviously did not want to be bothered with the trivialities of living.
…
Some time later, Mycroft returned to Sherlock's room, bearing two cups of tea.
"Sherlock?" he called. As expected, there was no response.
Unbothered, Mycroft set the teacups down on the small table in the hallway, pulled a key from his pocket, and opened the door.
Sherlock scowled at him from the bed, but refrained from saying anything.
"I've brought you tea," Mycroft said, gathering the cups back up and depositing one upon Sherlock's bedside table. He sat upon the duvet next to his brother, taking a sip from his own cup.
The room was dim – the only sources of light were the full moon outside the window, and the light from the hallway. Sherlock felt rather than saw his brother perch on the mattress beside him.
"I don't need tea."
"You haven't eaten since yesterday."
Sherlock frowned. "Why do you care?"
Mycroft took another sip of tea, and turned to face his brother. He set the half-full cup on the bedside table. "Would you believe me if I told you that I do in fact give a damn about your welfare, brother mine?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"You've said two impossible things today, Mycroft. Shall I phone your doctor?"
Mycroft smiled ruefully. "I'll be the one calling a doctor if you don't eat something, Sherlock," he said, not unkindly. "We can't have you dying before making your grand reappearance."
Sherlock made a face, but took his cup from the table and took a long sip to appease his brother. He set the cup down once more.
Mycroft smirked. "All of it," he urged.
"No."
"Despite your love of being contrary, Sherlock, I do have only your best interests in mind."
Sherlock's stomach grumbled. The younger man looked mortified for a brief second, then angry, as if his body had somehow betrayed him. He glared down at his torso, as if a proper scolding would convince his innards that no, they did not in fact need food. Grudgingly, he picked up his cup and downed the entire drink, heedless of the scalding liquid burning his tongue. He replaced his cup on the side table with an audible clink, wiping his lips with his other hand.
Mycroft chuckled. "Oh, my dear brother…" he sighed. He found his cup, and took another small sip of his own tea. There was a short pause. "Did I ever tell you how worried I was about you, before you met John Watson?"
"What? Why would you be worried?" Sherlock frowned. He could feel the warmth of the tea spreading through his chest and stomach.
"You were reckless," Mycroft said plainly. "You still, of course, maintain this trait to an extent. But John has given you something precious to care for."
"And what is that, brother mine?"
Mycroft closed his eyes. "John gave you friendship, Sherlock."
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. Why was Mycroft so… sentimental, all of a sudden? He tried to think of a response, and found that he was unable. His mind palace drifted, the doors moving farther off. He frowned. Why was his mind palace moving?
"Soporific in the tea…" he muttered, shoulders sagging as he recognized the truth in the statement.
"Apologies, Sherlock. You'll feel better for sleeping, I can guarantee you that."
Sherlock tried to stifle a yawn.
"Why can't you just leave me alone?" he moaned plaintively. The drugs were doing their work; he could feel the lethargy spreading through his limbs like a lazy blue snake.
He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw Mycroft grimace. His older brother shook his head. "There is far too much at stake for me to leave you alone."
Sherlock did not feel well at all. He struggled to remain upright, every muscle in his body working against him. Mycroft had used a very strong soporific in the tea, hospital-grade; that was for certain. Belatedly, he wondered why he hadn't tasted it.
"Sleep now, sweet brother," Mycroft said, almost sadly. He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, pushing him slowly down onto the mattress. The younger man was helpless to resist.
He would have been angry, would have been furious, but he was so tired…
He curled into a ball, sinking into the soft surface. He tried to remain awake for as long as he could. Then he blinked once, twice, and it was all over.
Mycroft sighed. "I'm so sorry, baby brother," he said very softly, though he knew Sherlock would not wake for eight more hours. He reached over his brother and took a pillow from the bed into his hand. He caressed Sherlock's hair tenderly with his other hand before lifting his brother's head just enough to slide the pillow underneath.
Sherlock unconsciously moved his hands to the pillow, grasping it gently. "John," he muttered in his sleep, so soft that Mycroft almost didn't hear.
The older man smiled sadly. "If only John knew how much you love him," he said. He bent over, and kissed his brother on the cheek. "My poor Sherlock."
Sherlock's fingers twitched, but he did not respond.
Mycroft watched him sleep for some time, his fingers trailing absentmindedly over Sherlock's shoulder. Time was lost, in that small black room. Mycroft could not have said whether he watched Sherlock for three minutes, or three hours.
All the same, it was still dark outside by the time he finally decided to leave the room. He gave Sherlock one more lingering kiss – he wouldn't be able to again after this, he assumed; Sherlock would be too angry – he'd never let him near enough. He patted his brother's shoulder, then stood.
He collected the teacups, and made to leave the room. He stopped at the door, however, and took one last glance at his younger brother, curled up like a child on his bed.
"May visions of plunder dance through your head, little pirate. Take what golden treasure you can, for there's a storm ahead." He looked down for a moment, and when he looked up once more, his eyes glistened with tears. "Sweet dreams, Sherlock."
And with that, Mycroft Holmes closed the door between them with a firm click.