Chapter Two: I Don't Care

Mycroft stared at the finished bottles, at the clear liquid inside. Beside the two bottles he'd made up was a packet of the white powder, the one syringe Mycroft had left over from his old supply and a leather case he used to use to carry the drugs around.

The case, like everything else Mycroft seemed to own that day, reminded the politician of better times. They reminded of him of days and nights spent in a drug haze with another body, a body that was warm and soft and could be hard when Mycroft rubbed the right way–

Mycroft blinked, pushed those thoughts aside. Being a genius had its advantages sometimes; Mycroft could prioritise his mind, could ignore anything too annoying and focus on forty other things.

He leaned back on the couch and let out a heavy breath. The drugs, the drugs, the bloody drugs. Mycroft had once spent so long hiding his drug addiction from the world; from work and friends and family. Friends... the men and women Mycroft had to socialise with to cement his position in the British Government. They weren't friends, not really. Mycroft had never had friends.

He still didn't have friends. Oh yes, he had people who he spoke to and parties he attended. But they all socialised with Mycroft because of his name, because he was Mycroft Holmes. He practically was the British Government and they wanted to be on his good side; they wanted favours and his protection.

No one had ever voluntarily wanted to be with Mycroft. A few women in his late teens, Sherlock when they were little. No one... no one but him.

Mycroft groaned and rubbed his eyes before removing his jacket. He untucked his shirt but kept the sleeves down. He still hadn't broken yet. The drugs were there, begging to be injected, but maybe Mycroft was stronger; maybe he could resist them.

He sighed and closed his eyes. He wondered if anyone would care if he fell again. Sherlock probably wouldn't... Mycroft's stomach twisted when he realised his brother was the only person who would care about his drug addiction. Oh yes, his superiors would be furious and lock him up in some rehabilitation unit somewhere.

But no one would actually care... Mycroft himself wouldn't either.

Mycroft only remembered a few things about his early years of drug addiction.

Injecting the drug was much easier, Mycroft learned that early on. Snorting the drug brought attention to his runny (sometimes bloody) nose and he couldn't hide that kind of thing from his brother. Sherlock was almost as observant as Mycroft himself and wouldn't buy that Mycroft had a cold. A little bit of research showed Mycroft that he could mix the cocaine and inject it.

Mycroft could hide beneath long sleeved shirts and he didn't suffer a runny/blocked nose. He also liked the feel of the needle slipping into pale skin more than the feel of powder being stuffed up his nose. He liked the track marks injecting left behind; they were little reminders that, sometimes, Mycroft could be happy.

Mycroft has almost been caught at least five times by various people. The first was his roommate at university. The other man had been close to finding the needles, had been searching for a CD and hunted for it under Mycroft's bed. Mycroft had done a poor job of hiding the drugs and syringes; had left them in a wooden chest under his bed. After that Mycroft had learned to carry a little case. He learned how to hide his addiction better.

Sherlock always suspected... something. Sometimes he'd see his brother coming down, or close to coming down, and would remark on his sudden sullen mood. But he didn't ask, not until Mycroft was in hospital. After that it was a bit stupid to lie.

Some of the best memories Mycroft has (one that doesn't involve him) is of going to class high. He remembers the first time well, it was good fun.

Not looking forward to a long, boring lecture from a man who's intellect didn't even come close to Mycroft's, the teenager had shot up in the toilets outside the lecture hall.

He buzzed through five minutes of the class, humming to himself and remarking (internally) that the wooden chairs were rather nice and cool. Before long the teacher's dull voice had pushed Mycroft to the edge and he sighed loudly.

Professor Jax paused mid-lecture to glare up at Mycroft. He was sitting in an aisle seat, having realised after five steps that he could barely walk straight this strung out.

Hmm, a higher solution produces better effects, Mycroft thought. Interesting.

'Something troubling you, Holmes?' Jax asked.

Mycroft blinked and stared at the man, taking a few seconds too long to answer.

'A lot of things bother me, Professor.'

Jax raised an eyebrow. 'Would you care to share with the class?' he asked.

Mycroft smiled, his long, lean fingers dancing across his covered forearms. 'No, no I don't think I want to.' He paused, as though seriously considering whether or not he should tell the class what bothered him. 'No,' he finally repeated and went back to staring at the wall.

Jax glared at him. 'Is something on the wall more interesting than my lecture, Holmes?' he asked in an irritated growl.

Mycroft smirked, suddenly resembling his little brother. 'There are so many things more interesting than your "lecture",' Mycroft said, adding air quotes to the word lecture. 'Like the wall, or this chair, or a bout of influenza.'

Usually by now the class would be laughing at the sheer audacity of a student saying those things to a teacher. But this was Mycroft Holmes; usually the genius did little more than sit quietly and ace the class.

This sudden outburst... the entire class was speechless.

'Holmes–' Jax began, only to be cut off.

'I mean, there are about a thousand things I could name off the top of my head that would be more interesting than this,' Mycroft said, grinning. His veins were alive with cocaine, his brain completely focused on humiliating Jax. His brain, his big beautiful brain, was finally easy to manage. 'You're just so dull,' Mycroft stated. 'It's why your wife is having an affair with your daughter's boyfriend.'

The class gasped.

'Honestly, why would your wife want you?' Mycroft continued, ignoring the people staring at him and the fact that Professor Jax looked murderous. 'If you're this boring in a lecture you're probably even more horrid at home.'

The teenager stood suddenly, grabbing the one book he'd brought to class.

'Where the bloody hell do you think you're going?' Jax demanded.

'Is that a rhetorical question or do you actually want to know?' Mycroft asked. He was feeling stronger, happy, a little bit lazy. Forget class, forget his classmates, forget everything. This, the high, this was what made Mycroft happy. 'Will a sentence suffice or do you want a detailed itinerary?'

Jax looked like his head was about to explode. Hushed conversations had broken out, all eyes flicking between Mycroft and the teacher. The teenager really didn't care; he wanted to go, maybe sit in the shower and let the water pummel him. Showers were always wonderful while high.

Mycroft began walking up the aisle, heading towards the door. Whispers followed his every step until Jax shouted, 'Get back here, Holmes!'

Mycroft turned at the door and shouted, 'Oh, would you shut the fuck up!'

And then he was gone, humming as he walked down the corridors.

-oOo-

Mycroft's little outburst didn't go down well. He was called into the Dean's office, the man demanding to know why he had shouted at his teacher like that. Mycroft had just shrugged, even more cocaine buzzing through his system.

He was told if he apologised he could continue his studies. Mycroft refused.

Mycroft Holmes graduated university early and his father dragged him straight into politics.

Mycroft didn't care, really, he was done caring. He was nineteen-years-old, free from the stuffy halls of university and finally out in the real world. He was buried under mountains of classified paperwork, his father's reputation and his own brilliance meaning his position was a good one.

Sherlock found it all very fascinating. Mycroft just didn't care.