I own nothing from BBC Sherlock :(
x
x
Date: Unimportant
Time: ?
He's back. He's back. He's back...
Sleep has chased him this far, and he knows he cannot go for much longer. His transport is weakening, reaction timing slowed, and thoughts becoming less coordinated. An abominable headache has been building for hours now. He needs to go home.
Big Ben chimed thrice just a few minutes ago. He's forgotten what day it is. It doesn't matter. Doesn't matter. All that matters is the work. But not really because his body is betraying him again. Perhaps he should stop in a pub to warm up. But... no, they're all closed.
Stupid.
The London chill has dredged up a fog too thick for a cab to find its way through, so he walks. He knows the veins of this city well. He has swum through the dredges of its bowels to reach the cesspool of criminals too many times to count. It is his home, the smog ingrained into his lungs and the pulse of the hustle and bustle from everyday life in tune with his. He should not feel so empty to be back, not when he thought he would never see her glory ever again. But tonight, nothing but the cold cuts through his hollow shell to reach his very center.
He's turned his coat collar up even though there's no reason to be Sherlock Holmes now. Right now, he's just a very cold man. His toes and fingertips are numb.
God he could use a joint. Just to feel the smoke in his breath, warming him from the inside out and calming his torrenting thoughts. Just one. Or better. He knows were he can get a few milligrams of coke, take it home and snort it through a one pound note. And just clear his goddamn head. But that might not be a good idea. The combination of the cold and his dehydration might result in a nosebleed. He could dilute it and just go in through the chemist's way.
The work has always been enough to distract him from his other addiction. But he knows he's not bored. His need is like John's. The need to block out what he doesn't want to think about. It's too much. Sometimes he must return to old habits to keep himself afloat. Mycroft, clever as he thinks he is, only knows about 3 relapses. He wouldn't have found out about two of them if John hadn't snitched.
A chill runs through him and his whole body shakes so violently that he has to stop and lean against a building. Just when he thinks it's passed, his stomach roils and, after gagging, he spits out watery bile onto the pavement.
He hasn't eaten in a while. Maybe there is something...
WorkWorkWork. Work. ThedevilangelsMissme?Moriartysayhellotothevirus...
His head pounds. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, muttering a weary, "Dammit," and straightens up again. He shuts his eyes to dissuade the dizziness and those dead eyes laugh at him like gaping mouths from inside his eyelids. He blinks a few times and takes cautious steps to make sure he won't topple.
He could always ride the tube, but it would only make the dizziness worse. Plus, in his state, being in the underground wouldn't make him any safer. Muggers know when to spot one who's had a few too many or who's trying to sleep it off.
Idiot.
You're lucky he didn't throw you back in the house.
Oh, that had been unpleasant.
Is that what Mycroft calls "being there"? Hm. Being there indeed. Sherlock only got to call him once while he was stuck in there. He had to beg them, beg. Mycroft told him not to call again, which cut him a bit personally. Not that Mycroft had ever been keen on talking to him much before anyway, but the mobile phone companies made good money on the man because he personally had five that Sherlock knew of. One for personal use, one for the terrorists, one for the government, and plenty more. All for conversation. Sherlock can look on his mobile phone from the last year and count on one hand the number of incoming calls from Mycroft. One outgoing from Sherlock, but then again, Sherlock hates calling people.
He gets confused when he can't read facial expressions. He can deduce certain qualities about a person through their voice. If they smoke, where they're from, if they're afraid. But everything about them is written in their clothes, in their makeup, in their body language. And Sherlock can deduce none of it if they speak to him through the phone. Or if they're being sarcastic or making fun of him.
But Sherlock hates talking to Mycroft even in person, so one phone call a year is far too much.
A few years ago Mummy had required Mycroft and Sherlock to attend Daddy's seventieth. They had missed the last two for good reason. When Sherlock tried to refuse, she'd scoffed and said, "To think there was a time when you bawled for days when you couldn't be around him anymore."
Sherlock doesn't believe this. He's not the type of man to forget, but this seems preposterous. He has never missed the company of his brother and Mycroft has always repelled him. The only reason he sometimes tolerates him is because there is no one else smart enough.
It was because of Dad's seventieth that they did not go to any family gatherings for many years. Mummy almost dropped the phone when Sherlock suggested that they have Christmas together with the newly wed Watsons, and to invite Mycroft. But only so he could steal his laptop. He knew he would have refused if Sherlock asked him, that's why he told Mummy so she could order him. Perhaps it was childish, but they don't know any better.
Your loss would break my heart.
He most likely didn't know what he was saying at the time. The sedative was kicking in. He really is getting slower. Middle age. Sherlock dreads when it happens to him.
But there was something in those words, something so staggering that it made him hitch on the next drag of the cigarette. Because despite his money, and his power, and his constant need to interfere with Sherlock's life to prevent the sully of the Holmes name, if there is one thing Mycroft does not have it is a heart.
And the goddamn overdose on the plane happened and only managed to make him doubt even more. Because how could Mycroft care? Why was he being like this? Was it manipulation? He had always been a master of manipulation, but instead of tricking him so he could get the last biscuit, they were now playing chess with the pawns of political intrigue. Sherlock misses how simple their games used to be.
He passes a kiosk that has a stack of newspapers tied for the next day. The headline screams in black bold font from down below.
Criminal Mastermind Returned from the Dead?
Mere speculations that arose after the the head of MI5 stated at a public conference that someone had hacked into the networks and released the footage. That James Moriarty is dead. That they are doing everything in their investigative powers to find the culprit. That we are all safe.
Sherlock knows why the culprit won't hacked in again to tell them the truth. Whoever it was, they knew how the masses worked. Knew that all they had to do was sit back, and watch their pieces dance.
He has played terrible, terrible games in the past. This one will dwarf the others in enormity and consequence.
The vibrations from his phone jolt him like an electric shock. He pulls it out and winces at how bright the screen is in comparison to the dim street lamps.
Anything?
JW
There is a sinking feeling in his stomach. He doesn't want to tell John. Sherlock puts it back in his pocket. They are counting on him, and he has nothing to show for it. It was his job, it was why they brought him back. But that left the question about what would happen when he served his purpose. He pushes that thought back in its drawer. No time to think about what will be. All that matters is the now.
I'll always be there for you.
He grumbles and taps his temple in an effort to get the voice to vanish.
The echo sounds far too loud and suddenly the street lamps blur in his vision. The walkway seems to tilt, so he has to stop. He nearly collapses on a stoop leading up to some flats and puts his forehead on his knees. He shuts his eyes and waits for the berating in his head to stop. To calm himself.
This too shall pass.
He blinks slowly, staring at the dark fabric of his trousers. He hears a dog bark, quick without any real threat behind it. When his vision goes back to normal he looks up, and a pudgy teenager with red hair stands across from him and glares at him.
Sherlock starts violently backwards with a shout. Those eyes, still so cold even with that youthful face have the chilling aspects of a horror film. His heart skips several beats. He knows the boy isn't really there. The uniform he wears is from the early 80s, matched by the fact that a pair of headphones around his neck lead to a blue Walkman clipped to his belt.
There are no ghosts. There are no ghosts.
This shouldn't be happening. Withdrawals don't do this, drugs do this.
The apparition glares at him and finally moves. It crosses his arms over his chest. "What are you doing?"
Sherlock shakes his head. His gloved hands slip on the railing. "Nothing."
"Liar."
He hurries to get his feet under him. "I-I didn't mean to."
Myke stabs a finger at him and thumps him hard across the head. Sherlock ducks his head and squeezes his eyes shut. "You're not here," he whispers.
Myke huffs and Sherlock can hear him tapping his foot on the pavement. "We don't have time for you to sit and cry, Billy."
He shakes his head. "Mum'll find out."
"Yeah. But you face the consequences like a man."
This isn't real. This was his head playing tricks on him. He finally gets a grip on the railing bolted into the stairs and drags himself up.
"Not here," he mutters.
"Billy where you going?"
He passes the imitation, careful not to touch it, and flees down the street.
"Get back here, idiot!"
His heart pounds in his chest when he finally slows and looks behind him, the stoop is empty. He's shaking, noticeably.
"Not real," he whispers and wraps his coat further around himself. "Not real."
His Mind Palace was turning against him, creating things that he did not need to remember. First the shoebox and now this. Why? Why bring up something that he didn't remember? It clearly didn't matter!
He pulls his phone out again and yanks his glove off despite the cold. He doesn't need to scroll through his contacts. Part of him hopes he'll just let it ring and ignore him. It would be easier that way, that's how they've always done it.
But there is no one else he can talk to. And he needs answers, right now.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he taps the call icon. There's something he needs to say to him away. It's been eating away at him for days, whether he wants to admit it or not.
The fourth ring is interrupted by a cough. "Hallo?" His voice is scratchy from sleep. Sherlock's heart jumps and he feels a deep ache in his chest.
He steps closer to a shop off the pavement and leans against the wall. "It's me."
"Oh hey. Hey. What... what's wrong? Quite late for a ring. Oh, it's Corrie, hon. Yes... I know, I know. But she's got something to tell me. Just go on back to sleep." A sigh that rattles the receiver. "Hang on, let me go to another room."
Sherlock waits. His father is a good liar. Always has been. Though he does remember that spat with Mum in '84, but he technically never lied. But secrets, secrets hurt someone.
His father clears his throat, voice lower. "Now, what's this about? You alright?"
"Fine." Mycroft told them everything they needed to know. That he drugged them and stole the laptop, and he would be dealt with to the fullest extent of his crimes. The rest were state secrets.
"We saw it on the news that -"
"I know. Listen." He gulps. The truth is, he doesn't know what to say. His father won't patronize him, he knows, but he is still trying to sort through the web in his head. Think, idiot.
"I'm sorry... about Christmas. I am." Good. That was true. People are supposed to say sorry if they do something wrong. And drugging his family ruined everyone's Christmas, which didn't really affect him, but it hurt them and he didn't really want to hurt them so he had to say sorry.
There. Now they can let that bit go.
"Well... I'm not sure what to make of that, but thank you." He sounds surprised. "But son, you don't call at three in the morning to say sorry, do you."
Clever. Not as clever as Mum, never had been, but still clever. So now comes the moment of truth, and Sherlock still doesn't know what to ask. Perhaps at the beginning would be best. He still doesn't recall much, but there is something in the back of his mind palace. Something old, with wires sticking out and faded buttons.
"When Myke left for school, he left a Walkman didn't he."
"A Walkman?"
"Yeah." Sherlock squirms, unsure of his father's tone. Maybe confusion. He hopes he won't have to clarify, because even he can't answer that bit. He doesn't remember why he stored it there. It fell out of the shoebox. He hasn't opened it in years. Not since Uni. He didn't need it.
But then a few days ago, it was there, and the old Stowaway was lying there in the middle of his version of Parliament.
His father laughs, but Sherlock fails to see why this is funny. "Erm... I think. I mean, my memory's not what it used to be, you know."
"Yes." He vaguely recalls Mummy mentioning Father losing a... something.
"Mm. I think I remember a Walkman. He wanted one before he went off to school. Why are you asking?"
Sherlock tilts his head back against the wall, feeling the brick grind into his scalp. "Investigation."
"Oh." He yawns. "Your investigations don't normally involve something like that." Unimportant, childish, stupid.
Sherlock won't answer that. "He left the Walkman," he says instead.
"Well... I don't rightly know. You could ask."
Sherlock frowns. Now that is certainly out of the question. He will not ask Mycroft for anything.
"You could put Mum on."
Dad snorts. "Son, it's three in the morning and she's spitting. With you. You really think that's a good idea?"
Well at least she would remember, but now that he thinks about it, he realizes she may crucify him through satellite connection. Mum always was protective about her parties, and the fact that he drugged them all at the Christmas dinner would bring about a wrath too terrible to behold. Even if he said sorry. That has never held up much for him.
His father sighs. "Son, why are you asking about Walkmans?"
Perhaps years of dealing with his ridiculous questions have accustomed him to remaining patient with the random puzzle pieces Sherlock tosses to him. He doesn't mean to, but they can't keep up. John tries. John loses patience though. His father has never lost his temper.
His tone is so gentle. Sherlock has an image of him sitting at the kitchen table, one hand on his knee looking down at his bloody lip, gently asking what they had done now.
Sherlock's chest aches at the memory. "It's nothing."
"Liar."
Sherlock's eyes burn. He quickly rubs them even though there's no way he would see them.
"You called me for help. And I gave it. You don't pick fights with men who have answers."
He nods. "Yessir." His voice is rough. He was forgetting his place a bit.
"Now, what's this all about? Tell me or I'll put Mum on."
He's always hated this. Truth has never been easy for him, though not nearly as bad as Mycroft, who lied for a profession. Sherlock only withheld truths so he could find a bigger one. But that wouldn't help much here when he demanded the whole truth.
"There was a... a confrontation a few days ago. I needed to clarify a bit he said."
"What did he say?"
"It's private."
"I see."
Father would hold him to this. A man's private life is just that. Private. And we will hold him to that.
He wouldn't pry. But Sherlock wishes that for once, he would. He doesn't want to keep this secret. He doesn't want to go back to the house, Mycroft couldn't force him to anyway now, but he doesn't want to be alone. But perhaps this truth won't hurt as much as the others.
"I overdosed."
He doesn't know why he said it. Too many secrets, too many lies over the years.
The silence on the other end is so long that Sherlock thinks he hung up. But then, "Are you alright?"
No yelling, no reprimanding, no disappointment - though Sherlock knows he's one already so it wouldn't matter anyway. But this he cannot stand. Why? Why must his father torment him like this?
"Don't tell Mum." He feels so small now. God, he's nearly forty and still he's begging his father to secrecy like when he was five.
"No, no. I won't. You're usually careful. What happened?"
The breaths rattle out of Sherlock. He wipes his nose. "I..." He breathes deeply and rakes his fingers through his hair. He clears his throat. "It was a mistake. It's fine now."
"So, this bit with you and Myke. That's what this was about. Did it bring up something? About this Walkman?"
He shakes his head. "I've just been thinking."
"Hm. It doesn't do well to think about our mistakes. Bad form there."
He knows this. It's what's kept him going all these years.
"Maybe try to get some sleep, yeah? It's pretty late."
"Yes."
"Son? Give your mum a ring tomorrow."
"Yes."
"Good. Love you."
"Bye."
He pulls his glove back on - his hand is completely numb now - and tucks his chin down into his scarf to warm his face somewhat. His breath floats in a frigid mist from his mouth.
While walking back to the flat, his phone buzzes once more. He doesn't bother looking.
And as London sleeps, he tries to remember why such an insignificant contraption such as a Walkman would make its way into his Mind Palace like a nostalgic keepsake. He knows better than to store unneeded information.
Something drifts into his hair and he looks up. He stands outside an unknown flat, far away from his own, the street lamp illuminating his sole figure. It's snowing.
He wonders if Mycroft thinks about his mistakes.
x
x
To Be Continued...
If you liked it, please review :)