Danger Night

In the wake of his injury, Sherlock struggles with his bad moods and boredom.

For those of you who wanted angst!

Warnings for drug use and the effects of that.

July 2006

He was crawling up the walls.

The injury was at the point where it was no longer new and interesting, but rather limiting and slow. Doing anything was an effort and while his mother offered to help, being stuck with her all day would make him slit his wrists just for a way to escape. Thankfully she and his father had gone on their yearly holiday to Florence with friends and were less able to annoy him now that they were a plane journey away.

The only interesting thing he had was when Lestrade popped in with a few old cold cases (which was becoming less and less frequent given Sherlock's moods) and when John came home from school.

He'd taken to phoning up random people, just to yell at them and relieve his frustrations rather than take them out on John. All too often he saw the defensive tilt to John's shoulders as he braced himself for the vitriol that poured from Sherlock's pain and boredom.

Venturing out had been good. It had been painful and he'd felt as shaky as a colt, but he'd seen people; boring, dull inane people going about their daily lives and he'd ripped into them.

It had helped a little. But it had also reminded him of how uninteresting the world could be; how pointless.

"Sherlock?" John's voice echoed as he rushed up the stairs. Moments later his son, clad only in his white school polo shirt and grey trousers came in through the door. "Do you need anything?"

Stimulation, Sherlock thought bitterly. Even John had become routine now, asking the same question every time he came in.

At least this time it was slightly different.

"You've rushed back, not usual at the moment. You've attempted to tuck your top in and smooth your hair so trying to impress and look presentable. Too young for girls-" John face paled in horror at the mere mention of the idea. "-so who would you be trying to impress? You've stomped off the mud from your shoes, trying to appear neater and less boisterous than you are. You want to stay over at someone's house."

John wriggled at the door. "Um…only if it's okay. If you're-"

"Go," Sherlock waved a dismissive hand.

"Are you sure-"

"That I can cope without your great attempts at being useful? I managed before."

John gripped the doorway tightly. "So I can go?" he asked hesitantly.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at him. "Go. Quickly."

John still didn't move, rocking back and forth unsure until Sherlock threw him a cold, withering look.

It had been a relief the moment he'd seen John. A night off from the worried stares, the hovering. The boy had decided to learn as much about Sherlock's recovery as possible and insisted on helping him with it which just meant he did a wonderful impression of Sherlock's mother's mother hen mode.

Easing himself into his coat, Sherlock carefully made his way out. In the summer light the roads were relaxed and calm; the warmth of the season making people deceptively calm. It was only as he got into the busier, crammed streets that were pounding with club music on the Friday night that the summer light finally left and the delicious darkness set in, with all its dangers and challenges.

It wasn't hard to find a dealer; harder to notice one that wasn't cutting the merchandise until there was barely any cocaine left. He needed the rush, the brightness, the sharpness to cut through the dull glaze that had sprung up with his injury. He needed panting breath and the adrenaline. He needed stimulation.

A quick exchange, made quicker by Sherlock's money and brains, and then finally there was something cutting through the useless cloud that had set in his mind and suffocated his senses. The deep pounding and ringing was like a blade ripping through him again making everything fast and exciting.

He didn't go home. He'd spent enough time staring at the walls. Besides, there seemed something wrong in bringing the drug use into John's home or anywhere near-

He cut the thought off – all too aware that if he examined it too closely he might start to feel some form of guilt.

A night off; that was all he needed. Most parents had a night to themselves every so often. And he needed to restart his brain, to stop himself from flaying open those around him just for something to do. One night would keep him mellow (-ish) for a week and John would start coming him early again without a hesitant look in his eyes.

One night.

He lost himself in the haze of it all. People, idiots, drugs, anything. Anything to pour out the vitriolic poison that he'd been pouring over the flat for the past two weeks and keep it from his son.

Anything.

When he stumbled back home at seven o clock, his son was waiting for him.

It was entirely the wrong way around. He had wanted to be the stern one, to scold John and see him squirm when he realised Sherlock knew everything about his night. He'd wanted to amuse himself with performing that parental responsibility.

Not be the child skulking in to a lecture. He'd played that role often enough that he could do it by rote now.

It didn't help that John blinked at him, confused from what had appeared to be the start of an angry rant. Slowly, terribly slowly, Sherlock saw a dawning realisation in his son's eyes.

"Oh," John croaked, looking as if something vital had just been stolen. "Right," he licked his lips and looked down.

"You," Sherlock shook his head, trying to ease the delightful jumble and chaos back into sense again. "You're meant to be out."

"I was worried," John said quietly. "You didn't answer the phone."

"I'm not a child," Sherlock spat. "You are. I can do as I please."

"Yeah," John said, swallowing tightly. "I can see that."

"Do not lecture me," Sherlock staggered forward. "I did this…I did this because of you-"

His son looked oddly pale. Why? Wait…the words weren't coming out right.

"I have to…you don't know what it's like in my head," Sherlock tried to explain, leaning his head against the wall, overcome as it felt like it might tip over and off his shoulders. "You have no idea. You could never see the world the way I see it."

John remained frozen.

"Don't-" Sherlock tried to force his eyes to stay open, unsure of they were too wide or not. "Don't judge," he spat, walking forward. "You don't judge. It's them, they judge. They don't try to understand. Do you understand?" he asked, standing in front of his son, trying to form the right sentences.

Slowly, John shook his head and Sherlock bent over, thudding his fist against the arm of the chair as he trapped John in it. In the seat, the boy jumped at the movement, suddenly tense and all wide fearful eyes.

"You're still…" his voice trembled.

"Don't judge," Sherlock snapped out again, the force of his words seeming to make John flinch. "You…" he frowned at the bright eyes, trying to connect the implication as he leant forward and John pressed himself back against the chair. "Tears," he muttered, confused.

Something deep was banging at his mind.

Stop. Now. Stop.

Disorientated, Sherlock pulled back, bowing his head as his hands gripped the arms of the chair and his side ached chronically; the pain starting to centre the rapid-

Come down. He was coming down and crashing as the last attempts of the drug tried to fire random thoughts that were of no use to anyone. Above him he could hear the ragged gasps from his son as he tried not to cry.

Not trusting himself to speak, Sherlock fumbled one hand into his pocket, drew out his phone and thrust it in the direction of John.

"Mycroft," he croaked. "Call him now."

"He…he's in Ireland," John stuttered. "And Grandma and Grandpa-"

"Away," Sherlock nodded. "Florence. Dull choice. Every other year. Call Mycroft."

"But-"

"Now."

"Sir?"

Mycroft shot Anthea an annoyed look as she approached him in the middle of the meeting. It was going well so far, better than expected and she knew that only in the case of an apocalypse or the successful hunt for tea was she to interrupt.

She didn't have tea and quite frankly, as long as the apocalypse happened after the meeting, the world could hang. He was almost-

"I apologise, but I must borrow Mr Holmes for a moment."

Gerald Matthews, a formidable man in his own right, leaned back in annoyance and muttered something in William Lomands ear. The pair were terribly arrogant and awfully eager to make one grovel for their money.

It was a personal triumph that so far he'd done zero grovelling and was still managing to persuade them that it would be useful to invest in the governmental project.

It reeked of retreating, something he hated to do, but he stood anyway and followed Anthea.

"This had better be important," Mycroft said as he followed her into the room they were using as their office at the moment.

Anthea gave him an odd look and passed his mobile to him.

Sherlock.

With a disappointed look at her, Mycroft lifted the phone to his ear. "Sherlock? This had best be important I am in the middle of an integral deal-"

Across from him, Anthea shook her head at him, just as he heard the worried exhale of breath from someone that sounded far too much like-

John.

They needed to get the boy his own phone; it would make things so much easier.

"I…never mind," John said sounding utterly miserable.

"What's wrong?" Mycroft asked, trying to swallow back his frustration.

"I…Dad told me to call," John's voice wobbled.

Dad? The only time he had ever heard that word cross John's lips was at the hospital when Sherlock had been stabbed a few weeks ago.

"Why?" he asked, eyes looking at the clock. Any longer than three more minutes and he would likely lose his position in the meeting and it would take just as much time again to get himself back to the point he had just left.

John was silent.

"John? Is this strictly important-"

"I'm high."

Sherlock's voice croaked through the phone and Mycroft froze.

High?

Their parents were in Florence, Mrs Hudson at her sisters. Sherlock was still recovering and John-

Pulling the phone from his ear, he stared at the door and then closed his eyes.

"How bad?" he asked, knowing even as he asked the question it didn't matter.

"You need to come." Sherlock sounded as if it were the only thing he could focus on. "You need to come."

A less controlled man might have thrown the phone across the room or screamed down the phone at Sherlock for being so utterly irresponsible and selfish. Tempting though it was he would neither waste the breath nor the energy.

Instead he caught Anthea's worried gaze and nodded his head at the room questioningly.

Three, she mouthed.

Three hours at least.

"I can't," he said, shaking his head, hating it. "I cannot leave Sherlock. Not this. It isn't an option."

"You need to come," Sherlock repeated.

"You need to sober up," Mycroft snapped. "Four hours Sherlock. I will be four hours."

Then he hesitated, hating the thought of John, there with Sherlock in that state. "Put John on the phone," he ordered.

There was the fuzz of a phone being passed over and then John's uneven breaths. "Sorry," he said immediately. "It's fine-"

"Ignore everything he has said and does say to you," Mycroft said firmly, keeping an eye on the clock. "Go out and go to the cinema and then go for a walk."

"But he's-"

"An idiot," Mycroft hissed fiercely. "Go out. He will be fine. He's done it often enough."

There was a strange hitch that told him that has not been the right thing to say. Apparently, as streetwise as his nephew was, he had completely missed the hints that this was not the first time that Sherlock had decided to blot the world with a needle.

"I will find you," Mycroft added. "Do not go back to the flat."

"Right," John still sounded unsure.

There wasn't much more he could do. To stay on the phone and convince John would just mean he was stuck in the meeting longer.

After he hung up the phone he nodded at the door. Taking the hint, Anthea vanished and left him alone.

Mycroft bent over cupping his mouth with his hands and taking a deep breath, clearing everything from his mind but the deal.

Then he stood.

John hadn't gone out.

Instead Mycroft found him in Sherlock's room, sat on the bed while his brother slept, crashed out and sprawled across the bed inelegantly.

Silently, Mycroft walked over and pressed his fingers to the pulse point at Sherlock's throat, feeling the heartbeat that wasn't too rapid. With an air of annoyance that was lost on his brother's unconscious form, he started to put him in the recovery position.

"Does that help?" John asked quietly.

Mycroft placed his brother's elbow carefully. "It's the recovery position," he said. "It's to ensure he won't choke on his own vomit."

John watched him far too closely. "You shouldn't have to do this," Mycroft said, feeling the weight of the gaze.

"You do," John said quietly.

Finishing, Mycroft pulled away from Sherlock and cupped John's face. "I'm his brother, you're his son. There is a difference."

John seemed hesitant as he looked past him and at Sherlock. "He said…he-" John cut himself off and curled his knees tighter against his chest.

"John-"

"Is it my fault?" John asked, the words bubbling out from his lips as if uncontrolled.

Mycroft lifted John's face to study it.

That stupid, infuriating, selfish-

Without a glance at his brother, he picked John up, already disliking the fact that the boy was getting too old for it. They'd barely had a chance to experience that; the act of rocking a child to sleep or giving an easy hug.

And Sherlock was happy to let those precious moments slip him by.

He was utterly stupid.

Sherlock woke to ridiculously expensive sheets and a mind numbingly ordered pattern on the bedspreads and pillows.

Mycroft's house.

Groaning in dissatisfaction he turned, relatively sure that John was somewhere-

"Awake then?"

The condescending tone made him turn back into the pillow, his head pounding fiercely. "Back then?" he asked into the pillow. "Where's John?"

"Upstairs," Mycroft said quietly. "Asleep."

Sherlock turned, easing himself up carefully to lie against the pillows. Mycroft watched him, his face unreadable.

The gaze was one he was well acquainted with.

"Don't give me that look," Sherlock muttered. "He went for a sleepover, I had no idea he would be coming back that early-"

Mycroft took his time replying; a sure sign that he was utterly livid. "You knew we were all away, you knew that if something bad happened you would be the only person that could be called-"

"It was a sleepover," Sherlock snapped. "Not a hostage situation."

"How wonderful you know the difference," Mycroft breathed, sitting back. "You should have no problem identifying this situation then."

"I'm your hostage?" Sherlock almost laughed.

"No," Mycroft said easily. "You I want out of the house the moment we finish the conversation."

Sherlock sighed, his mind sorting it out. "John then? Your hostage? Until?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "You don't seem too worried."

"I am his father, you will never change that," Sherlock settled back. "And he'll find a way back."

"Really? After you told him it was his fault you got high?"

No. No, he hadn't…he couldn't have said that to John.

"I believe, from what John told me, you were trying to tell him that it was because you didn't want to keep taking out your frustration on him. Strange isn't it, how your intentions never quite work out the way you want them to?"

"I need to talk to him-" Sherlock shoved at his covers.

"On Sunday between two and six," Mycroft said politely. "And for an hour on Wednesday."

"You cannot do this," Sherlock snarled. "You cannot take my son-"

"I can," Mycroft stood up, suddenly showing anger in his fierce actions as he leaned down to Sherlock. "You know I can. I can take him and keep him from you and you have wrecked things enough that John will not fight it. Not when he's currently convinced he's wrecked your life."

"You're doing this because you're jealous," Sherlock hissed.

"I'm doing this to make you appreciate what you have," Mycroft snapped back. "I'm doing this because despite surviving an attack, despite having John and all that it has given you, despite the work, the cases, all that you enjoy, you still feel the need to be dissatisfied with your lot and look for more. I cannot take the cases from you and I will not take your health, but I can take that boy and perhaps then you'll realise just how precious the quiet moment are, how much you are missing."

"I made one mistake-"

"You cannot keep making one mistake," Mycroft snapped. "Your son was asking me about how to put you in the recovery position-"

"I am hardly going to do it again-"

"Until the next time you feel utterly bored."

"I will not-"

"And I will not allow my nephew to grow up in a home where he gets in the habit of putting up with your highs and cleaning up your vomit."

Sherlock stared at him, noting the firm set of his mouth and the level of his shoulders. A dawning horror was growing in the pit of his stomach.

Never. He would never have allowed that and Mycroft damned well knew it.

"He will not be staying here for long," Sherlock announced firmly.

"For your son's sake, I hope so," Mycroft replied with a steady glare.

Next Chapter: Living with Mycroft