First of all, sorry for the long hiatus, I've had limited access to internet during the summer. Second of all, thank you so much for all the nice comments and PM:s, it means a lot to me to know that people are reading this even though I suck at updating.
At last, parts of the dialogue in this chapter are direct quotes (or slightly altered ones) from the original story "The Sign of Four". If you haven't read the original work of ACD I highly recommend all of you to do so, the stories are so thrilling and humorous. I also want to apologize in case of any mistakes regarding the effects of cocaine withdrawal.
Now I'm going to shut up. Enjoy!
Chapter 7
"Which was it today?" Mycroft asked. "Morphine or cocaine?"
"It was cocaine" the doctor answered. "A seven percent solution".
Mycroft shook his head. The doctor seemed to hesitate before continuing. "It was close this time Mycroft, really close. Had he been perfectly healthy had it not been as critical, but he's not sleeping enough, and I can tell by his tests that he practically starves himself in periods. It does not go well together with a drug use." Mycroft nodded, his stomach heavy. Doctor Jones was an old friend and had been their family doctor for as long as Mycroft could remember. He was retired, but he always came in whenever there was something with Sherlock, and Mycoft was grateful. He didn't let just anyone touch Sherlock, it had to be the best.
"Sorry, what?" Mycroft had been lost in thoughts, but was vaguely aware that the doctor had said his name.
"I said, you know I'll do anything for you, and for Sherlock. But he needs help, professional help Mycroft. And as much as we want to help neither you nor I am capable of handling this. Do you want me to talk to my contacts about rehab?"
"No thank you Doctor Jones, I'll find a way to manage." Mycroft answered. The doctor put a hand on his shoulder, looked towards Sherlock in the hospital bed and sighed. "You do what you find best" he said, and left Mycroft alone with Sherlock who was still sleeping. He looked so small and vulnerable lying in the hospital bed. He was still so young, he shouldn't be throwing his life away on drugs. He moved his chair closer to the bed and did something he hadn't done in years. He leaned over and kissed Sherlock's forehead, and for the first time in a very long time he felt like a child again. He thought of all the times he had put Sherlock to bed when they were children, and then he thought about all the times Sherlock had put himself in these awful hospital-beds, and suddenly he felt immensly tired. He leaned his head in his hand and drifted off.
He woke a few hours later of something moving in his right pocket. The movement then wandred over to the left side. "Stop pick-pocketing me, Sherlock" he said, still with his eyes closed. The movement stopped instantly. Mycroft opened his eyes slowly. The room was bright with sunlight and it was a sharp contrast to the ghostly figure in the bed in front of him. Sherlock had dark circles under his eyes, and his pale skin strecthed over his cheek-bones due to lack of enough nutrition. His lips were swollen and dry, his hair was a mess and his hands kept twiching at his sides. He was staring out the window, refusing to meet Mycroft's eye.
"How are you feeling?" Mycroft asked?
Sherlock snorted. "I'm tired but I can't sleep, I'm dehydrated, my head hurts, my sight is blurry, I'm tense and my hands won't stop twitching. How the fuck do you think I feel, Mycroft?" he spat out the name like it was venom.
"I know that you hate me right now" Mycroft started, and Sherlock interrupted him with "I always hate you". Mycroft had to fight himself not to scream.
"What do you think I should have done then? Leave you there in that place? Left you to die of an over dose alone with people who don't give a rats ass about you? Are you really that stupid Sherlock?" Mycroft felt anger rise inside him but he forced himself to keep his voice calm.
"I'm not stupid". Sherlock all but mumbled.
"Are you sure? Because you sure as hell act like you are. You promised you wouldn't go back to this." Mycroft's voice almost broke at the end of the sentence and he prayed that Sherlock didn't notice. The last thing he needed right now was to be sneered at for being weak. He knew that he was, he knew that he had to be stronger right now. He took a deep breath.
"Why?"
"Oh can you be any more unspecific Mycroft?" Sherlock obviously tried for arrogance, but it didn't go well with how he looked and how thin his voice was.
"Why did you start with the drugs again? Why did you put yourself in such danger? Why do you keep on wasting your life like this? Why. Did. You. Do. It? How specific do you need me to be?" Mycroft couldn't keep calm anymore, and anger slipped out with every syllable he uttered.
Sherlock suddenly seemed very tired. He sighed and sank back against his pillows, still not looking at his brother. He surrendered, Mycroft thought.
"It's too much" Sherlock said weakly. "I'm so tired of seeing everything. I'm tired of all the lies and secrets people think they can hide, I'm tired of people being idiots, I'm tired of being bored. I'm bored all the time, Mycroft. It's such a boring world. My brain works all the time, and sometimes I need it to stop. But I can't get it to stop because then I will stop. I am my work and my brain. What would you do if you couldn't use your brain Mycroft?"
Mycroft considered it. He'd go crazy. Every feeling Sherlock described had passed through Mycroft as well, at some point. He was living in a world of goldfish, and of course Sherlock felt the same way. They weren't brothers for nothing, they shared more than just blood. They were alike, yet so different, for where Sherlock turned to drugs, Mycroft turned to work. And where Sherlock turned to work, Mycroft just worked some more. There was a reason he was always available, always alert. Because if he didn't, he'd go insane with the monotony of it all. He understood Sherlock, he really did, but he didn't understand the road his brother had chosen and would probably never do. He was aware of Sherlock staring at him, deducing his train of thoughs.
"Hence the cocaine" Sherlock said, gesturing vaguely towards his arms where several tubes were currently attached. "I can't live without brainwork. What else is there to live for? Just look out the window. Isn't it such a dull, depressing, unproductive world? What is the use of having powers, when there's no field to use them in? Crime is commonplace, existence is commonplace, and no other qualities seems to have any function upon earth."
Mycroft rolled his eyes at the melodrama and said "You're wasting your life", not really knowing how to answer.
"I think that's up to me." Sherlock replied, staring out the window again.
"It's not. People care you know. I care. Mummy and Daddy cares. And it seems like you have made a new acquaintance who indeed cares a great deal."
"You are talking about Lestrade I presume. He doesn't care, I blackmailed him into hiring me." Sherlock said, not sounding remorseful at all, just stating facts.
"You are being stupid again, brother. He was the one who found you, and he refused to leave the hospital until he knew you were okay." He didn't leave me until he knew I was okay either. "Don't waste the one good thing that has happened to you in years. Keep Lestrade in your life, for all of us. Win-win." Mycroft said, having unconsciously picked up the expression from the man in question.
Sherlock didn't reply, and Mycroft knew that their conversation was over. He stood up and put on his coat, watching the fragile being that was his brother. He felt powerless, and that was a feeling he hated above everything. Mycroft Holmes wasn't powerless, quite the opposite. He was a man people listened to, and right now it was Sherlock's turn to listen.
"I'm going to make arrangements for you to be sent to a rehab clinic in Switzerland as soon as possible. You can hate me all you like, but you're going. No exceptions."
He turned and stepped out of the room before Sherlock could protest. He exchanged a few words with Doctor Jones before he left the building. The black car was waiting for him outside in the rain, and Mycroft stepped inside, grateful for the heated car. He had a lot of work to do, calls to make and people to talk to. But before he'd do anything else, he'd go home and sleep. It had been a long night, and, thinking back over the years, Mycroft felt it had been a long life too. He felt as though the weight of the world was lying on his shoulders, and in a way it was. As much as he didn't want to admit it, Sherlock had more or less become the purpose of Mycroft's existence, to take care of and protect him was, and had always been his top priority, no matter what Sherlock thought. What would his life be without his brother? That was something that Mycroft strongly intended to never ever find out.
