Fifteen minutes later, John is pacing, still favouring his formerly bad leg. He's also talking nonsense: muttering curses and cracking jokes that aren't exactly jokes after all, because each one of them accidentally manages to hammer home what is about to happen. "Look at it this way, you're always staring at the ceiling at home, now you can really have a go at that- Fuck, I-"
Dr Watson has left the building. There's just John here, now, and the state he's in isn't exactly doing wonders to Sherlock's mood.
The room is full of people. Nurses, an intensivist, an anaesthetist, Sherlock's neurologist. Mycroft, having promptly returned to the National after John had called him.
John abruptly leaves the room, swiping at the edges of his eyes angrily as he strides out.
Prior to this, John had been able to grin and bear it, remind Sherlock constantly that the prognosis is very good, that this is temporary. Now there's just the insensitive jokes and the tears he thinks Sherlock hasn't already got wind of. They're doing nothing to curb Sherlock's own escalating unease.
A nurse closes the window blinds. They're about to do something that would upset passers-by if they saw it. Sherlock closes his eyes, trying to command his brain to think of something, anything, but the moment currently at hand.
For the next thirty minutes, Sherlock's part is actually the easiest, John had claimed. The only thing he'll need to do is close his eyes when the anaesthesia induction drugs hit the receptors in his brain, turning off his anterior hypothalamus and midbrain reticular formation, the pons and central midbrain tegmentum, flooding the brain with gamma-aminobutyric acid- his train of thought is interrupted by someone touching his shoulder. There's still some feeling left in there, not much below that level.
He opens his eyes, which requires some effort - all the energy he has left he needs for breathing.
Mycroft is standing by the bed, his decidedly steely gaze barely hiding his discomfort at what he's seeing. "How would you like to do this?"
Sherlock hadn't been aware there were options. He doesn't want to stop wheezing in order to ask for clarification, instead assuming it will come if he remains silent.
"Would you like me to summon John back in?" he asks.
Sherlock wonders what Mycroft's plan is - his guess is that his brother is not going to stay and watch the proceedings. The staff probably wouldn't even let him.
John is a special case in regards to access. He'd probably be allowed to stay. On the other hand, if their roles were reversed, would Sherlock be able to watch? Would John want him to? He's not a doctor, it's not analogous- suddenly the point is moot, because Mycroft turns on his heels and heads for the door, leaving it ajar, probably having made the decision himself since Sherlock wasn't offering any input.
He can hear Mycroft talking to John. Sherlock strains his hearing to make sense of the conversation - the oxygen mask he's got on is making it hard to hear some of the words being spoken since the flow has been cranked up to who-knows-how-many-litres per minute. He has to try and ignore the metallic clanks and other assorted noises created by the resuscitation team setting up everything they need to put him to sleep and to shove a plastic tube down his windpipe. He wonders if this is what prisoners about to be hanged would feel when the sound of the workers erecting the scaffolding reached their ears.
"Why does he want to be awake, he's going to go mental, I know it, he's going to be scared and he's going to go absolutely stir-crazy. God, he'll be so bored!" John exclaims.
"If you want me to transfer medical jurisdiction to you, I will," Mycroft says solemnly.
John's borderline panic seems to be infective - there's a tighter-than-normal pitch in his brother's voice Sherlock does not often hear.
"I can't go against his wishes. You know I can't. This doesn't affect his brain, I've got no reason to assume he hasn't understood all of it, but I can't tell whether he's got some ridiculous reason for doing this which I should be bulldozing him over for, or if he's got some reservoir of patience in there that I've never seen him tap into before that'll keep him from going psychotic over this. He doesn't even have the patience to wait for the microwave to ping, how is he going to do this?!"
"He can't harm himself, John, not in this state, even if he did go - what was that expression, 'stir-crazy'."
Sherlock doesn't know what to think. Everything suddenly feels very overwhelming - the crowded room, John and Mycroft practically arguing, the oxygen mask like a muzzle on his face. The desire to leap out from bed, fling that door open and argue his own case is overwhelming but he can't, because he can't.
Just get it over with.
" What if that were you?" John asks in a tone dipped in panic as though he's running out of time to win, "would you want to face what could be weeks, even months if we're that unlucky, not being able to say anything, to do anything?"
"I'm aware of the horror of it, John, and I could not come up with someone who'd suffer more in this scenario than he, even if I tried."
A chair creaks. John must have landed himself in one. "We just have to pick up the pieces afterwards, then, once he can talk again? Is that what you're saying?" John now sounds like a deflated balloon.
"I'd tread carefully. We'll see how it goes. We can overrule his decision to be awake later, if and when you deem it necessary."
"I- I'm not sure I can make that decision. It's too close. I'm too bloody close."
Another chair creaking. Someone else seems to have taken a seat.
Mycroft never sits down during important discussions. He likes to keep the upper hand by standing. He'd never sit down for this if he weren't somehow emotionally influenced.
Mycroft does not get emotionally affected. Not really. At least Sherlock doesn't like to think so. Because that would mean things have truly gone sideways.
They haven't, have they? This is an anticipated course of the disease, not all that rare, and he should be fine-
"You're close, you know him," Mycroft says, "he allows you close, whereas I am not a medical professional, nor does he award me the same trust he's willing to place in you. Which is why I consider you the only one who can advocate his best."
Suddenly, a burning, stinging warmth is spreading up Sherlock's arm. He'd withdraw his hand if he - never mind.
Vertigo hits. He can no longer focus or steady his line of sight.
He knows this, he knows what's going on.
He's being put under anaesthesia.
He fights what must be either propofol or sodium pentothal. He fights it as though his mind were a sea and his awareness the surface, on which he's desperately trying to swim.
They didn't even warn him. They know he can understand and hear everything perfectly well, and they're still treating him as though he's nothing but a damned piece of furniture.
They didn't even give him a warn-
"-still don't know if this is a good idea-"
"-lock might not-fifteen minutes-"
Voices. A heaviness in his limbs as though going through withdrawal. Coarse sheets rustling. A taste of blood in his mouth.
There's something wrong with the air. It's dry and smells of chlorine and iodine. He had probably left a bottle of antiseptic cleaning solution open after some experiment.
There are lagging footsteps on the floor nearby. The sound is wrong - it sounds like steps on linoleum instead of the creaky wooden floor of his bedroom.
Why isn't he alone in his bedroom? No one should be in there. At least the footsteps don't sound as though someone is trying to sneak up on him. It could be John, bringing in laundry or tea.
He can't move. Has he been drugged? Is this a concussion? Where's John?
"-I think he's-"
"-sure he won't react-"
That last voice had certainly been Mycroft. What the hell is Mycroft doing in his bedroom?
He doesn't recognize most of the other voices. He hasn't been kidnapped, has he? Why would Mycroft kidnap him, it's John he always whisks away somewhere to pick his brain.
The bed is also way too comfortable to be a mattress on the floor in some prosaic abandoned building criminals frequent.
"-open your eyes?-"
That was John, at least. Finally, it's John. Unmistakeably John.
Of course he could open his eyes, but he doesn't want to. He'd prefer to give in to sleep, to drift away for a moment more. He never lounges around in bed. Surely he must have been drugged.
His throat feels stuffy, odd, as though it weren't there at all, and he can't swallow. Everything feels so very heavy.
He's holding his breath; he knows he is but his chest moves anyway. Curious. He should probably investigate further, but he's too tired to actually care. Is someone giving him CPR? No chest compressions, thankfully. That would have been uncomfortable. God, he wants to sleep-
"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"
John's voice is no longer distant, nor is it being cut off periodically anymore. Before, all the voices had been full of interference as though coming through a bad mobile connection.
Sherlock finally pries open his heavy lids, expecting to come face to face with the white, brown and green wallpaper of his bedroom, the window facing the east side of the building , and his periodic table poster. It's hard to focus. Human-like shapes move around what must be his bed, and he can't decide whether to be relieved or alarmed by them.
This isn't his bedroom. This isn't home.
He needs to get out of here. In his mind he's already sitting up, sliding off the bed, heading for the exit wherever that is, and it takes a moment for his brain to catch up with the fact that he hasn't moved an inch.
He opens his mouth to say something, he hasn't even decided what, but then his thoughts jar as he's startled by a hand placed on his shoulder. His heart leaps to tachycardia, blood pounding in his ears and some electronic device begins screeching.
"It's just me," John says, his tone urgent. "Sherlock?"
The other voices have fallen silent. It's... good. Sherlock finds he has trouble concentrating even on just John's. He realizes his eyes have drifted shut again.
He takes a moment to get his bearings, because if John is here then he has at least some protection from whoever had done whatever this even is, to him.
Errant memories float in. They all feel unreal, like remembering something he's read in a novel. Hospital. Hard to breathe. Can't move.
The impulse to cough is sudden and overwhelming, but he can't recognize what could possibly have caused it since his throat feels odd but not obstructed. His stomach and his lungs refuse to contract, and a cough never materialises. The irritated sensation remains - it's like the after burn of accidentally having inhaled something intended to be swallowed, the last split second before sneezing. He can feel tears prickling at the edges of his eyes because of it. Finally, the feeling dies down.
"Hey," John tries, his hand sliding along Sherlock's shoulder, finally curling underneath the nape of his neck. It's warm and lovely and good and he could stay like this forever. Couldn't they let him sleep? Couldn't John stay and the rest of them go?
"Is he awake?" Mycroft's voice asks.
"How is he doing?" John's worried tone asks, sounding as though he's not facing Sherlock as he speaks.
"The muscle relaxant is probably still partially in effect. We don't usually reverse it in order to allow patients to get used to the vent. He hasn't drawn any breaths on his own after waking up. Vitals look good, airway pressures normal," an unknown female voice from somewhere close by says.
Sherlock begins blinking in order to banish the remains of sleep from his consciousness.
Are they talking about him? What does any of that even mean?
Finally, John's face comes into focus. He seems to be leaning over the bed. Mycroft is at the foot of it, eyes fixed on Sherlock, looking circumspect.
John's features have shifted into a sunny, relieved smile. "There you are."
Sherlock tries to talk again, to no avail. What has happened to his throat? It feels as though it isn't there.
"Don't try to talk. You're still coming out of anaesthesia. Everything's fine." John removes his hand from behind his neck and places his palms on his arms as though to keep him in place.
It makes Sherlock feel slightly claustrophobic. He tries to struggle but naturally, nothing happens. He can't really even feel John's hands on him though they must be there.
John's claim is preposterous: everything can't be fine. He can't feel substantial chunks of his body, at all. That is as far from fine as is humanly possible.
His head feels like it's filled with cotton, but slowly fragmented memories begin drifting in.
Hospital. Paralysed. Can't breathe-
There's nothing wrong with his breathing now. The hunger for air, for oxygen and the associated panic have disappeared. Something is still amiss - the rhythm of his breathing is odd. Mechanical. Sharp. Very, very regular and the breaths are exactly the same, no variation.
Something about it is unnatural.
"How much do you remember?" John asks, and then turns to look at someone at the corner of the room with sternness in his gaze. "I told you the midazolam wouldn't be a good idea. He's probably got a tolerance, but it might still have erased most of what he remembers."
"It's a standard part of our cocktail for ITU intubations; it lowers the propofol dose required."
John doesn't look happy with the answer but doesn't argue further. He fixes his line of sight on Sherlock again, finally leaning back and letting go of his arms, probably having now decided Sherlock isn't going to leap up and make for a daring escape. How could he?
"You were put under for intubation. This is the ITU. You've been sleeping for about half an hour. Do you understand?" John asks him, "Blink twice for yes," he adds hastily.
Sherlock does as he's told. It takes a moment for the words to connect with the right images in his head. The anaesthesia explains why his brain is so dreadfully slow.
Intubated. Ventilator.
That explains his odd breathing. If they've put him on a ventilator, shouldn't he feel an endotracheal tube in his throat?
This should be terrifying, he realizes. He's lost control over everything. The residual effects of the drugs must be keeping the panic at bay, for which he's grateful.
Sherlock remembers everything now, and wishes he wouldn't. This is it, then, the worst has happened. He no longer needs to fear it. It's like jumping into cold water - the anticipation had been the worst. Now he knows what this is going to be like.
Since the head of the bed is slightly raised, Sherlock can see Mycroft circling the bed so that he ends up standing opposite John, studying him wearing an expression that is an unusual mixture of hesitation and relief. Through the haze in his head Sherlock realizes, to his astonishment, that this scenario has rendered his brother somewhat unable to decide what to say.
"They numbed your throat with lidocaine so you wouldn't be bothered by the tube," John tells him, sounding hopeful and grasping-at-straws sort of encouraging.
A blonde, tall woman with a faint thyroidectomy scar and watermelon-shaped stud earrings appears by Mycroft's side. The melons must mean something, but his brain seems to have ground to a halt and the whole thing feels like a dead end. Watermelons.
She's wearing light green scrubs. Does that mean something? On the other hand, every other member of staff is similarly clad. "The effect will last a few hours, after which you can hopefully tolerate the endotracheal tube. Most patients can, and if it still bothers you, we'll start infusing something that will block the reflex to cough. Do you understand, Mr Holmes?"
He blinks twice. He finds he doesn't remember much of what he's just been told but strangely enough, he's not too worried about it. The blessed oblivion of drugs. Normally, he'd file all such information carefully for future reference.
John sits down next to him on the bed instead of his usual chair. Nobody tells him not to. Sherlock wishes he could feel John's thigh where it rests against his own, to feel something other than just a vague pressing down of the mattress.
"Does everything feel all right?" John asks, tugging at the edge of Sherlock's blanket so that it rests evenly on his chest.
Why is John arranging his bedding? Does he not know what else to do?
Mycroft is holding on to the handrail on the opposite side of the bed, looking expectantly at John.
There was a question, but he can't quite remember what it was. He runs through the likely options in his head and decides that if it had come from John it had probably been about his current wellbeing. Sherlock decides to blink twice. John gives him a tight-lipped smile and glances at the monitors as though to seek further confirmation. It seems like he's using Sherlock's heart rate as a lie detector.
Sherlock finds it hard to accept how calm he feels. Of course it's mostly due to the drugs, but some of it must be due to the fact that this is the proverbial rock bottom, the thing they'd spent countless hours worrying about; and now it's here. He's somehow surviving it, minute by minute.
"Do you want to remain awake, Mr Holmes?" the woman in scrubs, likely an ITU doctor of some kind, perhaps as anaesthetist, asks Sherlock, having reappeared by the bed.
He blinks twice and realizes that this is the only word he has. He definitely needs a 'no', too. He has a vague recollection that someone had raised the subject of communication early on during the course of this. Why hadn't he pounced on it? Why hadn't they made a plan before they all become preoccupied with the breathing issue.
John suddenly looks astonished. "That thing still works?" he asks, eyes falling on the general direction of Sherlock's left hand.
At first, Sherlock doesn't realize what he's talking about, but then John lifts his palm from the duvet and inspects it.
It's not a thing he's looking at: it's that resilient, stubborn little finger that has refused to go the way of the rest of him. It's the one small set of musculoskeletal nerves that's still functioning, still giving orders to their assigned muscles. One finger, weak but still functional.
Sherlock likes the idea - one small part of him stubborn enough to defy the onslaught of the illness. A flickering light in a cavern of darkness.
Sherlock tries to move this defiant finger again, and if he concentrates hard enough, he finds he can control it.
"Again," John requests and he repeats the tapping movement.
The ITU doctor is frowning. "That could be a good sign. When did it become mobile?"
Mycroft's brows are raised, but his expression returns to a wary neutral when he sees John's face falling. "I don't think it ever stopped moving. Has it been working the whole time?" he asks Sherlock.
Two blinks. He also taps twice - his finger is still against John's palm.
"Couldn't he use that for Morse code?" Mycroft asks, as though it's the most obvious thing in the universe.
John's smile lights up. "You think you could do that?" he asks Sherlock, arranging their hands so that the little finger is in the middle of his palm, the rest of Sherlock's hand supported by John's hand around it.
Sherlock closes his eyes in order to concentrate, rummages around his memory for the right collection of data, and soon manages to produce the letters Y, E and S by tapping them in Morse on John's palm. It's quite a pathetic thing to feel triumphant about, but Sherlock certainly does, and he decides that anyone willing to question his right to it can go sod off.
John encloses his hand in his and squeezes. "This'll work. I assume you already know Morse?" he asks Mycroft, who nods.
Sherlock would have snorted if he could, out of schadenfreude, since Mycroft probably considers such an inquiry more than mildly insulting. His older brother is an intelligence director, after all.
"We'll need to hang up a list of the alphabet for the staff," John says eagerly.
The anaesthetist soon leaves after adjusting the respirator, having clearly decided that Sherlock is doing well enough unsedated.
Mycroft begins discussing some urgent practicalities such as the 221B rent with John, then prepares to leave after receiving an urgent phone call. "Let John know if you require anything," he says, before disappearing out of the door.
Sherlock's feelings towards Mycroft's presence during times like these are contradictory. He can't parse how much of his brother's devoted presence is out of guilt, how much out of perceived duty and how much out of genuine empathy. He's never been good at reading such things.
John stays, and sits with him, holding his hand as though it is the most delicate thing in the universe. Come to think of it, he hasn't let go of Sherlock's hand even for a second. It feels more reassuring than any promise of prognosis or sedation could ever be.
It's a means to communicate. A lifeline.
This is how he'll maintain a connection to the world. As a means of communication it'll be painfully slow, and Sherlock might lose even that at some point but it's something.
They experiment with Morse code through blinking, too, but to his disappointment, Sherlock finds that his blinking has become somewhat slower than normal, and John mistakes the lines for dots more often with blinking than he does when Sherlock uses his little finger.
John doesn't ask if Sherlock wants him to stay the night. He simply does so. The old, worn mattress on the floor could well be murder for his shoulder, but he doesn't complain. Sherlock doubts he gets much sleep, since he keeps scrambling up, wandering to the bedside and giving him a once-over, looking for signs of awareness.
Sherlock isn't certain if he sleeps that night or not. The hours merge into one another, and since he can't move, it hardly matters if he simply rests or sleeps. This idleness is stagnation for his brain, so he might as well use these empty hours to do something with it. Rearrange information. Practice memory techniques. He keeps forgetting things - the date, the year even. It must still be the drugs. At one point he becomes certain that this isn't the same room it had been an hour earlier, that without him noticing, someone has moved him. Damned medications.
In the early hours of the morning, the ventilator sounds some sort of a half-hearted alarm - it doesn't sound critical, but the melodic tone of it and the blinking text on its monitor are annoying. The doctor on call at the ITU comes in with a nurse, and without any explanation whatsoever they slide in a suction catheter through the endotracheal tube.
Sherlock berates himself for thinking that the nasogastric tube had been the worst this place had to offer. This - done for whatever purpose - easily rivals it in vileness. And he can't even cough, even though he feels as though his windpipe is trying to contract so hard it's practically turning itself inside out.
After the torture is over, the doctor leaves and the nurse stays to clean up the gear they'd required. "There we go, all sorted now," she chants like a mantra, glances contentedly at the now-quiet ventilator, and leaves.
John has woken up due to all the commotion and pads to his side, raking a hand through his messy hair. "What was that all about?" he asks, looking practically cross-eyed from exhaustion.
Sherlock answers with the most dramatic eye roll he can manage.
John begins habitually sliding his palm underneath Sherlock's hand whenever he takes his customary seat in his chair next to the bed.
If Sherlock's finger moves even an inch, John practically flinches and then focuses on him with a gaze so determined it's almost frightening. To be the focus of someone like that, without malice being the reason, is not something Sherlock has often experienced. It's as intriguing as it is unsettling. Is this how his undivided attention feels to John?
Sometimes he taps his finger just to see the instant homing of John's attention to him and to feel the connection between their hands.
Strangely, this feels more intimate than anything he remembers ever doing with John.
They do science quizzes from some website John has found. John assigns letters to the answer options and Sherlock answers by giving the letter of the right one. He gets all the chemistry questions right, of course. The astrology one he adamantly refuses to answer.
"Look at us, doing this," John says, looking happy and calmer than Sherlock has seen him since this whole debacle had started. Somehow, he knows John isn't just talking about the quizzes.
Every ability he has lost has made Sherlock wonder what he'd do if he never regained it. John has promised him to stay, has effectively promised him a forever, at least in the context of this sickness, but when John had made that promise in the MRI suite he'd looked as though he would have probably sold his soul to the devil right there and then if that would have put the light back in Sherlock's eyes so that they could get through that moment.
The question hangs in the air: if he never gets better, will John truly stay? Surely, at some point a man like John, still in his prime, would begin to yearn for a life beyond endless hours of sitting by the bedside of a former consulting detective? Despite their best intentions, people's interests in others wane if the relationship is one-sided in some way.
People give up. Even the most dedicated ones do, when they realize the crushing odds stacked up against them.
John had used Mycroft as an example of endless, unwavering support. In Sherlock's reality he is the opposite - the final piece of evidence of the limits of human devotion. If nothing else, then at least a sense of self-preservation from further pain might drive away even those who make the greatest promises.
In 2007, being locked up in a draughty ward as formal patient, an impressive array of psychiatric drugs forced on Sherlock and his dignity completely wrenched away had not been the worst part of that year.
The actual worst part had come four months after he had been released from the compulsory 28-day assessment at one of Bethlem Royal Hospital's psychiatric wards.
They hadn't seen each other after his release from hospital. No calls, no messages. This was in direct contrast to the fact that Mycroft had been the only one who had visited him in hospital, what few visits were even allowed. No parents. Sherlock had assumed they either did not know about his predicament, or that they were too upset and Mycroft had been appointed as some sort of an official family liaison.
On a garishly sunny Sunday morning, Sherlock had walked up to Mycroft's door in Knightsbridge. He remembers Boursault roses being in full bloom in front of the apartment building, dew on their petals.
Mycroft had answered the door looking tired and aloof in his Balmain dressing gown and silk pyjamas. The hour had been so early that his housekeeper hadn't come in yet - if she even did on Sundays. Mycroft had taken in Sherlock's appearance, shaven and short-haired, wearing somewhat ill-fitting but clean clothes, and said nothing further than a curt "Yes?"
Sherlock had been taken aback, at a loss as to what to reply to a greeting more fitting the postman than a brother. 'Ta-dah' somehow didn't feel appropriate anymore, if it ever even had been.
"Morning," Sherlock had settled on eventually. "Not happy to see me?" he'd offered in a sarcastic and triumphant tone.
Mycroft, fingers still curled around the doorhandle as though he were worried Sherlock might storm his castle, had said: "It all depends on the circumstances."
Sherlock had provided him a context by shoving a wad of papers into Mycroft's hands. They were the lab results from his recent drug tests.
Six sheets of them, taken a week apart from one another. All clean.
Mycroft had leafed through them looking sceptical. "I see they haven't tested for ketamine," he had concluded, dryly.
A mild irritation had taken root in Sherlock. "I never did ketamine, unless it was unbeknownst to me, used to cut something."
"And what am I to do with these?" Mycroft had enquired unenthusiastically, waving the wads of lab strips as though he had an obnoxious spider walking up his fingers.
Sherlock had been confused by his stern disinterest. "I-" he'd practically stammered.
"What was it, then, the incentive which I could never provide? I assume this is why you're here, what you have come to gloat about?"
"What?" whatever sort of explanation to this icy reception Sherlock had hoped for, this hadn't been it.
"It's clear that all my attempts at helping you have failed, so pray tell what or who it was that made you succeed, albeit most likely transiently, to lay off the sauce?" Mycroft had a tendency, still, to use colloquialisms to prick Sherlock in conversation, insinuating that he was of some more noble breed than his younger brother.
"How is this suddenly about you?" Sherlock had blurted out. He had not been naive enough to expect being received with open arms, but such a cold shoulder had been a surprise.
"That's just it, Sherlock; it has never been about anyone other than you and your drama, so maybe it's high time we changed that notion. Even though you may not have noticed or cared, your path of destruction has left collateral damage. I spent years protecting Mummy and Father. When you took to the streets straight from Bethlem, I told them everything. Finally, I might add."
"I never assumed you would keep anything from them," Sherlock had said. It honestly had not occurred to him that Mycroft would have performed a years-long cloak and dagger routine to protect their parents from the truth about his lifestyle choices. To all intents and purposes, Sherlock had assumed he had been the main talking point at the Christmas dinners he'd missed. This revelation had made him wonder who Mycroft had been protecting more with such a decision - their parents or Sherlock?
Another realization had hit right after: this was Mycroft's way of telling him he had given up.
Given up protecting, given up helping, given up hoping that he might turn from the direction where, from his perspective, Sherlock seemed hell bent on heading.
Mycroft had promised never to give up on him, and he'd still gone and done exactly that. If even Mycroft could cave, what chance did John have? Granted, the circumstances are not exactly similar to what was going on, but if Sherlock would not make a sufficient enough recovery to return to an independent life, he suspects his old habits might make an appearance at some point. Not that he wants them to, but he knows himself well enough to know that being deprived of the life he had painstakingly built - the only life that has ever provided a good enough substitute for the drugs - the temptation might well turn out to be too much.
It had been sobering to realize that Mycroft's giving up had stung worse than the sectioning. As terrifying as the stay at Bethlem Royal was, it had been borne out of someone actually caring about him.
All this had proven that it was the very heart of human nature that couldn't be trusted, not just his brother's dedication.
If Sherlock were capable of making even Mycroft, a great believer in family and duty, to dust off his hands, surely Sherlock's abilities in the matter could also lead to John calling it quits when driven too far.
"Mummy has been worried sick. I lied that I couldn't locate you. I could have. Probably with little effort, even," Mycroft had told him, arms crossed as he leaned on the doorframe. "Nevertheless, you made your choice."
Mycroft had always covered for him, as he for Mycroft, although occasions requiring the latter had been few and far between. This was new; Mycroft opting out of being falsely reassuring towards the parental unit.
"Sounds as though the act of telling them everything contained at least an ounce of self-flagellation on your part," Sherlock had pointed out and Mycroft's lips had tightened.
Mycroft had not replied.
"Anyway, I thought you might want to know how things turned out," Sherlock had added and turned to leave.
"I do. Always," Mycroft had said. "Caring has never been an advantage, but I do not regret doing so."
"You contradict yourself," Sherlock had said and snapped a fully blooming rose from a branch reaching over the handrail. He'd plucked a few petals off and then let it fall on the stairs, mauled and forlorn. He had not known whether he ought to go or to stay, to expect something more from Mycroft or to retreat in defeat. "You just told me you gave up."
"Sherlock," his brother had scolded in a tone he had used on Sherlock ever since they had been little.
"Bye," Sherlock had called out, because there wasn't much more to say, was there?
"Where did you get those clothes?" Mycroft had asked, which had made him pause and turn back towards the house.
"Social services."
He distinctly remembers Mycroft staring at him almost vacantly - rarely had he seen his brother so surprised. "You would voluntarily seek aid from Adult Social Care?"
"A DI I met at a crime scene arranged everything. I'm staying at a halfway house in Soho. I might be getting an apartment on Montague Street next week."
"A halfway house? Is that safe?"
"Compared to a four-bedroom flat in Knightsbridge with gilded taps and a panic room, I'm sure it isn't," Sherlock had snapped back.
"Hold on, did you say you met a detective inspector? Of the Scotland Yard variety? Who then arranged all this? That sounds highly irregular. You're not in a - relationship, are you?" Mycroft had sounded disapproving and suspicious.
Sherlock had scoffed. "No, I'm not his rent-boy, if that's what your dirty mind has conjured up. He merely thinks I could make a career out of solving crimes instead of wasting my time on the streets. He'll hire me, now that I'm clean, he says."
Mycroft had let out a noise that was half a snort, half a laughter. "You? You're not a police officer. Nor are you even eligible to become one. Too extensive a criminal record."
"It's freelance work. And there might be other cases, too, once I establish myself."
"As what?"
"Consulting detective."
Mycroft had rubbed the side of his nose and furrowed his brows at the sunny weather.
"You want to stay sober so you can solve crimes with a detective inspector of the Scotland Yard," Mycroft had reiterated, looking at Sherlock as though he'd gone a little insane.
Only a little. Not banished-back-to-Bethlem level of insane.
Finally, Mycroft had laughed politely and shaken his head, opening the door wider. "Come in for tea. You can tell me all about this new career of yours."
Sherlock had taken him up on that offer. Despite the incredulity with which Mycroft had regarded the whole idea of Sherlock solving crimes, he had acted in an uncharacteristically supportive way that had reeked a little of guilt.
Later, slowly, gradually, Mycroft seemed to begin to actually believe that Sherlock would have a decent chance of staying sober - that Sherlock's new life could be more than just a temporary respite before an even worse fall down the rabbit hole. As this belief grew, Mycroft began to interfere more, seemingly doing his damnedest to make sure things stayed the way they were. Sherlock begrudgingly allowed this meddling, griping mostly on principle. In a way, Sherlock was perhaps paying back something as well. He didn't have to like the invasions of privacy and the condescension, though. And he still found it hard to trust Mycroft.
Mycroft had seemed relieved at John's arrival in Sherlock's life - perhaps he saw this as an opportunity to finally step back and focus more on his own life. On the other hand, John had not exactly lead Sherlock onto a path of least resistance when it came to acquiring enemies and ending up in dangerous situations. However, it seems that as far as Mycroft is concerned, chasing assassins and murderers is still a much better option than heroin.
