Chapter 10: The 'You' of the Past

"Get out, Mycroft!"

"There is no need to get so upset, brother."

"Like Hell there isn't! You have no right to pry into this matter!"

"Don't I? You forget, Sherlock, that as your older brother it is my job-"

"It is NOT your job to interfere with matters that do not concern you! I don't need you to watch over me like a hawk; I am no longer a child!"

"Then stop acting like one! Your welfare does, in fact, concern me. Please stop being so immature and answer the question."

"Do try to get this through your skull because I won't repeat it again: It. Doesn't. Concern. You. Now, take your bloody umbrella along with your enormous ego, and clear out of my flat!"

John and I quietly sit in the kitchen, hidden from view, and listen to the loud, heated, exchange of words between Sherlock and Mycroft. Honestly, I'd be surprised if these two couldn't be heard on the other side of London. I have never heard Sherlock raise his voice in such anger; Of course, when we fought last night, he was upset, but not nearly as much as he sounds right now.

No, not upset: Furious.

That's it; He is absolutely furious with Mycroft.

Why?

"Do they always talk to each other like that?" I ask in a low voice, making sure I'm not heard in the next room (although, I could scream at the top of my lungs and they probably still wouldn't hear me over their shouting).

"Yes and no," John replies, finishing up making the tea, "it's usually just a quick conversation about whatever has brought them together at the moment, a petty insult here and there, then they say goodbye and go about their lives. They don't get along, but they don't hate each other. You seriously have never met Mycroft?"

I shake my head no; "I know he works for the government, but that's it. Sherlock's never really told me about his relationship with his brother." I confess, "I always assumed that there was some huge falling out between them and they just haven't spoken to each other since. Seems like they bicker like every other pair of siblings, though."

"Yeah, but these are the Holmes brothers," John points out, sitting across from me and passing me a cup, "they are definitely not 'like every other pair of siblings'."

I nod and take a sip of my tea: Sherlock is unlike anyone else in the world, why would his brother be normal?
"Why can't you just answer the question?" we hear Mycroft shout.

"Why are you so desperate for an answer?" Sherlock hisses back, "You've already decided on one. You know who I called and thus assumed that the reason I was calling them was that I was getting back into old habits."

I look over at John with a confused expression: "Old habits?" I ask, but John is just as lost as I am.

"Are you?" Mycroft asks, slyly, "Cases have been coming in very slowly and I know how you get when you're bored."

"I don't have to hear this from you!" Sherlock snaps, sounding a teensy bit insulted, "Leave! Now!"

"Does your girlfriend know about your past?"

Silence. John and I look at each other; we can feel the tension from here. This is not going to end well.

"Oh, don't look so shocked." Mycroft goes on with an arrogant tone to his voice (must be a family trait), "You knew that I'd find out about her. It has been almost a year."

"Leave!" Sherlock hisses with an icy sting.

"When do I get to meet my potential sister-in-law?"

"I SAID LEAVE!"

Suddenly, there is the loud stomping of feet, a door slam and then silence. The air is still and the tension is thick. What just happened? Did Mycroft leave? Did Sherlock leave? Anxious to see, John and I rise from our stools and tiptoe over to the archway.

We peer around the frame to look into the living room and I am surprised to see the back of a tall, well-dressed man standing beside Sherlock's, now empty, chair. This must be Mycroft Holmes.

He looks nothing like his brother. True, both are tall, pale and dark haired, but Mycroft's features aren't as distinct as Sherlock's: no sharp cheekbones or unruly curls and his nose is a bit more like a beak. He looks like the sort of man who would hold a place in the British government; very posh and businesslike.

"Well, John, it appears that my brother is not in the mood for conversation." Mycroft says, turning around to face us, "It will - oh, were you busy?" He swings his black umbrella up and points it directly at me. I'm frozen in shock: what is he implying?

"Oh, no, no!" John quickly says, shaking his head at me then at Mycroft, "She's - this is…"

"Elfie. Elfie Stegerson." I say, swallowing my nerves, "but, I think you already knew that…Mycroft."

"Ah! My baby brother's female companion." The elder Holmes gives off a small chuckle and picks up his black brief case from the floor, "I should've guessed by the shirt."

Quickly remembering that I'm wearing nothing except Sherlock's shirt, I blush an embarrassing red and quickly hide behind John. Not exactly how I planned on meeting a member of the British government.

"Tell my brother, John, that I will be looking into this matter even further whether he likes it or not." Mycroft goes on, adjusting his large overcoat.

"I-I'm sorry but what is going on?" John asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "Is Sherlock alright?"

"Oh, fine as he'll ever be." Mycroft says with a heavy sigh, "My brother had made a phone call today, approximately an hour and a half ago, to a Vladimir DeMarco, an old, very dangerous, and cunning acquaintance of his. They met when my brother had more…questionable habits." He gives John a raised eyebrow look causing the doctor to sigh with realization.

"I'll keep an eye on Sherlock." John promises with a heavy nod, "The flat's clean, but, well, this is Sherlock were talking about. Thanks Mycroft."

"Thank you, John." Mycroft says with a nod, then heads out the door leaving me dumbfounded.

"Wait, what just happened?" I ask, setting a hand on John's shoulder, "John? Is there something I'm missing here?"

"It appears my brother hasn't told you all of his dirty little secrets." Mycroft calls from over his shoulder, "Perhaps there are some things that should be left unsaid. So glad to have finally met you, Ms. Stegerson." And with that, he heads down the stairs and out into the stormy London streets. I stare at the empty space where Mycroft had stood, blinking in confusion.

Did that really just happen?

John gives off a heavy sigh and pats my shoulder; "Do you still want to finish your tea?" he asks, heading to the kitchen. I shake my head and give John a confusing look: There's obviously a serious issue here and John's asking me about my tea? God, he's so British.

"Wait, don't you wanna tell me something?" I ask, following him, "I mean-What the hell was all that? Does Mycroft just cause a scene, act all mysterious and then leave?"

"Sound familiar?" John teases, but his voice is not as perky as usual. I look him directly in the eyes and I can immediately tell that he knows something.

"What did Mycroft mean by that?" I inquire, folding my arms across my chest, "About 'Sherlock's dirty little secrets', what does that even mean?"

"It's not my place to say," John says, setting the cups in the sink, "Fee, did…did Sherlock make a phone call after you two left the lab?"

"Um, I think he did when we went to my place. Yeah, he took it out in the hall while I was packing, but why is that important right now?"

John shakes his head and looks down at his feet. "It's not really my place to tell you this," he says with a hint of regret, "but as your friend and as someone who wants to see yours and Sherlock's relationship grow, I…" he takes a deep breath then turns back to face me. "Okay…That first case I worked on with Sherlock, the Study in Pink, I learned that he used to…He was into, or rather, used to be into…"

"Oh my God, John, spit it out!" I say, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him slightly, "It's annoying, this whole dodging the bullet thing. Just tell me."

"Sherlock used to do drugs." John declares, taking my hands into his in a brotherly fashion, "I don't know what or why or any of that. All I know is that when I moved in, Mycroft instructed me to keep a close eye on Sherlock just so that if he did go back on drugs, I could help him. You know, as a medical professional not just as a friend."

I gulp down my emotions and shake my head. I don't want to talk about this, but it has to be discussed: "Yeah, I…I know." I mumble.

"You do?" John asks, surprised, "Did…did Sherlock tell you?"

"No, I figured it out." I say, "When we were lying in bed, before you walked in…I saw track marks all along his right arm. Faded obviously, but there's one right below his elbow that has left a pretty noticeable scar. John, you don't think…" I bite my lip in fear of what I'm thinking. I don't want it to be true. It can't be true. "Do think he called this Vladimir DeMarco guy because he needed a fix?"

"No." John says with determination, "absolutely not. Sherlock is clean. I know he is."

"Then why did he call this guy?" I ask.

"Because I'm working on a case."

John and I exchange a look of regret then slowly turn around to see Sherlock standing in the archway of the kitchen, fiddling with something in his hands. He's dressed, now, in his blue flannel pants and grey t-shirt but he doesn't look comfortable. His normally pale face is flushed with anger and his eyes are wide and red with held back tears. He looks like a volcano of emotion that's just about to erupt.

"Monroe was rumored to have a drug problem. That's why he stole the money from Robert St. Simon," he says, trying to keep his voice calm and clear, "But we now know that he was set up and then poisoned. After we had found the white powder, I knew that that was what had killed him. But where did he get it? Who bought the poison? I called the only person I knew who could answer these questions. It was a risk, but it was for the case." Sherlock tosses John the item he's been fiddling with and the confused doctor catches it; it's the small, plastic baggie of white powder that we had retrieved from Monroe's things.

"You called a drug dealer because you needed to identify the powder." John says, with an understanding nod, "I see. You were using your resources."

"Yes," Sherlock says, "contrary to my brother's accusation, I did not call him to get back into my old habits."

"I shouldn't have doubted you." John says, shaking his head, "I know you."

"100 percent?" Sherlock asks as he locks eyes with his best friend. John smiles and gives him an affirmative nod. Once again, their friendship has overcome everything. "John, keep a hold of that." he goes on, "I made an appointment with DeMarco for tomorrow afternoon and I don't want…I don't want that stuff near me."

"Got it." John replies, stuffing the bag in his back trouser pocket.

Sherlock nods then looks at me with all the sadness in the world "John, have you got that toxin report from the morgue?" he asks, still looking at me,

"By your computer." John says motioning toward the desk with his head.

"Good. Elfie will you take a look at it for me?" I nod and start to walk toward him, but Sherlock quickly turns around in a flurry toward the living room. I start to follow, but John grabs me by the elbow.

"Let him be." He whispers, "just let this pass."

"No," I say, gently shaking him off, "I need to talk to him."

"Fee."

"Let me talk to him."

The flat is suddenly filled with the sweet sound of violin music, Sherlock's music. John and I both know that this means Sherlock is extremely upset. Music is his escape whether it be from a difficult case, being called 'freak' one too many times or just from the world in general. I think, right now, whatever Mycroft was implying hurt him deeply and now he's seeking refuge in his music. He needs to be comforted, even though he'll never say it.

Realizing this, John lets go of my elbow and gives me a small nod. I nod back and enter the living room as quietly as I can, trying not to interrupt the music. I watch Sherlock intently with a worried look on my face; His shaking hands are gripped tight onto his bow and instrument, making his knuckles turn white. I can see that his mind is elsewhere, lost in that mind palace of his, and separated from the world around him. He probably doesn't even know that I'm watching him.

Good God, Mycroft must have really pissed him off.

d

"Sherlock." I say, slowly stepping closer to him

His bow stops, mid-stroke but he doesn't move from his spot at the window. "You're upset with me." He says, not daring to turn around, "I've disappointed you."

"No you haven't." I say in my defense, "Sherlock, I don't care about your past and if…"

"Then why didn't you say anything about the marks on my arm?" he shoots out, spinning around to look at me, "You see, this was the exact thing I was trying to avoid! Mycroft needs to stay out of this and now he's made the one person that matters to me think that I'm back on…" He closes his eyes and turns back around to the window. "You should let this go." He whispers, his voice sounding more hurt then upset, "Maybe - maybe you should start to unpack or look over the report like I asked or…God, just don't look at me that way. Don't look at me like I've disappointed you."

With the loving girlfriend side of me kicking in, I run over to him and wrap my arms around his waist in a tight, comforting embrace. His body tenses up in confusion, but then relaxes as soon as he realizes that I really am not upset with him.

"I'm sorry." He whispers, setting down his instrument, "I wasn't thinking properly just now."

"I know." I say, resting my head against his back.

"I was going to tell you about my old…"

"Sherlock, I don't care."

"Why?" He asks, slowly turning around to face me, "Why don't you care?"

"Because I love you," I say, brushing a stray curl out of his eyes. "I'm in love with you of the now, not you of the past. Does it upset me that you used to do drugs? Yes, but that doesn't mean I love you any less."'

Sherlock sighs heavily and places a soft kiss on my forehead; "I don't want to talk about this right now. I want to block out any element of that time from my mind. I want to forget all about it." He says, rubbing his hands up and down my arms "But…are you wearing my shirt?"

I giggle at Sherlock's obvious observation. "You know, it's your simple deductions that remind me of how brilliant you are." I tease, trying my best to lighten the mood. Sherlock smiles and pulls me in for an affectionate hug.

"Thank you," he sighs.

"For what?" I ask, nuzzling my head under his chin.

"For staying with me. I don't deserve someone like you."

"Why, Sherlock Holmes, I do believe you're going soft," I say, kissing his neck. Sherlock chuckles as he squeezes me even tighter. "I love you," I remind him as I lift up my head to look at that beautiful face of his.

"I love you too." He says, looking down into my eyes, "Do you mind looking over that report for me?"

"It's always work, work, work with you isn't it?" I tease, kissing his cheek. We part and I walk over to the desk to pick up the toxin report. "I don't know what half this stuff means." I say, gazing over the bolded medical jargon.

"Then it's a good thing we have a doctor in the flat." Sherlock replies, picking up his violin again. I chuckle and shake my head as I walk back toward the kitchen to speak with John.

"Fee?"
"Yeah, Sherlock." I says, pausing in the kitchen archway and turning back to look at my boyfriend.

"I'm sorry you had to meet Mycroft."

"Oh I've had more embarrassing situations than meeting a member of the government in noting but my boyfriend's shirt," I joke, "It's all fine."

"You misunderstand me." Sherlock says, looking over his shoulder, "I'm sorry you had to meet Mycroft at all."

"Oh." I chuckle, "He didn't seem that bad."

"He's a clot."

"He's your brother."

"Still a clot."

I laugh and run back over to Sherlock. I place a kiss on his cheek just as he begins to play a soft classical melody. Mozart perhaps? Sherlock turns his head slightly so that my kiss lands on the corner of his mouth.

"You a mystery Sherlock Holmes," I say, walking away again, "I wouldn't want you any other way."

Hello, hello, hello! So *whipes sweat from brow* this chapter is done and my finals are almost over. Which means, I'll be able to update sooner and get to work on those other stories. Thank you all for continuing to follow, favorite and comment. Really the comments keep me motivated.

Once again, I don't own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.

Much love and many thanks.