Sherlock felt warm beads of sweat slide down his forehead and deep aches seize the small of his back; yet, with the eyes of his brother and the detective inspector on him, he made every effort to appear confident.
The study was surprisingly calming and cozy, offering no windows and only the faint glimmer of several lights. He leaned into his dark green chair, smelling the faint scent of mahogany and waiting for his eyes to adjust as he attempted and failed to read the men's reactions to his quickly deteriorating argument.
"Let me make sure I understand." Mycroft tapped his umbrella absentmindedly against the hardwood floor, rubbing his temples with his other hand as he struggled to comprehend what Sherlock was saying. "You're going to check yourself into a rehabilitation center tonight?"
The detective nodded, solemnly, as one willing to make the ultimate sacrifice.
"I've known you for nearly a decade," Lestrade said, unable to hide his confused smile. "I even knew you when you were a young, stubborn, scrawny addict. There's no way you'd ever admit yourself. Not even now."
"Not much has changed," Mycroft mumbled before raising his voice. "While I agree with the basis of your decision, Sherlock, an explanation is needed before you have my blessing."
Sherlock tried to suppress a glare. "I don't need your blessing. Just your assistance." He turned to Greg. "You brought the file?"
Lestrade produced a manila folder from his bag and began reading. "Peter Chalmers. Twenty-seven, recreational drug user and dealer, no living relatives other than a father currently residing in America. Found dead yesterday, a great portion of blood drained and placed in a seemingly unconnected second location." He looked up. "Anything you didn't already know?"
Sherlock clutched his back as the muscles restricted into a series of spazzes. This was no longer just withdrawal; his body was fighting against its own neglect. No food in days, minimal water, emotional strain. He had to remember to listen to John more often. If only just a bit. "No, that's him. I chose him not only for his locality but for his reputation; though in an unconventional business, he has no more enemies than the average citizen. He could be trusted to keep my…hobby...secretive."
The eldest brother shot him a glance but didn't dwell on the addiction, sure that John was more than enough a nag on the issue. "This still doesn't explain your unnatural reaction to his death. I don't care what you're going through; none of it explains last night. I was hoping I wouldn't have to use that locater on you, Sherlock. It was meant to be more of a threat, but you forced my hand."
Sherlock mechanically scratched the skin under his ankle and turned to Lestrade. "Several hours before we headed to the crime scene, I received a text from Chalmers. It unnerved me a bit, but being sleep deprived, unable to deduce, and stuck in the middle of Mary's labor, I couldn't give it the proper attention it deserved. Its weight didn't become clear until we found his body."
He slid his phone open and revealed the text.
"You will die, Mr. Holmes, because you chose to be beaten by chemistry." –PC
"Peter sent you that?" Greg scratched the back of his neck. "Sorry, but your drug dealer said chemistry would kill you?"
"His killer must have sent it. The universe isn't so lazy as to allow such a coincidence. The message—the threat—was left for me. Lestrade, I cannot exaggerate how important it is we find him soon."
"You're used to threats, Sherlock," Mycroft interjected. "I can't imagine your so-called recreational history has added this level of paranoia and emotive response."
The younger brother glared. "Normally I would be only mildly concerned, but there's several issues that even my diluted mind can see. He went after my dealer, meaning he's attacking the very life I'm attempting to leave. Meaning he knows me, knows my pressure points as well as Magnusson. More importantly, however, is the message itself. John said those exact words to me when he took me in several days ago. Our killer has ears in John's flat, if not elsewhere. He's making this personal while showing signs of professionalism. I'm fortunate John had the sense to get us out of his home after my reaction."
The three men sat and contemplated in silence for several moments.
"So…" Lestrade ran his finger along the brim of his drink (whisky—it had been a long day). "You're afraid for John and his family? That's why you want to leave?"
"I can no longer live with them under current conditions. I know he would fight this decision if present. Explain the situation after I'm gone." The words were calculated, smothered under layers of physical and emotional pain. "As of now, this is no longer my case. Mycroft, I need you to convey the importance of this to John as well as your men. Look for security breaches. Lestrade, keep your team on the case. Nothing can happen to them."
Mycroft stood and motioned for Lestrade to do the same. "Understood. Excuse us, Sherlock, while we discuss jurisdiction and logistics."
"I can stay. I want to make sure it's done right."
"No, brother dear, you're under far too much stress, and it seems you did not receive enough sleep last night. Rest for a few hours. I'll send someone to retrieve you soon; have your things packed."
Sherlock searched for an excuse but became exhausted before finding one. He nodded and retreated into his bedroom.
It wasn't five minutes later when John Watson entered the study, called in by a text from Lestrade.
"Well?" He sat where Sherlock had been and ran a hand through his hair.
"He's convinced that your family is in danger, John." Mycroft sighed, fighting off his own exhaustion. "While I cannot completely trust his instincts at this time, Lestrade and I agree that we need to look further into it."
The doctor shuffled his weight. "Why didn't he want me in the meeting? He thought I'd panic?"
"He wants to remove himself from your guardianship. He thinks his presence an unnecessary threat." Mycroft handed over a packet. "His plan is to go to rehab. While I appreciate this development and his new effort, I think we'd all agree he wouldn't last two days. The staff, I'm sure, wouldn't put up with his antics, not to mention that I want one of us to always have eyes on him. I cannot trust strangers at this point."
"What do you suggest then?" John was pacing now, sorting conflicting thoughts running through his mind. "I agree that he's staying with me—that's nonnegotiable, whatever he says—but where can we go? I won't put my family in danger."
"I have a location in mind." Mycroft leaned against his umbrella, looking more uncomfortable than John had ever seen. "Though I warn you, while I don't care whether Sherlock is convinced or not, he will not be pleased."
"Safety is more important. Where is it?"
Mycroft bit his lip. "Have you ever visited America, John?"