Ahh, I love the new Sherlock episode! So. Much. Can't deny that Mycroft's foot absolutely made my life. :3 Annnndddd, Scandal gave me some new material to work with! ("Do you think tonight is a danger night...?" "I'm not sure. I'm never sure. We'll have to watch him." .) Hehehehehe... ^^ Okay, hope you likeee and aren't too scared off by my horrible attempts at writing British dialogue! XD Do drop me a review pretty pleaseee333
"This is ridiculous, Mycroft."
"Deal with it."
Our voices, once so notably similar in their soft, clipped, half-irritable tones, now presented a sharp contrast to one another, their echoes fading into the bathroom's heart and soul so distinctly that, even years later, I could sense the past tension still lingering whenever I was forced to return to Mycroft's home. His was the less changed half of the pair, but though it still remained controlled and calculating, something in the air registered the grimness within it, the solemn rage that he himself hardly recognized.
Mine, on the other hand, would have been utterly unrecognizable to anyone who hadn't actually watched my lips part, their cracked skin stretching painfully as I spoke, my tongue flicking out nervously to cool them. My voice was still low, true, yet the complex satin quality that invariably laced my words was lost, the control and tranquility I possessed sapped by the lingering scent of fear that clung to me.
The fear that matted my curls to my forehead, that dripped from my temples, that slicked my black T-shirt to my back and underarms. The fear that ached in my eyes in the dimly-lit room, that wracked my emaciated frame with shudders, that set fire to every vein in my body. The fear gnawing on my brain with rat's teeth, scratching and squeaking and flicking whip-like tails around the inside of my skull...
"I am, you—" I snarled through a gritted jaw, the muscles in my face clenching in fury.
"Good."
"...fucking bast—"
"Sherlock." Mycroft stared down at me menacingly, his beady gaze glaring over that jut-out nose like the eyes of a vulture.
I growled. "You know what, Mycroft? I will fucking curse in your fucking house whenever the fuck I want to," I spat.
My brother scoffed at me, leaning back against the countertop with his hands on either side of him, studying the ceiling casually with a half-chuckle. "Certainly there are much more eloquent words in the English language than 'fuck', Sherlock. I would like you to use them while under my roof. You wouldn't be here were it not for my kindness. I expect you to repay me, or at least to adhere to my rules." He looked down, flashing me that mild close-lipped smile of his for an instant. "Understand?"
Oh my Lord, he really was an idiot, wasn't he?
"I don't want to be here," I hissed, my voice as slow and simplistic as if I were speaking to a toddler, "I don't want to be 'under your roof'. I don't want your 'kindness', Mycroft." I spat his name like an insult. "I wouldn't be here had you not fucking kidnapped me!"
"This is for your own benefit." Like he knew better than I did.
"You do realize that the moment you let me out of here I'm going to go get high again, right? You're not truly that touchy-feely to believe that you may actually change my opinion?"
I'd touched a nerve; I could read it plainly on his face. His countenance had sunken back into that hopeless, despairing mask I'd recognized early on was a signal of vacillation.
"Sherlock, I..." He paused, sighing and staring at the carpet. Make up your mind, already, make up your mind...Let me go. "I care about you."
I snorted. "I'd believe that if you weren't trying to kill me."
Mycroft's head snapped up, his eyes intent on mine, despite their unstoppable wandering, his gaze boring through my throbbing mind. "I'm trying to save you, Sherlock."
A bitter chuckle escaped me, sounding high-pitched and wild as it bounced off the floor tiles. I sank further down the wall, shutting my eyes against the harsh brightness of the rest of the world, feeling the numbness of caustic, implacable fury rising within me. "Save me." It was soft disbelieving anger that laced my voice.
"Yes!" He was irritated now. "I'm trying to stop you from killing yourself! You're a human being, no matter what you may think! Okay? I've been watching you go downhill for three years now. I've got myself a house and a job and a girlfriend and you just... You should be in university. But you're not. You're roaming the streets with nothing but that damned violin of yours and sleeping in tube stations and not eating and... I didn't even recognize it at the beginning, when you were still in fifth form and everything was fine and nothing was ever serious. But maybe I should have stopped it then and maybe it's too late now. I don't know when it stopped being just fooling around and became... like this. But, in all seriousness, Sherlock, I'm at the end of my rope. I've got to try to put a stop to this now, whether you like it or not. I'm not watching you die."
"You said 'damned'," I muttered, folding my arms. Wrap them tight enough and maybe the shudders will stop. Or maybe they won't. Maybe the whole world is shaking.
Mycroft was still silent.
"And you're being melodramatic," I continued, waiting for a response.
"This situation is melodramatic."
I opened my eyes slowly, further tightening my arms as my stomach wrenched painfully, trying to rid itself of absolutely nothing at all. I didn't even bother turning toward the toilet; I just gagged, squeezing my eyes shut again as Mycroft watched.
"I'm fine," I panted after several moments, unsure whether I was merely continuing the conversation or waving off his concern.
"You're not fine."
I went silent, unsure of how to respond.
"Please listen to me, Sherlock." He was begging now. I swallowed, feeling the muscles in my throat contract painfully, opening my mouth in attempts to take in cold air.
I didn't want this. I didn't want this at all. I never wanted this again...
"Okay," I whispered.
