Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Spoilers: End of series 2, "The Reichenbach Fall"
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence, mentions of drugs, swearing
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Refusing Help
Mycroft´s house is not a very cosy place, since it is the home of a very busy man who does not spend much time in it. The only room I feel actually perfectly comfortable in is Mycroft´s office – the way the shelves are lined with all sorts of books from literature to non-fiction, and the way he surrounds his writing desk with piles of folders, some of them stored in boxes which brim over with paper, is very familiar and reminds me painfully of my rooms at Baker Street. He keeps his official office far tidier because he is always aware of his appearance, and will not allow the slightest slip in his impeccable demeanor.
At present, he is lighting the fire in the living room, leaving me to the file on the attack on John, which I have nearly memorized. The two men who have blocked the doctor on his way out of the cemetery had asked him for a cigarette, a witness reported. The first blow fell straight on his head before they made short work with John´s – leading – left arm and his ribs. His arm and three ribs are broken. The head wound is no longer life-threatening, Mycroft assured me, but John is still in an artificial coma to allow him more time to rest and heal.
He has received threats prior to the incident, SMS messages with questions about his involvement with my brother and the Morbier affair. He simply refused to answer, demanding that he did not share conversations with Mycroft anymore and referring the senders directly to my brother´s assistant. He has been talking to the police, though, but has not asked for protection since he had not taken the threats serious. Or, perhaps, in his grief for me he had simply stopped caring.
Mycroft returns with a steaming mug of tea, his fingers smudged with ash from the fireplace. I am still utterly tired but at the same time too wound up to even consider going to bed. I take the warm mug from him gratefully, as I am shivering in the just slightly heated room.
"The frost is early this year," Mycroft says, an unspoken question in his eyes.
"Delhi was certainly warmer," I reply distractedly, my eyes fixed on a photograph of John´s injured head.
Mycroft clears his throat. "The fire in the living room is up. And you`ll find everything you need in the spare bedroom."
Everything I need. Surely my brother is not as inattentive as to not have noticed that I am badly shaken by the news on John´s condition. While I have always been positive that he would sooner or later come to terms with my absence in his life, I have not considered the web to still be a threat to my doctor friend. Mycroft knows how I hate to be wrong, and he knows that I must inevitably blame myself for the outcome of my actions. Even if he doesn´t know how deeply, he can read the signs of fatigue and self-disgust on my features. He knows that the probability of me needing more than the comfort of his words and presence has risen considerably in the last few hours.
"About your medication…" he starts and takes a breath to continue. "You are surely not so much in pain as the packages I found in your backpack suggest."
"How clever a deduction that is, Mycroft. Now go and do your duty as the condescending big brother," I answer sharply, annoyed by him, annoyed at myself not being able to fight against my feeling of helplessness without returning to the help of chemical substances. With a flick of my wrist I send him away to the hall, where I abandoned my backpack half an hour ago. He leaves with a sigh and raised eyebrows, his expression mirroring my annoyance and showing his deep worry.
On returning, he finds me staring at the ceiling, the file on John dangling from my hand, legs stretched out under his writing desk.
"Sherlock?"
„Go away, Mycroft. I need to think."
He draws nearer. „There is nothing you can do at the moment. Staying awake and trying to figure out who John´s attackers were without any lead whatsoever won´t help Doctor Watson. "
"Go away." He knows how much I hate to repeat myself, but he doesn´t leave.
"There´s some food in the fridge, and you need sleep," he continues. "Tomorrow you´ll be transported to one of our organisation´s safe houses. You can support my people from there."
Jumping from my seat, I round on him. "Are you seriously suggesting that I hide while your men are tracking down Moran? While John is in danger? Or is this just your twisted idea of brotherly caring, locking me away to keep me out of trouble?"
His unwavering gaze meets mine, not giving away any sign of astonishment about my outburst. Instead, he just cocks an eyebrow, an expression I both love and hate, for it is so much like him to keep his composure even in the face of the most disturbing incidents.
"As long as you are in danger, be it from fellow humans or chemical compounds, I will do everything in my power to keep you safe, yes. And, as you well know, even against your will. But surely you understand how crucial it is to remove you from Moran´s line of fire. He has seen you at Morbier´s house and in Delh. Even if he isn´t already suspicious of you, it is highly likely he tracked you down to get more information about your involvement in his affairs. And since he is very experienced in torture methods, I would not want you to be his victim."
"I told you already I can be as safe as I want to be in London," I answer with a growl. My brother just shakes his head slightly.
"Oh no. Not this time, Sherlock. I don´t care if you stayed up all night, focusing on John´s file or if you fall asleep at the fire. But I do care to see you whisked away to our safe house tomorrow morning and to know you will not lock heads with the leading drug baron in England."
Glaring at him, I step aside, grabbing the file from the desk where I left it. "Alright. If you insist. A very good night to you too, Mycroft." With this, I leave with as dramatic a stage exit I can muster, aware of his gaze trailing my movements.
Even though he must be wondering why I am suprisingly compliant, he doesn´t comment.
Several hours later, in the darkest hours of the night when the city´s inhabitants and even my wary brother are sound asleep I leave the premises through one of the kitchen windows after short-circuiting its alarm devices.
Outside, the air is freezing and I clasp the jacket I found in the wardrobe tightly around my chest, missing a scarf.
This time, there will be no getting back to my brother for help, for he will certainly not approve of my plan and most likely detain me the minute he finds me. This time, I will need to slip from his radar successfully and completely. To achieve this, I need to change into a person no one will bother to take notice of – into a homeless junkie.