Two weeks before Christmas Sherlock gets arrested, and as luck would have it Mycroft is out of town. The younger Holmes calls brother, only to get redirected to a secure line where ever he is.
"Hello?" Mycroft answers.
"Mycroft, where are you?" Sherlock asks from the stations phone.
"I'm busy elsewhere Sherlock; I have a job remember …where are you?"
"Scotland Yard," he states quietly.
"Playing detective…" Mycroft huffs in disinterest.
"Not exactly..."
"Sherlock you didn't," he accuses, putting two and two together, and wondering how this escaped his peoples notice. "What are the chargers?"
"They don't have a case, Mycroft, there's no proof of any of it."
"What are you being charged for?"
"Breaking and entering and drug possession," Sherlock admits, "But they weren't mine and I was trying…"
"I'm out of the country Sherlock," Mycroft cuts him off calmly masking his disappointment. "I'll send someone to fetch you." He rings off without waiting for Sherlock to reply. Mycroft calls Mummy to inform her of the situation thinking she'll be able to collect the younger man, but somehow Father is sent instead.
"Holmes, someone here for ya," The officer calls unlocking the cell.
"About time," Sherlock complains rising to his feet, "I…" The words die on his lips as the suited figure of his father comes into the cell.
"Give us a minute will you?" Mr. Holmes asks the guard.
"Sure thing, sir," The officer nods taking his leave, "Give a shout when you're ready."
"How're you feeling father?" Sherlock chokes out, trying to keep the panic out of his tone.
"Better, but I hardly think you care," he eyes his son, "This how you've been spending your time in London?" he looks around the cell. "This how you repay what we've done for you?" Mr. Holmes sneers, backing Sherlock into the corner.
"It's a misunderstanding," He hardens, keeping his emotions in check. "Not like you care," he throws back. "All you've done was send me away," he accuses.
Mr. Holmes' rage takes over for a minute as he pins Sherlock to the wall by his throat, "You ungrateful little shite," he spits, as the younger man squirms in his grasp, and he composes himself. "You're right, I suppose… I don't care. At least not anymore, you stopped being my concern the moment you became a common junkie." He smirks sardonically, "You want to rule your own life, son?" Mr. Holmes shakes Sherlock roughly, "Welcome to your kingdom," he motions to the cell room, "End this Sherlock," he warns with a tightening grip, "Stop breaking your mother's heart."
With that he drops the younger man from his grasp; Sherlock slipping to the floor, regaining the breath he didn't know he was holding. His dark head bowed, not wanting to look at his father's face a moment longer.
The older man straitens his suite, "If you want to die in the gutter like a pauper, then be my guest." Mr. Holmes calls the guard back to the cell.
"All set, then?" the officer questions, confused by the scene before him.
"I'm afraid there's been some confusion, this is no son of mine." Mr. Holmes informs him, pleasantly.
"Oh?" the other man nods, closing and locking the cell after Mr. Holmes steps out. "Sorry for the inconvenience sir."
Sherlock remains immobile, the words sinking in and hallowing him out as his father's footsteps echo away down the hall. The itching in his arms was returning and he did his best to swallow it down; his mind wondering why Mycroft would send that man to collect him or think he even would.
About an hour later, Lestrade comes by with a cigarette. "They'll probably release you first thing tomorrow." He informs him, pulling a chair up to the cell and passing a cigarette through the bars. "Unless you make bail," he lights the tobacco product for the younger man.
"I won't," Sherlock states, not really in the mood for conversation.
"Who was that bloke that came 'round earlier?"
"No one..."
"Right," Lestrade nods clearly skeptical at that reply as he observes Sherlock's quiet sullenness, quite unlike his usual self.
"There's hope for you yet, Lestrade," Sherlock informs him as he exhales the smoke.
"Um, thanks…" He states in confusion, "Any way… we brought that old bird in, that you mentioned." Sherlock brightens a bit at this information. "Turns out you're right, couldn't keep her story straight for the life of her…Almost felt sorry for the poor thing." He smirks.
Sherlock doesn't make it for Christmas, despite Mycroft's attempts to persuade and apprehend him. It's just another year of excuses as to where his brother is, but this time its Sherlock's choice not attend the party or anything. Mycroft can't help but feel like his family is finally crumbling and his efforts are only delaying the inevitable.
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