Still The Addict

IT IS FRIDAY FRIDAY GOTTA GET DOWN ON FRIDAY

Actually this is just the fave chapter that I mentioned a bit ago and I'm super excited that you all get to read it now aaaaaah I'm so nervous *crosses fingers*


Sherlock insisted that she needed to get some chemicals from Barts and disappeared before John could hand her the cheque. John felt this was certainly on purpose, and that it was also quite purposeful that the cheque was made out to "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson" instead of just her. Did this mean they were pooling finances? Because John was not at that stage of this relationship.

A black car pulled up to the curb, and the door opened. John glimpsed fit legs and a blackberry inside, and groaned, sliding in.

"Hello, 'Anthony'," he said, and Anthony gave him a disinterested nod before turning back to his phone.

Instead of a warehouse, the car pulled up to a lavish building, and John was ushered in to an office that was in good taste, but the type of good taste that was unerringly precise and suddenly made you feel you were on the defensive. Aggressive good taste. Mycroft was waiting behind the desk.

"You could always set an appointment? I'm certain you've figured out the calendar on my phone, it could give me a warning about an hour before so I can get a suit on?" John offered as he took a seat across from the man.

Mycroft smirked. "I'll tell my assistant. Tea?"

"No thanks, full up. Ta, though," John said smoothly.

"I'm certain you've heard of my sister's drug abuse," Mycroft said without preamble. John looked at him blankly.

"Is this another attempt to bribe me? Because I'm not reporting to you. And attempting to scare me off with horror stories won't work, either. There's currently a head in my refrigerator."

"I'm hardly the sort to try a failing endeavour twice, Dr. Watson -"

"John."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and paused, before continuing. "...John. I simply wish to expound upon some things so you can keep your footing."

"Right. And I can't just trust Sherlock to let me know? Because I'm really not interested in having you divulge her secrets without her permission." John clenched his fists at his sides.

"Sherlock texted my assistant two days ago asking him to give you full access to her file and accounts," Mycroft responded. John's brow furrowed.

"Really?"

"Really," Mycroft sat back. "You don't think others have such easy access to her bank accounts, even with her PIN number, do you?" Mycroft gave John a moment to process that, then said softly, "Shall we?"

John rubbed his face. "Yeah, right, sure."

"Sherlock spent most of her young adult years in a daze fueled by cocaine and heroin," Mycroft said without preamble. "She stopped for a bit, when Detective Inspector Lestrade had her stumble into a murder at her favorite club and she managed to solve it. She got access to cases, but she had to remain sober." Mycroft caught John's eye, stopping for a bit to let John think, even though John was pretty certain Mycroft already knew what John would think, which was annoying.

"She stopped for a bit? So she got high again?"

"Sherlock didn't spend her formative years as a cautious person, John," Mycroft said gently. "It was what exposed her to the drugs in the first place. She seemed utterly without a thought of self-preservation. And she didn't have anyone to look after her. You've met her. How many friends do you suppose she has?"

Sebastian Wilkes flew into John's head with a flash of anger. If that was all Sherlock had known friendship to be, it was no wonder she hadn't pursued it.

"She went to a bad part of town on her own. She was following up on a lead. I was in traffic at the time." Mycroft's voice held a bit of disdain.

"You were in traffic?" John had to interject. "And now you're here?"

"She was attacked by a group of men. All dead now, of course," Mycroft said. The utter calm with which he said it made John's arms prickle like they did before gunfire in the desert. "They were less than - well. They were the sort to take advantage of her nature."

John's breath went away. When he was in Afghanistan, he had been brought a young Afghani girl, about twelve, bloodied and screaming. She'd stopped screaming when her voice gave out, just staring at everyone with eyes that said all the trust in her life was gone. He'd sent a report in, and the man who'd done it - Sgt. Moran - was gone within a week. Still he'd felt unable to justify himself to the girl as he tried to patch her up without touching her, without even talking to her for fear anything he said would mimic the man who had harmed her. It had been more difficult treating her than it had been to pull the bullet out of Jacob's skull a week later.

"John, I don't mind the loss of the chair, but I think you'd prefer not to sit on the floor." Mycrofts voice cut through John's mind, and he jumped, realizing that he'd clenched the armrests of his chair so hard that one of them had broken off.

"Sorry!" he apologized. Hell, that looked like mahogany, it was probably worth at least five hundred quid. Mycroft ignored the apology.

"She went back to the drugs, but she didn't leave her house. At all. The few dealers she dealt with were women and they dropped off their 'packages'." Mycroft looked up at John, for once letting emotion show, and agony spoke through his eyes, though his voice remained neutral. "I didn't know what to do. So I made her safe."

"You... became - this?" John waved a hand round the office. "How long did it take you?"

"A year."

Bloody brilliant, Holmeses. "What is it you are, again?"

Mycroft smiled. "Minister of Magic."

John barked a laugh. "I can believe it." He rubbed his neck awkwardly.

"I broke into her flat," Mycroft said tonelessly, his smile falling. "She's never really forgiven me for that. I took away the drugs, bought off her dealers. Made her leave because no one would deliver anything anymore, and I cut her access to her trust fund, in the end, to get her to get out. She went back to Lestrade, and I provided enough for her to live, but only if she was frugal and did the fetching herself. She hated me. But... she got better."

"I wondered why she was living there," John said when Mycroft looked at him. "She seemed too posh for it."

Mycroft snorted. "She'd been thrown out of everywhere else. Her experiments are often detrimental to furniture and building materials."

"I know. She set fire to her sofa."

John got a smile for that one, and Mycroft continued. "She continues to be an addict. She's unable to suppress that part of her nature, not truly. As you revel in danger, so she dances in the thrill of the chase. You give her the excuse to pursue her next fix."

John stayed silent, unsure what to say to that. It felt a bit like an accusation - was he putting Sherlock in danger?

He thought about it. The answer was yes. That hurt.

"And funnily enough, you also provide the safety she needs to make that excuse a valid one."

"What?" John's head snapped up at Mycroft's words.

"John," Mycroft's tone was slightly scolding. "Sherlock is not a child. She does not need to be coddled, and when she is coddled she resents it and becomes even more of a danger to herself and others." He spoke with the rueful tone of someone who'd learned this from experience. "She needs to be free to pursue her endeavours with the backup that allows her to relax and think properly. You have allowed her to do that." He leaned forward in his chair, meeting John's eyes. "Thank you." He sat back again. "That is all I wished to tell you."

John blinked. "Right. Um." He stood up, flexing his hands, and setting the arm of his chair on Mycrofts desk awkwardly. He looked around the room, noting the posh details of all of it. "Right." He turned toward the door and opened it, then turned back round to face Mycroft. "I'm still not letting you pay me."

Mycroft smiled. "I wouldn't dream of it."