Captain of All These Men of Death
Chapter 4
2004
Ego sum
Mycroft watched as his younger brother sat before him, cleaning under his nails almost obsessively. He studied him, deducing, reading, but no new information came, and most certainly none that he would have wanted to find.
His brother was thin, even thinner than usual. He was pale, and bruises framed his eyes. He was unable to stop fidgeting, one moment tapping his foot, and the next tugging at his dull hair. Mycroft was sure that if Sherlock were to roll up his sleeves and reveal his elbows, there would be pronounced bruising. He suspected there would be more bruises elsewhere on his body as well. He could clearly see Sherlock was experiencing withdrawal, but attempting to hide it from his brother. Mycroft felt that allowing him this lie would, in this case, be the right thing to do.
"Sherlock, are you listening?" Mycroft drawled in his usual, sugar-dipped sarcasm.
Sherlock's head darted up. "Yes of course. Please, continue."
Mycroft could see the sheen of sweat on his brother's face. He raised an eyebrow. "Our sources confirm that this 'M' character already has strong links to the governments of various shady countries, and is building this network from London." Looking down at a list of names, he continued. "Judging by the names on this list, their goals are not limited to any single endeavour. This person has links to everything from nuclear warheads to prostitution." He looked at his brother. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock was staring at the wall, both fists clenched on his lap, feet tapping. "Nuclear warheads and prostitution. I'm listening, brother." He babbled out, a little breathless.
Mycroft sighed. "My request is simple. Gather information on 'M', alright Sherlock? Sherlock!"
Sherlock's eyes had taken on a glassy tone, and it seemed to Mycroft that his brother was staring through him, rather than at him. Sherlock's incessant fidgeting had also stilled. Mycroft's eyes widened as he watched his brother begin to gently sway, before falling forward. The young sleuth's brother shot up, flinging his arms over the desk to prevent his fall. He pushed Sherlock gently back into his seat. Mycroft stood and hurried around the desk. He sat on the edge and leaned over him. "Sherlock."
Sherlock slowly turned towards the sound, unfocussed and worryingly vacant. "Yes?"
"Sherlock, listen to me." Mycroft placed his hand on the back of the man's neck to try and ground him. His skin was hot and clammy. "Sherlock."
"What?"
"Tell me what's going on. When did you last eat, or sleep?"
At these words, Sherlock seemed to come to himself. "I'm fine" he growled, slapping Mycroft's hand away. He made to stand, but his legs crumpled underneath him. Mycroft semi-caught him and lowered him more gently back to the chair.
"Sherlock! Tell me what is wrong."
"You know what's wrong, brother mine."
"Sherlock, I can help you fix this."
"I don't need fixing!" Sherlock nearly shouted, forcing himself up to full height on shaky legs. "For the last time, leave me alone!"
Mycroft sighed deeply, allowing his temper to calm. "Alright, alright. But please, Sherlock. Sit down before you fall down."
Sherlock gently lowered himself down as Mycroft's assistant Anthea walked into the room holding a tray with 2 cups of tea and a sandwich. Mycroft could feel Sherlock's piercing glare through her body as she bent between the two to place it before him.
"I won't ask you to do anything else, but please, before you leave, eat." Mycroft said as she left the room again.
Sherlock shot death stares at his brother, attempting to burn a hole in his head. When it didn't succeed, he begrudgingly reached for the sandwich. If he were to admit to himself, he felt terrible - sick, weak, and slow. He hadn't slept in his own bed last night, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten something that could be considered a meal. Of course, he would never share this information with Mycroft.
Oh, how he ached for a hit. His veins burned, his skin screamed, his joints clattered against each other. His head felt as if it would rip itself apart. Each breath was corrosive on his lungs. It was taking all his strength to hide these overwhelming symptoms from his brother, and he was fully aware he wasn't managing it completely. Each bite of his sandwich felt like chewing on a kitchen sponge.
Mycroft watched him eat and drink over the rim of his own cup of tea. Some colour had returned to Sherlock's cheeks by the time he had finished, however the heavy glower had not diminished. As soon as he finished, he stood, Mycroft joining him. He was pleased, at least, that this time he did not need to catch his little brother. He watched as Sherlock shrugged on his long coat, turned on his heel and left the room. He didn't expect a goodbye, and he did not receive one.
Sherlock stepped out onto the chilly street. The wind was strong today, whipping his black hair into a frenzy as he set off down the road. He didn't bother hiding the shaking of his limbs now he was away from the disapproving eye of his brother. As he turned onto a busier street, he could feel the stares of others around him. He probably looked terrible. Haggard, pale, thin and shaking - an addict in need of a fix. He fished around in his pocket for his Oyster card as he descended the stairs into Bond Street station. He stepped onto the train and hunched down into a seat in a corner, resolutely ignoring the quiet gaze of the other passengers.
The train pulled into Bethnal Green, and Sherlock willed his aching transport to pull him home. By the time he reached his door, his hands were shaking so badly he could barely push the key into the lock. The door opened and he practically fell inside, stumbling to the living room and flopping onto the sofa. His eyes met with the small bottle of 7% on his coffee table and the open box of syringes next to it. As he made to reach for it, something in his head stopped him.
'No. It's just transport. The mind can overcome all obstacles, especially something as trivial as a physical dependency.'
Instead, Sherlock reached for the radio. He flicked it on, and lay back, willing his body to stop shaking.
"for another 6 years. The Minister for Education has insisted this is not the case, and has stated to the BBC that his plans to roll out Academy status to failing schools will be implemented much more quickly.
Liam Arnolds, the suspect killer of his 6 year old niece, Joannah Arnolds, was convicted of murder today in Guildford Crown Court, Surrey. Joannah was found by police in a copse of trees a mile from her home after a week long search last April. Mr Arnolds received a life sentence.
Troops in Afghanistan today successfully secured a village in the Baghran district of Helmand Province which was being used by the Taliban as a weapons store. The weapons were seized and destroyed in a controlled environment. The ground team was assisted by air troops from a nearby RAF airbase.
Newfound evidence has shone a light on the potential dangers of articulated buses, or 'bendy buses' being used across the capital. The number of fires…"
The white hot pain raging through Sherlock's veins was so intense he was starting to lose sense of his surroundings. He could no longer feel his hands, and he was frozen, despite feeling a thick layer of sweat on his brow. He struggled to push himself up, shaking hands reaching for a syringe from the box and the vial of clear liquid. He pulled the liquid into the syringe, measuring the entire unit, before holding the syringe in his teeth and grabbed a tourniquet from the table. He quickly brought up a vein in his bruised elbow, not even flinching as he pushed in, drew back, and plunged the entire unit into his body. He flung the syringe across the table as he gently released the tourniquet from his arm, the rush freeing him from his pain like a soft kiss.
He allowed himself to bask in the diamond biting glow for a moment, listening to his fast heartbeat, his elevated breath, his crashing, ocean-storm thoughts, before standing, flinging on his coat, and bolting from the flat. He was back, strong, and ready to take chess-game, power-play London, his cog-quick mind already theorising the possible identity of 'M'.
The game was, most certainly, on. And Sherlock had the winning strategy.
The translation for this chapter: I am.
Sorry for both the update and the length of this chapter. Some stuff has been happening recently.
Please do bear with me :)
I will finish this story, I promise!
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