Captain Of All These Men Of Death
Chapter 7
2004
Stultum
Bugs. Thousands of tiny, pincered feet covered his skin, their black bodies glinting in the light as they scuttled over him in a swarm thick enough to obscure the surface they ran across. His skin was a writhing mass of black chitin. They were in his hair, his clothes. They wormed their way into his armpits and the backs of his legs, their spiny pincers poking at him as they pushed through his fleshy mass and forced their way into every orifice. He could feel them working their way deeper between the cheeks of his buttocks. They picked at his eyelids and crept closer to his ears. Their spindly legs attempted to wriggle past the tight seal of his lips. Their fat bodies forced themselves up his nostrils. He daren't open his mouth and scream for help, because he knew they would invade him wholly if he even attempted it.
There was nobody to help him, anyway.
His breath heaved, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace. He could feel a thin film of sweat breaking out over his body under the never-ending swarms of bugs tracking his body, and he forced himself to repress the shudders of revulsion and abject fear that rolled over him in waves. Suddenly, a sharp, burning white pain shot up his arm, making his body jolt and his fists clench. He could feel a wetness spreading from the palms of his hands where he'd dug his nails into his skin so hard he'd made himself bleed. The pain increased, spreading up to his shoulder, down his chest, rolling and swirling into his lungs like a fog. He couldn't help himself. He opened his mouth to cry out, tears streaming from his tightly clenched eyes, and the black bugs swarmed inside, their feet scuttling over his tongue and pushing themselves down his throat. He gagged, clenching his teeth, and balked as he heard and felt the wet crunch of their bodies crushing under the weight of his jaw. A slimy bitterness spread across his tongue and he spat and gagged, more bugs forcing their way into his mouth, underneath his tongue, pushing against his tonsils, scratching at his soft palette. They pushed themselves in lumpy masses down his throat and into his stomach, pushing at his oesophagus and writhing in the acid in his stomach cavity. They slipped into his trachea every time he took a heaving, shaky breath, squeezing themselves into every corner of his lungs until he couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow, couldn't scream.
Sherlock shot up from his bed with a strangled scream, before lurching over to the side and promptly vomiting all over the carpet. His whole body crawled, the feeling of bugs under his skin still prominent. He frantically scratched at his arms and legs, his breath heavy and strangled as he tried to get himself under control. Curling over himself, he drew his knees to his chest, taking deep, controlled breaths as he allowed the crawling sensation to subside and his heart rate to return to a more manageable level. HIs skin was clammy with sweat, and his bedsheets clung to him uncomfortably. Sherlock's nose wrinkled as the sharp tang of vomit hit his senses, and he peered over the bed to study the surprisingly large puddle gracing the floor. 'The one time I actually eat dinner…' he thought, exasperated, before scooting over to the other side of his bed and gingerly standing. As he crossed the room, he caught himself in the mirror, and hesitated. His skin was pale and drawn; his limbs seemed longer and ganglier than usual, and his waist and ribs were pronounced to the extent that Sherlock found it a little disturbing. White sparks danced in his vision, and Sherlock had but a moment to grab onto the edge of his chest of drawers before his knees buckled under him and he crumpled to the floor. Sherlock lowered his head to the carpet, a pained moan escaping him as he relaxed his body and succumbed to the shakes that he was constantly plagued with. As much as Sherlock wished he could just quit and be free of this haunting, debilitating addiction, he just didn't have the energy any more. Some mornings it took all his energy just to open his eyes and stare at the wall.
Rolling onto his back, Sherlock eased himself up on one elbow, coughing deeply as he did so. He pushed himself against the wall, just enough to be able to see the clock on his bedside table. 'Ah, I have to go.' He thought sluggishly. Making to stand, he found himself coughing again. 'Perhaps I'm not just craving…' he mused, before smirking. 'Mycroft is going to be overjoyed.'
Mycroft settled himself down into the chair that the waiter had pulled out for him. He'd made it habit to meet Sherlock in restaurants or The Diogenes club, if only to ensure his younger brother actually ate something. He'd been spiralling in the past few weeks, and they both knew it. Mycroft had even stopped giving him cases for the moment, too worried about his brother's health to risk straining him further. Eyeing his watch, he pulled out his phone and rang his forever unreliable relative. He counted the tones as he waited, pushing down the slight bubble of relief that burst inside his chest when Sherlock answered.
"Mycroft."
"Ah, Sherlock. I trust you haven't forgotten our little meeting this afternoon?"
"No. I'm on my way now. I'll be there in a moment."
The line was abruptly cut off. Mollified, Mycroft absently helped himself to a bread roll from the basket on the table, cutting it in half and spreading it thickly with butter. Just as he lifted the roll to his mouth, a thin, dark, bedraggled looking man entered the restaurant. He stuck out like a sore thumb, and Mycroft wasn't surprised at the horrified look on the poor seating attendant's face. Mycroft lifted a lazy hand to his brother, trying to maintain a nonchalant expression as he approached the table, revealing his true state of health. It was notably worse than when he'd last seen his brother a few days ago. Sherlock eased himself into the chair opposite.
"You know Mycroft, you don't have to check up on me every few days. Shockingly, I am able to feed myself."
"Evidently." Mycroft drawled, one eyebrow quirking up as he deliberately studied his brother's drawn face and dark circles under his electric blue eyes. "Sherlock, you look… ghastly."
Sherlock smirked. "For once, brother, I would agree. I seem to have developed a cold."
Mycroft let his icy demeanour drop for a moment, injecting a note of worry into his tone. "Sherlock, I don't think it's-"
"I recall we agreed not to mention my other pastimes," Sherlock snapped.
Mycroft sighed. "I was going to say, if you would so kindly let me finish, that you've lost an awful lot of weight. Are you sure it is just a cold?"
Sherlock didn't deign him with a reply, instead choosing to study the menu - not without a grimace at the offerings, Mycroft noted. Picking up his bread roll again, he successfully managed to take a bite, silently analysing his brother as the service came to take their order.
Sherlock allowed Mycroft to analyse him as he ordered his food. He wasn't going to deduce anything he wanted, or liked, so why prevent it? His energy levels had been depleted hugely by the walk to the restaurant, even if it was just a couple of streets away. No doubt Mycroft had picked this establishment for that exact reason. He would usually have chosen something more sophisticated, or they would have gone to The Diogenes. Not that this establishment was what you'd call 'budget.'
The waitress eyed him curiously over her pad as she wrote down Sherlock's order, before turning to Mycroft. She repeated their order to them.
"So that's two chicory soups to start and then a poached pheasant. Will that be all, sirs?"
Mycroft's head snapped up. "No. Sherlock, you will order a main dish."
Sherlock stared at his brother, shooting death glares at him, and finding them equally returned. He sighed, sinking down into his chair, and scanned the menu before turning to the flustered waitress. "I'll have the butternut squash roast," he mumbled, handing the menu back to her. She nodded, noting it down before scurrying away.
Mycroft looked positively mortified now. He wasn't used to seeing his bother so… deflated. "Sherlock…" he started, cautiously.
"Mmm?"
"Are you sure you are looking after yourself? Or, rather…" he paused, hesitant. "Are you motivated to look after yourself?"
The look in Sherlock's eyes at these words was all Mycroft needed to get an answer from his brother. He sighed, his eyebrows creased. "Oh, Sherlock."
Translation for this chapter: A Folly.
I know not a lot happens in this chapter (and it's kinda short..) and I'm sorry for that.
Don't worry, a new chapter will be up soon :)
If you have any plot suggestions for the young Sherlock side of the story, please do message me with them. I'm worried it's a little sparse.
Thank you!
Reviews make me write faster. They do. Really.