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The phone rings again just before Mycroft's alarm is set to go off. He's almost afraid to answer it. Sherlock's voice is both the first and the last thing he wants to hear right now. He wants to know he's okay, that something awful hasn't happened to him, but he doesn't know if he can face the reality of the guilt that threatens to swallow him whole.
Finally, on the fourth ring, he leans over and picks up the phone. It's not Sherlock. He doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
"Good morning. Er… Is this Mr. Mycroft Holmes? Yes. Hello. My name is Greg Lestrade. I'm a detective with Scotland Yard… Yes. I'm calling to inform you that we picked up your brother last night. We found him downtown, strung out of his mind, shouting at pedestrians. We took him back to the station, thought we'd let him settle down 'til morning, but… 'Bout an hour ago or so he passed out in the cell. He didn't look good. We sent him over to St. Barts... I think you should head over there as soon as you can… Mr. Holmes? …Mr. Holmes? Hello…?"
Mycroft cancels his trip to Switzerland.
...
When he arrives at the hospital, Mycroft thinks he is prepared for the worst.
He's not.
The sight of Sherlock hooked up to all those tubes and wires and monitors is more crippling than he anticipated. He looks so pale and lifeless laying there, his dark curls so stark against the white hospital sheets.
In his mind's eye, Mycroft sees Sherlock, age 12, hospitalized because he'd tripped over the fraying carpet and fallen down the stairs, fracturing his wrist. It had been a bad break and the trip to the hospital a nightmare. Though he hadn't been home when it happened, Mycroft was the one who accompanied him to A & E. It was just after their parents' divorce and neither Father nor Mummy had been available to take him. Sherlock had been terrified of the doctors, of the needles, of the pain, of never being able to play the violin again. They'd ended up sedating him just to set the bone. Mycroft had sat with him all night, holding his hand, waiting for him to wake up, worrying all the while.
Mycroft wonders if that had been a lie and if Sherlock had really fallen down the stairs at all.
Instantly, he feels guilty for having thought such a thing, but now that his mind has strayed there, he can't dismiss the possibility. He can't stop thinking about all the other little injuries Sherlock incurred over the years. That time he shut his thumb in the door – that was an accident… right? And that time he came to home with a black eye – that was from a schoolyard fight, was it not?
Mycroft can't go into the room now. He stands paralyzed in the doorway, just watching, listening to the machines as they beep and breathe for Sherlock, keeping him alive even as he wants to die. He has never been a man particularly given to emotion, but Mycroft finds himself blinking back hot, pricking tears as he realizes that he can't lose Sherlock, not him too, not his wonderfully misunderstood brother.
At that moment, Mycroft vows to do whatever it takes to get Sherlock better. He promises himself and whispers it to the silence of the hospital room. He won't let him down ever again.
...
Mycroft is there when Sherlock wakes up. He watches his brother blink back into the waking world, looking around with his brow furrowed in confusion.
"Why are you here?" he rasps, his voice rough from disuse.
"The police called me," Myrcoft says softly.
Sherlock leans his head back against the pillow and sighs. "They shouldn't have wasted your time. Don't you have someplace else to be?"
Mycroft takes a deep breath and levels his gaze at his little brother. "No. I don't."
Sherlock looks at him, his face betraying surprise for merely a second before he slips his mask back into place. "Pity. You should at least be somewhere you're actually wanted."
Sherlock turns his face to the window then, proceeding to ignore him. Mycroft doesn't stay long after that, but promises to return within a day or two. Sherlock makes no move to show that he has either heard or acknowledged his words.
...
His daily visits continue on much in the same manner. Mycroft sits by Sherlock's bed, trying in vain to engage him in conversation while Sherlock remains silent, except when he feels the need to throw out a provoking comment. Mycroft endures his abuse for as long as his patience will hold out – which is about an hour, give or take – before rising and promising to return the following day.
Mycroft isn't sure how much more he can take. He's trying – finally trying – to be there for Sherlock, to help him pick up the pieces and get back on track. But he can only do so much. Sherlock has to be willing to help himself. And if he's not willing to even try, then Mycroft isn't sure he sees the point in continuing to try.
...
After a week in hospital, Mycroft gets Sherlock into the best rehab program in England, a reputable clinic known for their professionalism and privacy. Of course, Sherlock fights him every step of the way, insisting that he doesn't need anyone's help and that he'll be fine on his own. Mycroft ignores all of it and arranges for his people to escort him to the facility in the countryside. Sherlock rails and curses him, says he'll never talk to him again, never forgive him, never never never, but Mycroft remains steadfast.
He's guilty because he couldn't save Sherlock before, but he's going to try his damnedest to do better now.
...
The first time Mycroft visits him in rehab, Sherlock has already been there for nearly a month. Up until this point, he hasn't been allowed visitors – something about needing to earn the privilege first – and Mycroft feels the need to go. After all, Mummy still doesn't know about what happened and Sherlock has no friends – that he knows of – who would make the journey out to see him. So Mycroft clears his schedule, dismisses his assistant, and takes the train on a rainy Wednesday afternoon.
When he arrives, he is shown to a common room. Sherlock waits for him at a table, arms folded in front of him, face drawn into a tight grimace. He looks positively miserable. His hair's grown out some, his messy dark curls nearly falling into his eyes, and his standard-issue clothes nearly swallow up his thin frame. He knows Sherlock must hate it here, but he does not regret the decision to send him here. Not for a moment.
Mycroft crosses the room, silently taking a seat across from him. Sherlock doesn't say a word, just continues to glare at him. Mycroft laces his fingers together and rests his elbows on the table. He has weathered enough of Sherlock's temper tantrums as a child to know that all he has to do is wait it out. If there's one thing they have in common, it's that they are both unbelievably stubborn.
They sit there for an interminable amount of time, the ticking clock the only sound in the room. Mycroft glances at their surroundings. It's stark and white (just as the rest of the facility, presumably), and Mycroft instantly knows why Sherlock hates it here. It's too calm. Too sterile. Too boring. There's nothing here to keep him interested. It must be absolute torture.
The minutes tick by, neither man wanting to be the first to break. But Mycroft is not a child. He knows he doesn't have all the time in the world, not anymore, and he makes the first move. They still haven't talked about that night and Mycroft can't forget it, can't move on until he knows the truth. He needs to hear the truth from Sherlock himself while he is not under the influence of drugs.
"That night, when you called me… Do you remember any of that?"
Sherlock looks at him steadily. "Yes."
"Do you remember what you said to me?"
"I told you that father used to beat me."
Mycroft is shaken by how calmly and evenly he can say those words. "Is it true?"
"Yes."
Mycroft can't breathe. It all makes sense now – the bruises, the fear of being left alone, the hatred of their father, the sweatshirts and the silence and the careful studying of people's behavior. It has been there all along – he saw it, saw all the signs and yet never understood.
He understands now. He wishes he didn't. Mycroft feels like he might be sick.
"Does Mummy know?"
Sherlock shakes his head. "No. She can't know. She never knew and I can't tell her. It's better if she doesn't know."
Mycroft nods, trying to take it all in. Their mother never knew, doesn't know. He is now the only one alive, besides Sherlock himself, who knows what happened. He feels guilt, overwhelming guilt that Sherlock had to carry this burden alone. All these years, since he was a child, he's always borne this on his own.
In a sudden moment of clarity, Mycroft understands. Sherlock spends his life trying to keep his brain on overdrive – first with games and puzzles, then university and danger and drugs – in an effort to forget, to keep from living that hell over and over and over again. His mind is a vast palace filled with information (Mycroft remembers being told that once, over breakfast, when Sherlock was younger) and these memories of their father must make up the dark and shadowed dungeons. No wonder he's tried anything and everything to keep the demons at bay.
He cannot imagine such an existence.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Sherlock is calm, but breaks his gaze for the first time, looking away, down at the floor. "It's over now."
Mycroft doesn't understand how detached he can be from this. For him, the information is all too new, the horror is all too fresh. He still cannot wrap his brain around the idea that their father – a man he loved and respected – would be so callous, even to his own son. It doesn't make sense, doesn't seem possible, but Sherlock wouldn't lie. Not about this. Not about something so, so important. Not about the one person who had any control over him. Not about something that made him so helpless, so weak, so ashamed. Sherlock prides himself on being in control at all times, at knowing all the right moves and all the right answers, and admitting that something or someone else held sway over him for so long is a serious matter.
"It may be over, Sherlock," he says carefully. "But it will never be forgotten."
Sherlock looks up at him then, his eyes wide and rimmed with tears. Mycroft hasn't seen his brother cry since they were children, and it shakes him. They don't speak, but as their eyes meet, they know that they have at least reached a common ground, an understanding of what happened and how they will move on. They will not speak about this again, Mycroft knows. They have never been the sort of brothers, of family, of people who do much talking. For them to talk about feelings or embrace would border on the inappropriate, but this moment is no less significant.
He knows now. Sherlock knows he knows. And he will carry the knowledge with him for the rest of his life. He will never forget. Couldn't even if he wanted to. But they can move on from here, try to put this behind them, make a fresh start.
Perhaps even begin to heal.
A/N: I apologize about the HUGE gap in updating. Real life just took over and I had no time or creative energy for this. I hit a block, but appear now to be unstuck. Thank you for sticking with it and I hope you continue to enjoy!