Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes © Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
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Part IX —
The Second Last Phone Call
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"Sherlock."
"Mycroft."
"I should have known you'd get out."
"It's just another error to add to the list, isn't it?"
"I'm not sorry, Sherlock."
"Of course you aren't. You hate me."
"We've been over this before."
"And you keep denying it. You won't touch me. I've seen your face when you look at me. Or rather, how you won't. You turn away, constantly, even when I... even when I..."
"You understand everything but emotions, brother dear. Do these claims make you feel better about your actions? Explanations are not excuses."
"You despise me."
"Go to hell, Sherlock."
"Already been there. If it helps, the feeling is mutual. I hate you too. At least I'm honest about it. Is that too much too ask of a man coiled in surveillance wires? Can't you just say it? Three simple words. Please. I just want truth, for once."
"..."
"Very well. Don't bother to feign worry. We'll catch him. We always do."
"Such a stupid boy."
"Such a worthless piece of shit."
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Mycroft stands with the phone in his hand, sighing.
Odd how his brother has gone from a baby—which Mycroft struggles to remember; because he was so clean back then—to a wrinkled sack of bones and drugs.
He remembers.
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Sherlock is 16 and Mycroft is 23.
It's Christmas Eve.
And Sherlock is crying.
Mycroft sinks to the floor, back to the door Sherlock hammers against. He feels each weak kick. Each feeble punch. Each echo of "help me, help me—", which burn hot against his skin; frying kisses of failure.
Sherlock's hands are bruised. Mycroft knows he'd held them too tight. Too angry. Too late.
Sherlock has grown so thin, so frail. While the weight fell of Sherlock like a waterfall (consisting of drugs and cigarettes and filth), Mycroft became overweight. With slow metabolism, he'd needed to watch his diet. But he didn't have the time. He had schoolwork, a job, chores and an addict brother. More often than not he found himself in greasy fast food joints just to get some quiet. Rather the sizzling of fries than that of heroin.
Mycroft closes his eyes.
He's sick of being the big bad wolf because his parents don't understand.
He's so tired.
At the Christmas table, Mother and Father avoid what has happened. Sherlock's cries have ceased now—but they can still hear the occasional scream. They pretend it's the wind. She starts talking about when they were little, bringing forth a picture with Mycroft holding a bruised Sherlock's hand like a guard, unsmiling. Mid-story, she breaks down at the table and starts sobbing uncontrollably. Mycroft finishes his meal and excuses himself.
He goes into his brother's room.
Sherlock is so small in the big bed. He's as pale as the bed sheets, which are drawn just above his chin. His eyes are wide and staring. Expressionless.
Mycroft sits by his side, holding Sherlock's hand. They exchange no words.
In March, they check him into a recovery centre.
He holds his hand there, too.
Of all the things, this is what Sherlock chooses to repress.